Oleg was the only person who knew that Gabe was her sugar daddy. There was no one else to whom she could confide. “I thought I could handle it, but . . . it feels so demeaning.”

The big man pulled up half a block from her apartment (her drop-off spot had inched closer with each subsequent date) and turned to face her. It looked like he wanted to tell her something but was unsure, afraid even. Finally, he spoke.

“Sometimes, we do things we don’t feel good about to survive. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

His sympathy, his assurance had brought her perilously close to tears. But she couldn’t cry about this. She had known what she was getting into. No strings.

“Thanks, Oleg. You’re really nice.”

Climbing the steps to the building entrance, she had caught the movement of the front curtains out of the corner of her eye. If Mara or Toni had been looking out the window, they would have witnessed her emerging from the chauffeured town car, wearing her slinky black dress and high heels. It looked tawdry and gross. Because it was. She was.

Her self-loathing was exacerbated by Gabe’s distance. Since that date, there had been radio silence for more than a week. She knew he was a busy man, but this felt deliberate. It felt cold. And then, three days ago, the invitation had arrived. He didn’t apologize or kowtow, he just asked if she’d like to go away with him for a couple of days. This powerful attorney was going to take time away from his cases and clients to spend some of her spring break with her. It all felt real again.

“The B and B is just up here,” Gabe said, smiling over at her. He seemed to know his way around Vermont. Maybe he’d brought his daughter here. Or his wife. Or a girlfriend. She felt something unpleasant in her gut—jealousy. But, of course, a man Gabe’s age had had a life before her. It would have been creepy if he hadn’t. She shook it off.

Their accommodations were in a quaint cottage on a well-groomed hobby farm. As Gabe checked them in, Nat wandered around the grounds. Horses grazed in a sunlit paddock, nibbling the tender spring shoots just beneath the skiff of snow. Chickens clucked in a henhouse, promising fresh eggs for their breakfast in bed. Fluffy sheep dotted a hillside, bleating from time to time. It was serene. It was sublime. It called for a selfie.

Nat knew she couldn’t post any photos with Gabe, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t share solo holiday pics on social media. Her friends back home would be interested in how she spent her spring break. And curious. And jealous. She experienced that perverse sort of thrill she always got from Instagram, knowing her followers would admire, envy, and resent her.

Gabe emerged from the main house then, jingling a key. “Our palace awaits.”

The cottage was a perfect mix of modern amenities and old-school charm. The decor was kitschy, French country meets hippie commune. Nat wandered through the tiny home, set back from the main building, allowing the couple complete privacy. She took in the claw-foot bathtub, the flat-screen TV nestled in an antique armoire, the massive sleigh bed. One bed. Her stomach fluttered.