Chapter 2: Interview with a Sugar Baby

That afternoon, Zach was brought to my office.

The scent of leather chairs and fresh coffee filled the room. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the thirty-second floor, shining on his Balenciaga T-shirt, Yohji Yamamoto pants, and Louis Vuitton sneakers.

Fake.

Fake.

And fake again.

I could spot Canal Street specials a mile away, and the only authentic thing about his look was the attitude he wore it with. The fake leather reeked faintly of plastic, clashing with the fresh-roast coffee and the city’s cold metallic tang coming off the river. Still, the skyline behind him made even knockoff brands look like part of the scene.

But I’ll give him this—he had a handsome face.

His jawline caught the light, cheekbones sharp enough to land him a couple thousand Instagram followers overnight. The kind of face that would get you carded at bars until you’re forty, but with just enough stubble to look like trouble.

Not like Sean, who was all cool composure, with pride running deep in his bones.

Sean never even tried—he just radiated that quiet, unshakable energy. Zach, though? He was all flash and swagger, and underneath it, hungry as hell.

Zach looked like something straight off a reality TV show: sharp features, a little flashy, and a sly glint in his eyes.

He looked like he’d feel right at home on a Bravo reunion episode, flipping his hair and picking a fight. In any other life, he’d be the guy sliding into DMs with a winking emoji and an offer you really shouldn’t take.

But after too much fine dining, sometimes you just crave a greasy burger.

You know how it is—caviar gets old, and suddenly a dollar slice or greasy drive-thru starts looking like the height of luxury. Zach was that: the fast food of flings.

Since they’re all here to sell themselves anyway, why pick someone who acts like it’s beneath him?

I wanted someone who played the game with eyes wide open. Life’s short, and I’d had my fill of martyrs.

As soon as Zach opened his mouth, I knew I’d found the right guy.

He plopped himself down with all the subtlety of a frat boy at a rooftop party and grinned. "I heard you want me to call you ‘Mom’?"

"Should I just say it straight out?"

He really knew how to play the part.

You had to admire the hustle. Most kids would’ve tripped over themselves, but Zach leaned in, treating the whole thing like a casting call for a role he was born to play.

But I wasn’t about to play along.

I shot him a look. “Try that again and I’ll have you calling HR instead.” I wasn’t here for a performance. I wanted someone who’d deliver the script, not rewrite it.

With guys like him, today he’ll want me to launch his career, tomorrow he’ll ask for connections to land a lead role, and the next day he’ll get exposed as a sugar baby and beg me to cover up the scandal.

It’s the cycle: they come in starry-eyed, get a taste, and the next thing you know, you’re fielding panicked phone calls from publicists at two in the morning. Half the agency’s talent pipeline runs on stories like this.

Just my type. Absolutely my type.

I ignored him and flipped through the folder Ms. Williams had brought in.

The file was thick with printouts—SAT scores, college transcripts, a yearbook photo where he looked like the class clown. Ms. Williams, always the pro, had highlighted the red flags in yellow. I skimmed through, half-listening as Zach tapped his fingers on the armrest.

He was from a small town in one of the Midwestern counties—family wasn’t poor, actually better off than Sean’s, whose dad drank and mom gambled.

His roots were all faded Main Street diners and Friday night football games. Zach probably grew up mowing lawns in the summer, driving his mom’s old minivan, thinking the city was the moon. Sean’s family, on the other hand, was all broken windows and overdue bills.

His grades were mediocre, nowhere near Sean’s level.

His GPA hovered around a solid B-minus, the kind of grades that kept you on the team but off the honor roll. Sean, meanwhile, was on track for the Dean’s List—one of those annoying overachievers who even made poverty look dignified.

But he was actually two inches taller than Sean.

Funny how height means nothing when you’re still looking up at someone else. I looked up at him; he flashed a grin, showing all his teeth.

His smile was practiced—like he’d spent hours in front of his bathroom mirror. Confidence was his armor, and he wore it well.

Good-looking, sure, but a bit too eager to please.

If he’d wagged his tail, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Guys like Zach are all about the hustle, but it’s the ones who make it look easy you have to watch.

I curled my lip, a little put off.

"How many people have you been with? Guys or girls?"

My question hung in the air—pointed, clinical, but honest. No use pretending we weren’t both here for business.

Zach didn’t even flinch, not a hint of embarrassment.

"Just you."

He shot the line without missing a beat, eyes wide, voice innocent. If I’d believed him, I’d buy beachfront property in Nebraska.

Yeah, right.

I said, "Ms. Williams will take you to the hospital for a full check-up. If everything’s fine, come see me in a week."

He didn’t even blink—just nodded like he was being handed a starter pack for the big leagues.

"Okay, boss."

He left in high spirits.

Zach practically bounced out the door, his swagger back in full force. I had to laugh—he was so transparent, he was almost charming.

As he turned, I couldn’t help but notice that perky butt.

It was hard to miss, honestly. My eyes lingered just a little too long as he disappeared down the hallway. Maybe all that small-town football practice really did pay off.

I wondered for a couple seconds—was it padded or not?