This Crazy Rich Boy

"Ten kids?" Claire gasps, her mind imagining ten babies consecutively churned out by her poor wȯmb. What the hell is this guy talking about? They've never mentioned anything like that!

"Yes, ten beautiful children," Gabriel says, slightly kicking Claire's foot under the table. "Or would you want more? Let's make it an even dozen!"

Claire finally gets it, but even as part of this pretend setup, she couldn't swallow the pretend facts that Gabriel randomly throws into the conversation. "I'm down for two dozen kids, 'honey', if that's what you really want!"

Gabriel laughs. "A dozen children would be nice, but double that number might be a tiny bit too many." He turns to Miguel. "Exciting times, Migs. So I hope Mom's going to be fully onboard with these life-changing decisions."

Miguel says nothing. He smiles, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. "I…I can't answer for Mom, of course. But I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

"So you're saying she's still recuperating."

"Yes. You know how she is." Miguel glances at Claire. "You know how she's taken the news about your former fiancée. Not that I prefer her. But there she is, being all melodramatic. I'm not even sure if it's true or not."

"If she had to cancel her trip, then it must be true," Gabriel says. "She must be really ill. You know how she is, sometimes. She's like the Asian version of the Tasmanian Devil, running all over the place like the Energizer Bunny with her bottomless energy and enthusiasm. So if she says she has to stay in one place to recuperate, then it must be serious."

Miguel nods. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful. She only called me up three hours before I boarded our jet. I wish I could have personally visited her."

"Well," Gabriel shrugs. "The old lady's made of the toughest steel. I'm sure she'll pull through."

Claire observes them quietly. And frankly, she's a bit intrigued with how they're talking about their mother, as though they speak of some lion tamer, and not the woman who raised them. Claire's relationship with her own mom is the typical functional one, without too much drama—she loved her, and her mom doted on her growing up. Her mom was her role model in all possible aspects of being a good, strong person—Claire knows her mother's history, or at least the broad strokes. How her mom used to be such a playgirl, stringing along a bunch of jocks, taking advantage of them, and not the other way around. Which, of course, all stopped when she met her would-be dad. Ah, how she misses her old folks. When this is over, when she gets paid by Gabriel, maybe she'd take the long trip home and visit them, see how they're doing. They'd be delighted, perhaps shocked, to learn what their little girl, the ugly duckling, did in the city. They must know of Gabriel Tan—he's often on the news whenever he opens his mouth because his words tend to affect the behavior of the stock market. They'd be thrilled if they'd learn how she was the fake fiancée of one of the world's most eligible bachelors for a month.

And maybe they'd be sad, too, for the same reason: it was pretend, and lasted only a month.

Oh, well, Claire thinks. She'll take what she can get. For now, she's in the middle of this wonderful meal, in the company of these incredibly good-looking men, talking about one of the world's leading female tycoons so casually. It's strange and humbling at the same time.

"How about you, Claire?" Miguel turns to her. "What are your plans? When are you getting married, really?"

"That is a question," Gabriel interrupts, "that you should be asking from me, little brother."

But before Miguel could respond, Gabriel's phone rings again. He stands up and excuses himself.

"So," Miguel says, "it seems this lunch date is eighty percent without Gabriel Tan." He smiles. "Is he really this busy? Does he resolve corporate disputes even when he's with you? Aren't you worried that he might turn out to be a lousy husband?"

Claire doesn't know what to say. She feels she might be treading tricky ground. Maybe these questions should be answered only by Gabriel, as she might inadvertently be revealing too much information. So she shrugs and makes up a little fiction. "Usually he's all over me. You know your brother—when he really likes a person, he wants to give that person all his attention. He's like a little puppy when he wants to be cute."

Miguel laughs. "Oh, I don't know my brother that way. For me, he's usually aloof, imperious even. As though he's commanding an army, even when he's just asking you to fetch him a glass of water."

"Really?" The image of Gabriel scrambling to find her a dry towel back in the hotel suite comes to Claire's mind, and makes her smile a little. "I didn't know that. Gabriel's usually so sweet." And it's the truth, too. At least, in the context of the pretend relationship they're trying to paint for the world.

"Maybe he has changed," Miguel mutters, sipping his wine. "Maybe you've changed him, for good."

Claire says nothing. How does she answer that? With more fiction?

The restaurant's staff enters and whispers something in Miguel's ear. He frowns. "Gabriel has left. Some emergency thing downtown. Asks me to drive you back home."

"What?" This is weird and unexpected, Claire thinks. What kind of emergency would compel Gabriel to leave her in this social situation?

"Don't worry," Miguel says. "I don't mind at all. It would be my pŀėȧsurė to get to know my brother's fiancée."

"Oh, actually, I have someone who drives me to—"

"Do you mean the butler, Lopez? He's with Gabriel. It must be some emergency for them to disappear like that."

"What did Gabriel say?"

"Nothing. But we'll see later. I'm having dinner with him. You'll also be there, I presume?"

Claire has never heard of a scheduled dinner tonight. "I'm not sure, but let's see."

"So, shall we go?"

Claire mulls it for a moment, then decides that it doesn't matter. "Sure."

A Mercedes Benz sedan is waiting for them as they exit the restaurant. Miguel is polite enough to open the car door for her, but before she could enter, they're stopped by a woman's voice.

"Claire? Claire Monteverde, is that you?"

It's Karen, her former roommate, girlfriend of the ȧsshole who tried to **** her. And she looks filthy, her dress grimy, like she has been living in the streets.

"What happened to you?"

"Claire! I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for what happened. Please, if you…" is all Karen is able to say before she suddenly collapses on the ground.