This Crazy Rich Boy

If nerves could kill, she would be dead now.

Claire has been fidgeting in front of the mirror for a few hours now. Not even Miss Cassandra's exquisite ensemble of a black conservative dress, and the right set of jewelry could ȧssuage her fears. She's meeting Gabriel's mom, the fearsome matriarch of the clan, the de facto decision-maker of half of the companies in their holdings, and for what? To judge her. To peer through her soul and see if she can find anything there worth taking seriously.

And why would Claire have to be nervous about this meeting? It's all fake. She's not a real fiancée. If it really goes crazy, she'd just tell her the truth: that this was a business arrangement with her son, with no personal feelings involved.

Or is it?

The meeting is scheduled at one of the swankiest restaurants in the city, some French place that's actually called, wait for it, The French Place. Claire has spent the time trying to imagine how it might go down—and she has imagined countless versions, which ultimately ends badly for her. She has no idea what kind of a person Matilde Tan is. All she has are larger-than-life caricatures—about how, still in her thirties, and with two young kids to raise, Matilde single-handedly founded what would become the cornerstone of the great Tan business empire: a noodle shop. The shop, during the decades of the Cold War, would evolve into a trading firm engaging in the import and export of plastic products, and the plastic products would eventually become transistor radios. Then by the end of the 1980s, the burgeoning Tan business empire would include TV and radio manufacturing, property development (they are now the country's biggest landlord of office spaces), and heavy industries. A number of bold acquisitions and mergers would further make the Tan empire into one of the most far-reaching organizations in the world.

That's Matilde Tan, whose string of achievements almost makes her goddess-like. That's the woman Claire would be meeting tonight. That's the woman who really, really likes Michelle Alcantara as her son's wife—not this unknown upstart from God-knows-where, not Claire Monteverde with all the fake credentials.

Just merely thinking about it makes Claire's throat as parched as a desert.

Even if Gabriel repeatedly ȧssured her that everything would be fine, she couldn't stop the buŧŧerflies in her stomach to flutter like crazy. Even after the two-hour-long spa treatment that should have taken relaxation to out-of-this-world levels, she still could not stop her heart from pounding like mad.

"I'll have Lopez fetch you at seven," Gabriel had told her before they parted, leaving Claire presiding alone over a buffet table in her penthouse suite. Not even the fragrant, savory scent of the Residence's signature fried chicken could calm her down and entice her to take a bite.

Now, starving and on the verge of tears, Claire's eyes are bloodshot as she stares at herself in the mirror.

"Why do I have these problems?" she asks herself. "Why can't I have normal problems? Not these do-or-die kind of dilemmas that tend to push me over the edge?"

Because you're not a regular, normal kind of person, a voice in her head says. You've always taken the road less travelled, Claire. You've always been some sort of a maverick.

Because you're an idiot, another voice says. And strangely, the second voice feels more truthful.

A quarter before seven, Claire's already waiting in the lobby of the Residence. Dale's eyes light up when he sees her. "You're incredibly stunning tonight, Miss Claire."

"Don't fuċkɨnġ patronize me," Claire snaps, then has a change of heart. "I mean, thank you, Dale. I'm sorry."

Dale is left standing there, scratching his head.

If you'd only look at Claire, sitting there in that elegant black dress, you'd think she's fine. She's at the top of her game. You'd probably fall in love at first sight. But upon closer inspection, you'd notice the worry in her eyes. How she'd take big gulps of air as she scans the road outside. And how desperately she clutches her Louis Vuitton purse (thanks to Miss Cassandra's ingenuity) when that all-too-familiar Bentley stops and out comes Lopez, the loyal butler, always prim and proper, and this time, perhaps a bit too stiff for Claire's nerves.

"Good evening, Miss Claire," Lopez greets her as she steps out of the Residence. "You look absolutely stunning." He smiles.

Claire responds with a smile of her own. "And you look quite…loyal, thank you." She secretly cringes at what she'd just said. Loyal? Are you running out of adjectives, Claire?

Claire moves on autopilot, it seems. She slips into the backseat, her mind elsewhere. And almost instantly, as though time magically flies past her, Lopez is opening the door.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

For a moment, Lopez's brow knits in confusion. "We're here, Miss Claire."

"What?"

"We're here at the restaurant."

Claire reluctantly steps out—she could swear it only took them one second to drive —and realizes Lopez is telling the truth. Before them is the elegant façade of The French Place; even the doorman looks like he's paid well.

Lopez greets the doorman in a familiar way, suggesting he's a regular visitor. Or at least, this is probably one of Gabriel's favorite hangouts. The butler politely leads the way into the restaurant's classy interior. They amble past the main dining room, and instead proceeds into a hallway near the back lined with glass walls through which visitors can see the restaurant's thousands of vintage wine bottles. A pretty girl greets them by another door, which turns out to be a private dining area.

Gabriel stands up and greets them. He gives Claire a peck on the cheek, which surprises her—everyone in the room knows what their arrangement really is, so no need for this fakery.

There's no one else in the room, which all the more makes Claire nervous. "Where's Mom—err, I mean, your mom?"

Gabriel sighs. "I have some strange news," he says.

But before Claire could react, the door swings wide open. They turn; Claire's heart quivers in her throat, as she fully expects to see an old, mean-looking iron lady. Instead, what she sees is a man younger than Gabriel—and one of the handsomest young men Claire has ever seen.