Mr. Rich Boy [IN EDITING]

Prologue

NOTE BEFORE YOU READ:

As of October 2019, Mr. Rich Boy will go into editing. Some plot lines - both big and small - will be changed, casting choices will be different, and chapters will be added/taken out.

Check out the new changes! Hope you all enjoy my little baby I published six years ago. It was much worse before.

*

I wonder if I'd get fired if I wore sneakers, Maggie thought as she walked to her job, desperately trying to ignore the piercing pain in her feet from her high heels. They were beautiful pumps, leather and sleek, but they hurt. She couldn't help but notice the women who passed her, effortlessly strutting in heels that looked taller than her. With their Gucci sunglasses and Burberry coats, she felt out of place every time she passed them.

She can't afford a car, the shoes she was wearing were given to her as a gift, and it would be at least ten more years before she paid off her student loans, but dammit, if she didn't love her painful shoes that made her blend in just the slightest bit.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, startling her slightly. She pulled it out and answered the call from her best friend, Hanna. "Hey, Han, talk quick. I'm almost at the office."

"Ah, sorry," Hanna apologized on the other end, her voice raising pitch slightly. "Did you see my Apple watch at your place? I think I left it there last night."

Maggie thought. "I didn't, but I also wasn't looking. I'll check after work."

"Oh, goodie, can't wait until your call at midnight," she cheered sarcastically on the other end. "If you can squeeze me in."

Maggie giggled. "Goodbye, lover!"

Hanna groaned. "Goodbye."

Maggie continued her walking, wincing every so often as the heel of the shoe dug further into her pre-existing blister. "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job," she repeated to herself. If she said it enough times, she'd believe it.

*

She threw her purse on her desk and was just about to settle into her chair before her boss, Jim, appeared in front of her.

"My office, now," he said casually and zoomed past her, beelining to his office.

She stood frozen, her entire body going cold. Is this the end? Is this when she is finally going to have to move back in with her parents? They keep asking her how she's doing, if she's eating well, when she'll be up to visit. Hopefully not soon, Mom, she'd always dream of responding.

Jim flipped back around and faced her with an impatient glance. "That means now, now."

He could very clearly see the fear in her eyes, she presumed, the drainage of color in her face. "Margaret. You're not being fired. Please?"

She released a breath and smiled nervously. "Oh, yeah. Uh, sorry. Coming."

*

She sat in front of him, squirming a bit. She never liked being in his office. The walls were a pale white with terrifying modern art decorating them. She would never quite understand why someone would want what resembles a bed of nails on their wall. His furniture, minus the chairs and that awful, stiff sofa, was all glass; she was afraid to even look at any of it because she worried it'd break. The one thing resembling comfort was the black shag carpet adorning the cold, marble floor. It was like a chic, modern prison, and she hated everything about it.

He examined her briefly before sitting back in his chair. "You've been doing quite well these past few months, you know that, right? Much better than your years before."

"Um, wow. Thank you," she smiled a bit. "That's very kind."

He returned the smile for a moment before giving her a bit of a sympathetic look. "I want to help you, Margaret, because I know you don't like styling with Cheryl."

"Oh, I mean...I don't...hate styling with Cheryl," she hesitated. Of course she hated styling with Cheryl. The woman was nearing seventy and thought that brown is the only color on the spectrum that should be worn. Every time Maggie wanted to challenge her ideas, she'd complain to Jim about how young people are ruining the fashion industry.

"Please," he gave her a pointed look with a bit of a smirk. "You're not the first person to complain about Cheryl. Yes, she's difficult, but our older customers love her. And that's why you can't work with her anymore. Because she's three times your age. You need a client who's not planning their retirement. Which is why I'm assigning you a new client."

Her head tilted a bit and her shoulders tensed. A new client? Already? She and Cheryl had finished working with their previous client yesterday. She had never been assigned a client so quickly. This was not how she had expected her day to go, because it was actually going well.

"His name's Sean McColton," Jim said, sliding across the desk a file. "His father is a friend from college. 25, like you, lives in Manhattan, works at his father's firm, very, very affluent. A great start for your solo career."

"He's a lawyer?" she asked curiously, trying to piece together an image of what this guy could be like.

Jim shook his head. "Broker. On Wall Street."

Lovely, she thought, Wall Street.

"Sounds great. Thank you, sir," she smiled apprehensively. She grabbed the file and held it close to her chest as she prepared to leave.

Jim stopped her. "Oh, Margaret? Be patient with him. He's a tough cookie to crack."

She nodded, determined, with a winning smile to reassure him. "Will do."

Signals flashed in her head telling her that it was a bad idea to agree to accept him. Growing up in Kentucky, Maggie always hated the idea of a stuck-up, rich, Wall Street-type frat boy telling her what's right and what's wrong. However, after living in the city for almost seven years, she's grown tougher and more desensitized to the people surrounding her. Hell, her boss was a rich, stuck-up frat boy, and she still respected him.

Maybe this would be fun. Maybe she'd make a friend.

With a bit of hope inside her, she sat down in her chair, smoothed her hair back, and opened Sean McColton's file.