"It was the single most humiliating moment of my entire life," I groaned, face buried in my couch cushion while Daniel sat across from me, trying and failing to hide his amusement.
"So let me get this straight," he said, scratching the orange cat behind its ears. "You failed to spend enough money on Blackwood, so this 'system' took control of your body and made you perform a one-woman musical revue on a cafe table?"
"While throwing pastries at innocent bystanders, yes," I confirmed miserably. "And now I'm banned from the only decent coffee shop within walking distance."
Daniel was silent for a moment. "And you are absolutely sure this isn't part of a concussion?"
I glared at him, sitting up and pointing at the glowing text hovering in my vision:
[MISSION FAILED. PENALTY EXECUTED. NEW MISSION AVAILABLE IN 12 HOURS. CURRENT SUGAR MOMMY ACCOUNT BALANCE: $500.]
"Of course it's real. Or how else do you explain it? I'm hallucinating text that no one else can see, and I just performed impromptu karaoke without any control over my body. Because otherwise, it's either I have a brain tumor, or that billboard hit me harder than we thought."
Daniel frowned. "True. You said it added money to your account, right? It's not a hallucination if it's real money."
"We don't know if it's real yet," I said, taking the olive branch. I pulled out my phone and checked my banking app. Sure enough, there was a new account listed that I'd never seen before, labeled simply "SM Account," with a balance of exactly $500.
I showed Daniel, whose eyebrows shot up. "That's... not a hallucination, Elena."
"Then what is it? Some kind of elaborate prank? Did you set this up?" I narrowed my eyes at him.
I was choosing not to think about how I'd suddenly gotten $900 richer. What was the point when it wasn't like I could pay it back?
"How would I make you moonwalk while singing Sir Mix-a-Lot?" he asked reasonably.
I had no answer for that. "Whatever this is, I'm screwed. It's going to keep humiliating me until I somehow spend thousands of dollars I don't have on a billionaire who clearly thinks I'm insane."
Daniel was silent for a long moment, staring thoughtfully at my phone screen. "What if," he said slowly, "we take a different approach?"
"Like what? Rob a bank? Sell a kidney?"
It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Of course your mind will go to the extreme."
"Hey," I snapped back. "Can you blame me? It's not like I have some money somewhere and collecting your money is getting humiliating already."
He cleared his throat as his cheeks pinkened, carefully looking everywhere but at me.
"As I was saying. How about we create a persona that Sebastian Blackwood would actually be interested in spending time with." Daniel leaned forward. "If you can't spend five thousand dollars on him in one go, maybe you need to establish a relationship where you can spend it over multiple interactions. It looks like the system will reward you for each transaction"
I stared at him. "You want me to... what? Become his friend?"
"I want you to become someone he sees as an equal." Daniel stood up and began pacing, suddenly animated. "Look, men like Blackwood don't respect normal people like us. They only respect money and power. You need to appear to have both."
"In case you haven't noticed, I have neither!"
"But you could pretend to," Daniel insisted. "With the right clothes, the right knowledge, the right backstory... you could pass as a wealthy heiress who's been hiding. Someone with enough status that Blackwood would actually pay attention."
I laughed bitterly. "Right. Me, the girl who eats ramen for dinner four nights a week, pretending to be an heiress. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Well… what's the worst thing that can happen?" He retorted, "because if you don't do this, I really hope I'll be there when you fail your next mission."
A million thoughts raced through my mind. Dammit, Daniel was correct. It wasn't like I was swimming in a pool full of choices. It was either this or become a tiktok sensation from embarrassing encounters.
I took a deep breath. "Fine. But how would we even pull this off? I don't know the first thing about being rich."
"No," Daniel agreed, "but I do."
I stared at him. Come to think of it, Daniel had always been oddly knowledgeable about fancy wines, designer brands, and which fork to use at formal dinners. He claimed it was from working hospitality jobs at upscale hotels, but...
"Who are you, really?" I asked suspiciously.
Daniel waved dismissively. "Just a bored average guy who enjoys knowing things. The point is, I can teach you enough to pass as new money."
"With what resources? I can't exactly afford a makeover."
Daniel gestured to my phone. "You have five hundred magical dollars, apparently. And I might know some people who owe me favors. We can make this work."
"Really?" I asked sceptically. I didn't want to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Daniel grinned. "Sure. Don't you trust me? Now, let's create Ellen Morgana, newest sensation in town."
I tried to smile, my face squeezed in a grimace. This has better work.
---
For the next three days, I lived a weird double life. Thankfully, the text screen hadn't appeared much and when it did, the text hadn't changed. I was beginning to think it was broken but Daniel was sure it wasn't.
By day, I attended classes at university, worked my part-time job at the campus bookstore, and avoided my stepfamily's increasingly demanding texts. By night, I transformed into "Ellen Morgana, goddaughter of late hermits Gina and Mark Morgana" under Daniel's surprisingly expert tutelage.
We spent the first $500 on one exceptional outfit from a high-end consignment shop—a midnight blue power suit that Daniel swore "screamed rich money" and made me look at least five years older.
The following day, accessories, shoes, and what Daniel called "incidentals"—a sleek leather portfolio, business cards with a minimalist design, and a crash course in wine tasting at an upscale bar where the bartender seemed suspiciously familiar with Daniel, suddenly appeared in my room. I swallowed my pride and used my tips to get him his favorite snacks.
"Stand straighter," Daniel instructed as we practiced in my apartment. "Rich people take up space unapologetically. They assume they belong everywhere."
"Like this?" I tried to channel my stepmother Clarissa's imperious posture.
"Better. Now explain your fictional company again."
I cleared my throat and adopted the slightly bored tone he'd been drilling into me. "Morgana Quantum Solutions. We're developing adaptive algorithmic structures for next-generation computing. Very cutting edge, very exclusive. We don't accept outside investment because we don't need to."
"Good," Daniel nodded. "And if someone asks for specifics?"
"I smile mysteriously and say it's all under extensive NDAs, but they're welcome to read about us in next month's MIT Technology Review." I parroted the line he'd given me.
"Good. We'll figure out a way to make them interested enough in you, but not enough to actually do a deeper research."
I swallowed my response. I was doing a lot of that recently.
On the third evening, as I was practicing how to order whiskey "with appropriate disdain," Daniel's phone chimed. He checked it and his eyes widened.
"We've got him," he announced triumphantly. "Sebastian Blackwood will be attending the Westlake Foundation Charity Gala tomorrow night."
I nearly dropped the water glass I'd been pretending was expensive scotch. "The what now?"
"It's perfect," Daniel continued, already scrolling through details. "Black tie, five thousand dollars a plate, guest list strictly vetted. All proceeds go to oceanic research."
"Five thousand dollars a plate?" I squeaked. "That's literally the amount I need to spend on him! But how would we even get in?"
Daniel gave me a mysterious smile. "Leave that to me."
"Daniel," I said slowly, "exactly how many 'people who owe you favors' do you have?"
"Enough," he replied cryptically. "Just be ready tomorrow at seven. Wear the blue suit. And for god's sake, practice your walk one more time. You still look like you're apologizing for existing."
As Daniel left to make his mysterious arrangements, the system chimed in:
[NEW MISSION ACTIVATED: ATTEND CHARITY GALA AND SPEND $5,000 ON TARGET. SUCCESS WILL UPGRADE SUGAR MOMMY STATUS. FAILURE WILL RESULT IN PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT LEVEL 2.]
I managed not to collapse on my bed only because Daniel had yelled that it wasn't characteristic of the new me, but only just. I didn't want to know what Level 2 embarrassment entailed. Level 1 had been traumatic enough.