Desperado

Hillary's POV

Getting a boyfriend online was a very easy task. But the question was: Am I ready to do this? I kept thinking about Bridget's idea. I sat at the small kitchen table, sipping my lukewarm coffee and staring out of the window. Our days in this apartment were already numbered. My father and a whole lot of isolated people had stayed in this apartment illegally.

"I don't know how I'm going to get money to rent a place for us," I took a deep breath.

My friend Bridget, who was sitting across from me, nodded sympathetically.

"I know it's tough, but you'll figure something out."

"I've been applying for jobs left and right, but no one's hiring. I'm starting to get desperate."

"I already gave you an idea. Have you considered it yet?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Online dating? I'm still not sure about that."

"You don't have any choice, girl. You might end up on the streets, and I'm only trying to suggest something worthwhile. Look at you." She looked at me in disgust. "Your father gambles all the time; he's in debt, and you might as well get thrown out next month. You barely even have money to eat good food."

Bridget narrated, making me more insecure. She was right. She continued.

"There are these websites where rich guys look for... companionship. You could try it out."

"But..." I groaned.

"But what?"

I hesitated. "As if it's that easy. I just get a prince charming on a dating platform and boom! He loves me, and that would give me money and all that?" I scoffed hysterically.

"Listen, okay? Well, men are ready to give out their money to women who are willing to open their legs." Bridget spoke bluntly, and I sighed. We had already been warned by some officials to leave.

"Okay, so what do you suggest now? If I need urgent money, why loom over some guys at a dating site rather than a physical one around and close by at the club?"

Bridget laughed. "Eww, Hillary. Those guys suck. But this particular app, it's called ‘Millionaire Matchup.' You just need to get into it, fabricate an expensive identity, and when you log into it, your pictures pop up, and boom! The app automatically allows your pictures to reflect to these men."

"Well, I... I don't think that's a good idea." I stammered, feeling nervous, and walked to the sink to rinse my cup there. I tried turning on the faucet, but it was already broken.

"Shit." I cursed. Another expense again.

Bridget stifled a laugh. "How long would you endure all this? Besides, it's just to have sex when you finally meet, just like a one-night stand. Make sure he gives you a handsome amount of money. I'm telling you, they are real-life millionaires. You could earn a lot."

"But."

"After the app uploads your pictures, any man who likes or shows interest in you would definitely send a request, so when you accept and chat to get to know each other better, it books a club for both of you. There, you meet him, have a one-night stand, and you have every right to take your payment."

"How do you know about all this stuff, Bridget?"

"I have my ways." She smiled.

I took a deep breath. "So what if I get caught if it's only for the rich?"

Bridget placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me forward, walking upstairs.

"That is why I'm here to help you; I know what to do."

We got to my room, and she sat me down, holding up my phone, and made sure I downloaded the app from my store. I watched keenly and curiously as Bridget operated it. The display on the app featured some questions like type of business elite, net worth, physical assets, and type of housing.

"Gosh, this is so complicated." I whined.

"Relax," she rolled her eyes. "Watch me do the magic. So, Hillary, your name is Tessa Fowler. You are the daughter of a multimillionaire; you own fashion houses and are also a high investor in housing management. Okay?"

"Uh, okay."

I nodded and noticed she was answering the questions on the phone.

"I don't have a good picture." I complained, and she smirked. "Done."

I looked at the phone. Bridget had somehow edited one of my pictures, placing me against the background of a luxurious yacht. Wow. She's so good.

"That's actually interesting. It..."

I was cut off by the opening of the door. My father stood there, his eyes narrowed with anger, and I could hear his deep breaths.

"Oops." Bridget stood from my bed. "That reminds me. I haven't got any work to do. I'll see you later, girl. Make sure you keep up with the rules I said."

Not now, please don't go. I became anxious as Bridget slowly walked out the door. My father pulled his hands aside so she could pass.

"Are you aware we are getting thrown out of this home?"

He spoke gruffly after Bridget had left. He knew I was aware. Why was he still bringing up this topic?

"Answer me, you pathetic bitch."

He raised his voice, and the bottle of alcohol in his hands fell and shattered to the floor.

"D...ad..." I stuttered, already shaking. "You know well... that… there is… no... no."

He started walking closer, and I took a deep breath.

It was going to happen again. The traumatic experience. Oh God, please.

I tried to stand up when he pushed me and pinned me to the bed.

“You should find money so we can leave before the deadline. Or we might be trapped inside the building.”

I pushed him off with irritation. “And why are you telling me about this? You're the father, and this is your responsibility.”

I retaliated, and suddenly felt a hot slap on my face. Tears poured down, and my Dad placed his hands on the hem of my shirt, his hands trailing on my bare skin.

“Stop, please.” I pulled away from his grip. “I'm also trying my best, Dad. It's not easy for me.”

“Maybe you're not putting in your best effort.” He yelled and threw all the items on my dressing table to the floor.

“You're as pathetic as your dead mother,” he spat, slowly leaving the room. I wiped my tears and rushed to close the door.

“You bastard,” I whispered, my breath shuddering as I rested against the door. I cleaned my tears and pulled myself to sit on the floor.

I can't take this anymore. I need money. I'll do whatever it takes. I stared at my phone once more, and someone had already sent me a request. I didn't even bother to check the profile. My fi

ngers tapped on the keyboard faster than my thoughts.

“Yes, I'm ready to sleep with you.”

Message sent.