Free Breaking All the Rules by Cynthia Sax Page B

their smooth sleek barrels, the same barrels Nate holds in his big hands.
    There’s an empty space in his custom-made drawer insert. I unclip the pen from my corset and place it where it belongs, its gold nib gleaming against the black velvet. The pens clearly mean something to Nate. I can’t take one away from him.
    I open drawer after drawer, systematically searching his desk. All of his office supplies are the best, items not found in the main supplier’s catalogue. His sticky notes are crafted from fine linen paper. His stapler is a work of art, engraved with flowing swirls. The tins holding his mints are black enamel, trimmed with gold.
    He buys the best and he has bought me, quirky strange Camille Trent. I flip through the printed checks waiting for his signature. It would be easy to take one of these checks, change the name, and cash it at one of those fast money places. I frown. Nate should store them more securely.
    I walk my fingers across the file folders hanging in the bottom drawer. Boring. Boring. Boring. I don’t care about vendor agreements or board meeting minutes. I skip over our contract. I’m looking for something new, something juicy, something . . . like this.
    I remove a massive file neatly labeled CHILD SUPPORT PAYMENTS in block type. My heart squeezes. Does Nate have a child? I glance at the painting of the mother and child. No. I never discovered a child in all of my research and Nate, Mr. I-Need-Sole-Custody, wouldn’t be an absentee dad.
    I place the file on the leather desktop. The papers are yellow and brittle, the font faded. Nate’s full name is printed on the header of a spreadsheet, the columns titled with Date, Description, Original Estimate, and Final Cost.
    The dates start nine months before Nate was born, and every conceivable child-related cost is listed: taxi rides to doctor appointments, late-night gourmet food cravings, a pack of gum to disguise the smell of his mom’s morning sickness. No item is too small, too insignificant, too overpriced.
    The original estimates are outrageous and the final costs double or triple those estimates. I shake my head. Rich folks have some crazy ideas about what a child needs. Growing up on a commune, I never wore thousand-dollar baby booties. I stare at the prices, disbelieving my eyes. But somehow I survived.
    I lean back in Nate’s chair and continue to read, the multipage spreadsheet telling the story of his life from his conception to his eighteenth birthday. Any event, any change that requires money is detailed, including five paternity tests.
    I can understand asking for one paternity test. While I was growing up I often wished my dad would ask for one. I knew he’d love me whether I was biologically his or someone else’s, and having another dad would have explained why I’m so different. Maybe there’s a green-haired former hippie sitting in front of a computer somewhere.
    Nate’s dad, being a billionaire, would have more reasons to ask for a paternity test. I watch the news. I see how baby mamas come out of the woodwork whenever a man becomes rich and famous.
    Asking for five tests seems a bit excessive, though, veering from the realm of helpful and informative into hurtful and vindictive.
    The other Nate-related expenses are more innocuous. They include a parade of around-the-clock-care nannies, candles for his birthday cakes, the braces he needed as a preteen, his private-school tuition, the brand-new Mercedes given to him when he turned sixteen, summers in Europe, and a Harvard education. Even the silver Rolex Nate wears is listed, a graduation present given to him by his mom, the expense reimbursed by his dad.
    Why would anyone track this information? I toss the papers onto his desk. And why does Nate keep this summary? Does he think this is his worth, that all of these monetary expenses represent who he is or how much he is loved? Is this why he buys love, paying for sex?
    I walk to the windows and stare at the darkening