Four

Stella squinted at him, pondering the idea through her throbbing hangover. It felt like the plot of a cheesy romantic comedy, something destined to fail in real life. Yet, she was flat broke. When she woke up the next day, she'd have two things: a nasty hangover and a bank account holding just thirty-five cents. She needed to spend the day job hunting and figuring out how to make ends meet. It was a foolish idea, something bound to fail. And yet...

"I must be really drunk or desperate," she mused, "because that doesn't sound like such a bad idea, assuming he'd agree to it."

"Well," Stoney replied, pulling out his phone, "you can discuss it over dinner tomorrow, assuming he's available."

Stella snorted, her arms crossed with bitterness. "I might have other plans tomorrow night."

Stoney gave her a knowing look. "Yeah, right," he said, "you can DVR 'Real Housewives." A moment later, her phone chimed with a message. She picked it up to find Ritchie's number in her texts.

"Call him first thing tomorrow," Stoney advised. "I'd say call him tonight, but I doubt he'd take us seriously in his current state." He finished his beer, tilting the glass to get the last few drops.

Stella stared at the number for a long time, contemplating. It was a foolish, desperate idea, she told herself. Tomorrow, she'd wake up hungover and tired, and she'd laugh at the idea of entertaining such a harebrained scheme.

"Would you like another?" Stoney asked, pointing at her empty glass.

"Sure," she replied absentmindedly. It was indeed a very silly idea, she reasoned, putting her phone down and trying to put it out of her mind for the time being. After all, Stoney had a knack for coming up with absurd ideas.

***

As predicted, the next morning Stella awoke with a pounding headache. Sunlight streamed into her room like a harsh spotlight, intensifying everything to unbearable levels. Her stomach churned as she tried to bury her head in her pillow, blocking out the intrusive light. But it was futile, even when she closed her eyes, the room remained too bright.

After a few more minutes of agony, she got out of bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She must have consumed at least nine cocktails last night. It was a miracle she didn't pass out at the bar; Stoney would have been furious if he had to carry her to the Uber. She'd never have heard the end of that.

Sitting on her bed, she picked up her phone to check her messages and immediately noticed one from her brother. Perplexed, she opened the text message box, and the memory of their conversation flooded back.

Stella was supposed to call Stoney's friend and see if he'd be willing to pay her to be his fiancée. She shook her head in disbelief. Now, in the sober light of day, the idea seemed far more ludicrous than when she was drunk. She set her phone aside, dismissing it as a drunken notion, then headed to the bathroom.

Afterward, she walked into her compact kitchen and started brewing coffee. As the aroma of the coffee wafted through her apartment, she felt her head begin to clear a bit. Looking around her small, run-down space—the combined kitchen and living area with a folding table used as a makeshift dining table, the perpetually stained linoleum floor that resisted her cleaning efforts, and the hand-me-down furniture with duct tape covering the holes in the couch—she couldn't deny it was a shabby place.

Once upon a time, she lived in a nice apartment in a good part of town. She owned stylish clothes, a nice car, and held a respectable job as an accountant. Her life wasn't perfect, of course, but being married to Curtis made everything else seem insignificant. His constant criticism and negative attitude turned her seemingly perfect life into a gilded cage.

Eventually, she'd grown tired of his narcissistic behavior and kicked him out. In those early days of her divorce, she'd assumed it was as simple as signing the papers, never considering that he would try to strip her of everything she'd worked so hard for, all in a twisted attempt to win her back.

Fighting him was a long and solitary battle, costing her not just her job and apartment but also her savings. Stella had never imagined that sticking to her principles would result in losing everything else in her life. It was unfair; in a way, she felt that, although she had initiated the divorce, Curtis had won by forcing her to start over. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at her makeshift dining table, deep in thought.

Was it really such a bad idea? In the end, both parties would benefit. It would be like any other business transaction. Finally, she got up and walked back into her room, where her phone was still resting. Stella hesitated, looking at the phone number thoughtfully. The worst he could say was no. Or perhaps, "Hell no, why are you even calling me?" She'd endured worse treatment at her former workplace, so she reasoned that this should be a piece of cake. Stella dialed the number and brought the phone to her ear, waiting for the call to connect. After a few rings, he answered.

"Hello, Ritchie Hollis III?"

She cringed. "Who answers the phone like that? Hi, uh, this is Stella Lively, Stoney's sister?"

A pause, then a formal reply, "Yes? How can I assist you?"

"I'm not an attorney," she stammered, "but..."

"Okay, do you have any connections with estate attorneys?"