Chapter 10: Contacting My Husband To Be

Yeah, so I woke up today with one clear mission: find that stupid card Mr. Almond Milk had given me. After all, if I was going to get married—and yeah, the thought still made me gag a little—I needed to call him. The wedding couldn’t exactly happen if the groom didn’t know I was on board, right? And while I was at it, maybe we could discuss the finer details of this bizarre arrangement. A girl’s gotta know what she’s signing up for, especially when the "contract" involves a guy who looks like he moonlights as a soap opera villain. But first, the card. "Where on earth did I put it?" I muttered, flipping over couch cushions like a woman possessed. The place was a mess, and yes, that was partly my fault. Between job hunting, fuming about life, I hadn’t exactly been in the mood to tidy up. My apartment wasn’t big enough to lose anything in, and yet, here I was, digging through piles of laundry, flipping over empty bowls, and checking inside my boots. Still no card. As if things couldn’t get any worse, I tripped over something—or someone. "Brenda!" I shouted, glaring down at my drunk, unconscious mother sprawled out on the floor like she was auditioning for a crime scene. Where does she even get the money to get stoned like this? It’s not like she’s got a job or some secret stash of cash. Heck, we can’t even afford food half the time! But nope, there she was, passed out without a care in the world. "Arrrgh, you’re so heavy!" I groaned as I struggled to lift her. Brenda was dead weight—literally—and it took every ounce of strength I had to drag her across the room. I managed to plop her down onto the couch, where she flopped over like a sack of potatoes. "You’re welcome," I muttered under my breath, wiping the sweat off my forehead. Back to the stupid card. I searched the whole apartment, retracing my steps from yesterday. Did I leave it in my jeans pocket? Nope. Did I toss it in the trash by mistake? Nada. I even checked behind the fridge, under the bed, and inside Brenda’s shoe pile (don’t ask). By the time I finally found it, stuffed between two old magazines on the coffee table, I could’ve cried with relief. But, of course, the universe wasn’t done messing with me. The card was drenched—completely soaked through—and the numbers had faded into some kind of blurry, unreadable mess. "Great. Just great," I muttered, holding the soggy card up to the light as if squinting would magically make the numbers reappear. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Now what? I tossed the ruined card onto the table and flopped down onto the couch beside Brenda. She snored loudly, completely oblivious to my struggle. Lucky her. My options were officially zero. No card. No job. No way to contact Mr. Almond Milk. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was sit there, glaring at the ceiling and wondering how my life had turned into this giant, never-ending dumpster fire. With a wet, distorted card in hand, I was officially back to square one. Great. Just my luck. Now, I had no choice but to go to the cyber café to dig up information about Mr. Almond Milk. Because contacting my husband-to-be—note the sarcasm—was now my number-one priority. I mean, rich people don’t exactly hand out their numbers, do they? Too busy hiding from the peasants, like me, who might dare to disturb their ivory towers. Still, I had to try. And guess who had to break her precious $5 to make it happen? This had better be worth it. I pulled on my sweats and hoodie—because why bother looking decent when your life is a dumpster fire—and trudged to the nearest cyber café. The guy behind the counter barely looked up from his phone as I handed over the money for an hour. That was fine. The fewer people who knew about my insanity, the better. Once I logged on, I started my search. Mr. Aiden Grey, his real name, or as I prefer, Mr. Almond Milk, a.k.a. Enigmatic Billionaire Jerk, turned out to be loaded. And I mean, loaded. "Whoa," I whispered, leaning closer to the screen as I scrolled through articles about him. The numbers were mind-boggling. His net worth was estimated at more than $900.5 trillion. Trillion. I stopped for a moment to process that. Who even has that kind of money? Does he own the entire planet or something? A trillionaire wasn’t even a real thing, was it? I kept scrolling, finding nothing useful in terms of his contact information. No emails, no phone numbers, no nothing. Figures. If I were that rich, I wouldn’t want random strangers calling me either. I could feel my frustration bubbling up. Minutes were slipping by, and all I had was a growing list of reasons to hate this guy. Then, finally, bingo. I stumbled across a video clip ofaofess conference, where his assistant was speaking on his behalf. The assistant—suit, tie, the whole formal package—was fielding questions about Mr. Almighty Billionaire and his recent acquisitions. At the bottom of the screen, clear as day, was a banner with the assistant’s name and contact details displayed in bold letters. I almost jumped out of my seat. "Gotcha," I muttered, quickly scribbling down the number before anyone could come and ruin this small victory. Now I had a lead. It wasn’t the man himself, but it was the next best thing. And with that, I shut the computer down, grabbed my things, and headed out, clutching the slip of paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. If stupid universe thought it could keep me away from my fiance- that’s what he is if i am to marry him right?, it was sorely mistaken. This peasant wasn’t giving up that easily.