Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
While I owe none of my success to him, I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it weren’t for that sad sack illustrating how not to win at life. I sleep soundly each and every night knowing my current lifestyle is a giant middle finger to the bastard.
Taking my niece in—and getting her out of her appalling circumstances—was also a giant middle finger to the Maxwell name.
Neither of us asked to be born into this family, but it doesn’t mean we can’t do something about it. Scarlett’s too young to realize her fate was already written until I came along and changed it.
Someday she’ll thank me.
Until then, she can hate me all she wants.
In fact, she can join the fucking club. There’s a spot reserved for her at the end of the line. I’m a firm believer in the idea that you haven’t “made it” in life if you don’t have a whole slew of people hating your very existence.
“I’m finalizing the agenda for the City Gent staff meeting if you want to look it over.” Miranda taps her stylus against her screen. “There. Just sent it.”
My computer chimes, the screen coming to life, greeting me with an overstuffed inbox of emails I’ll never get around to reading. I find hers at the top—above one from Elle Napier, marked with high importance. The subject reads, New Article As Requested.
“I’ll give it a look in a sec.” I motion for her to leave, eyes glued to the screen as I double tap the attachment.
Without a word, Miranda gathers her things and shows herself out. She’s one of the good ones: patient, tolerant, and worth her weight in gold. There are instances I don’t doubt she knows what I’m thinking before I even think it—an impossible feat.
Sipping my coffee, I wait as Elle’s document loads on my screen—and I all but spit it back into my mug when I feast my eyes on the title.
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT WEST MAXWELL
by Elle Napier
What image comes to mind when you think of West Maxwell?
It’s okay if you need time. I’ll wait . . .
I know there are thousands of them in existence.
Maybe you thought of that Instagram picture from four years ago where he’s riding on the back of a camel, pyramids in the distance and an orangesicle sunset coloring the background? What about the one where he’s geared up and rappelling down some snowcapped mountain in Switzerland? Or better yet, maybe it’s the January 2019 cover of Made Man—the one in which West appeared shirtless, leaning against a gleaming Gotham-black McLaren Elva and looking like he’d just won the lottery, his dream woman, and a one-way ticket to paradise, all while pushing his “Ultimate Guide to Your Best Year Ever.”
But who’s the man behind the filtered image? Who’s the man writing the inspirational captions that make you want to set your alarm for 4:30 a.m. so you’re not late for tomorrow’s grueling CrossFit session? Who’s the man that inspires both professional and interpersonal greatness with a single square-shaped, likable, shareable photo?
I bet you think you know who he is.
Or maybe you have a general idea.
Ambitious? Yes.
Attractive? Undeniably.
Intelligent? I’d say so.
Wealthy? Does Saturn have rings?
But what lies beyond that? What drives him? What keeps him going day after day? But more importantly, does it matter?
Spoiler alert—no. It does not matter.
I’m about to drop a dirty little truth bomb—you are not West Maxwell and you never will be.
The West Maxwell you see is a marketing machine’s carefully crafted version of the ideal man.
Let me drop another bomb on you while I’m at it: the average woman is not looking for her own personal Made Man. Not even close. She simply wants a partner who listens, who shares her interests, values, and life goals—and bonus points if they’re not a jerk and happen to be in close geographic proximity.
I’m oversimplifying, but you get the point.
You want the secret to having it all? You’re not going to find it in the pages of this magazine.
Save your money.
Save your time.
And simply be yourself.
There may be a million men trying to knock off West Maxwell, but there is only one you—and that, my friend, is what makes you a genuine catch.
Yours in truth—
Elle Napier
The pen in my hand snaps in two, sending the spring, tip, and ink chamber flying.
I’m two seconds from formulating my response when I notice a second, unnamed attachment.
Dear Mr. Maxwell—
I quit.
Sincerely,
Elle Napier
Jerking my office phone from the corner of my desk, I punch in Tom’s extension—until my cell phone rings and Highland College Preparatory Academy flashes across my caller ID. Slamming the receiver on its cradle, I take the call on my cell.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Mr. Maxwell, this is Principal Veldhuis at Highland Prep.” An all-too-familiar voice fills my ear. He hesitates before beginning again. “It’s eight thirty-four, and Scarlett is a no-show again. This is the fifth time this month, number twelve for the semester. Unfortunately there are truancy laws, and—”