Busting Up The Bad Boys' Bet - Published!

Chapter 4

7/22/2019: Updated to the published version.

The damn statement arrived in my mail the next week. Bradley Sullivan was to receive four million dollars on his twenty-first birthday, twenty million on his twenty-fifth birthday, and currently stood to inherit upwards of two hundred million dollars upon the death of his elderly paternal grandfather. He would eventually get much more if he outlived his father.

The lawyer also sent a sample prenuptial agreement that specified I (it had my name on it) would receive every bit of his money, including all trust funds and inheritances he would receive during his lifetime if we got divorced. There were some safeguards in place for Brad. I couldn't divorce him unless he cheated and there was proof, or he abused me or my children in some way and there was proof. We could get out by mutual agreement, in case we both decided we just weren't in love or something, and then I'd only get half of everything. I couldn't just divorce him on a whim.

I laughed for hours, little giggles erupted every now and then as I tried to do other things. I was stunned Brad actually talked to his lawyer about me and thought the lengths he would go to were hilarious. I wasn't tempted a bit, even though I thought it might be for real.

We were talking about someday. He wasn't asking me to marry him at eighteen. He wanted to be my boyfriend for now, I guess, and said he would wait to 'make love' to me on our wedding night. That I didn't believe for a second.

I figured I had just become the most coveted target in the history of their game. I was the mythical unicorn. Bagging me was the ultimate challenge. I wondered how much money was being wagered on me. There was no way I was falling for this. All three guys continued to woo me and ask me on dates. I laughed at them and refused every time.

One month later, I walked into my father's house after school and was going through the mail in the front room when Bradley Sullivan walked out of my father's office and closed the door behind him. He wore a very expensive suit and tie. One-part disbelief, one-part anger, I stared at him.

He grinned back at me and walked over, stopping just three feet away. "Hey, angel."

"What are you doing in my house, Brad?"

"I was just meeting with your father, angel."

"About what?"

"Your future." He grinned again.

I set the rest of the mail down, turned to him, and frowned. "This is not funny, Bradley."

Very serious, he said, "It's not a joke, angel."

"You're taking this way too far, Bradley." It was against the Playground Convention of 1952 to involve parents, teachers, or other authority figures in mind games unless they became life-threatening. Brad was seriously pissing me off.

"It's not a joke. It's not a prank. It's not a bet. I'm one hundred percent serious, Ally. What can I do to convince you?"

"Not a damn thing." I was all anger, a cocktail flambé.

He looked up at the ceiling, perhaps consulting with God. Some answer was delivered, and he looked at me again with a grin. "How about a notarized legal contract?"

"Saying what?"

"That this isn't a joke, prank, or bet."

"Piss off, Bradley."

"No, no, listen. It could specify penalties if I'm lying in any way. If I'm lying, you'll get a million dollars. How about that?" He looked at me happily, apparently thinking I would jump at that.