A Four-Part Fiction

There I was in a Dollar Tree, not even trying to be cute. In fact, I was trying to figure out if I could grab lunch for less than two dollars and get back to my desk before my boss noticed I was gone for my 15-minute break.

Yet, he stopped me at the aisle’s end-cap. A whiff of fragrance hit my nose and I couldn’t tell if it was him or if a Lavender Fabuloso bottle leaked open somewhere.

This man was clearly from out of town. His unbuttoned white and gold Hawaiian shirt hung open, like this wasn’t mid-March in the Midwest and could blizzard or blaze in the blink of an eye.

I guess he had less worries at the time. 

What he was worried about at the moment was blocking my path.

“Hey,” it was hard to tell his age. He dressed like a Miami lover-boy, but there was something in his eyes. Something that read, he’s used to living.

I pause, unusually bemused by the moment,

“What’s up”

“How much?” 

Oh, just an empty offer.

I roll my eyes and throw out a ridiculous hurdle. He asks for my phone number.

Maybe it was the flicker of the dying fluorescent light, the fog of Fabuloso or that he seemed so willing so that I took him up on the offer and gave him phone number.

Box of oatmeal, peanut butter, tea.

Should hold me over for a few breakfasts in the cubicle.

Me and the dollar tree worker filled the air with enjoyable silence, just the beeps of efficiency slicing every second or so. Her hands manicured and bejeweled to a tee. The designs resembled a scene from Moana, but one hand outlined the burning volcano goddess and the other the joyful green one.

“Nice nails”.  I shared near the end of exchange.

She smiled, “Thank you darling, Receipt?”

“No thanks,” I grabbed the bag and breezed to the door, “Have a good one”

The bell jingling, like a prophecy on clearance, behind me.

6 PM 

When I finally hit the safety of homebase, his text startled me.

[Random Number] Were you still interested?

Since I hadn’t touched my back-up number in years, I knew exactly who it would be. 

[Me] And who could this be? 

[Random Number] King Midas baby. 

I laughed out loud. He might actually get a date for that one. 

[Me] : Ha! Careful what you manifest, Midas.
[Random Number] : You say that it’s not already happening.

I stared at the screen until the typing dots disappeared.

Maybe the universe really did keep receipts.

He offered to manifest a flight and had a date, time, and location in mind…his family was throwing a weekend jubilee near Niagara Falls. 

[King Midas]: I’d love for the chance to show you a good time. 

This guy seemed legit, but come on, flirtation could only get a man so far. 

[Me] Well what’s your real name then? 

[King Midas] Sage Love. Google me.

[Me] Maybe I will 😏

I tossed the phone aside and got back to the real carnival, cooking from the cupboards. Whether it was love or business. I could be the maiden and the maverick.

At work the next day, I did look him up.

Sage Love, a New York State heir tied to the oil magnates of the early industrial age. 

His Linkedin Read: Sage Love, 29, venture-capital mystic, founder of The Garden Collective.

I clicked through headlines and family trees. Sage Love—the kind of name you’d think came from a self-help guru, not a trust fund. His grandfather patented an industrial dye that once colored half the uniforms in World War II. His father “pivoted” to pharmaceuticals when peace broke out. Their estate funded one of those “legacy fellowships” for the humanities—how poetic.

It had been a while since I had dinner with destiny. I decided to let my thoughts dwell on the decision, real world work called after all.  

It was 2pm, I could tell because that’s when the sun could directly beam into the iris of my eyes.

A notification. 

$500 cash app deposit to my phone number from him, with a note (You still coming?)

I ♥️ it.

At least he had integrity, always a green flag to me. 

After 15 minutes, he follows up:

• [King Midas] Well mademoiselle?
• [Me] Hmm…how could I impose your honor? 😘

Curiosity, cash, and cosmic boredom are a dangerous cocktail.

The invitation came with a hotel confirmation and a QR code shaped like a heart.

Another notification.

Cashapp: $500.
Note: “For your trouble—or your outfit.”

I stared at the notification like it was a miracle or a minor miracle scam.

Either way, I screenshotted it. Every goddess deserves a stipend.

A follow up text read:

The Love Ball – a night of glamour, grace, and green energy.

It felt like a startup pitch deck disguised as a masquerade.

By Friday afternoon, the calendar reminder hit like divine comedy

“ The Love Ball – Formal Attire.”

Apparently, Sage’s family hosted it every spring—a benefit for environmental restoration projects, complete with champagne flutes, silent auctions, and the occasional senator pretending to compost.

I told myself it was networking.

Building social connections.

A chance to see what old money did with with a new generation. 

He’d already handled everything—flight, hotel, itinerary—like a man who believed logistics were love languages. At the airport, I found I had a window seat, again the sun beamed directly in my face, but this time it felt, like maybe fool’s gold could still matter.

I laughed to myself: manifestation really does have range.

There I was, in the limo headed to his estate. Niagara Falls, the world’s hydroelectric hooker of early industrial extraction by design. Where companies pumped and dumped by-products into canals and abandoned quarries. It was supposed to be a model community powered by clean hydro energy. 

When the project collapsed in 1910, leaving an empty canal—perfect for cheap waste storage.

Turns out Sage was only related to The town of Love Canal by marriage. His family strictly supported a sustainable energy vision now. I watched the factories blur by, and thinking about the love stories and landfills that fill entangle our timeline.

His estate was pristine though.

Up a hill and a mile off the road ,his home lived up to the name The Garden Collective. The lobby to the atrium glittered with sequins and legacy wealth—every step popped with a color of positive affirmation.

And there he was.

Gold-chain dripping, Like the son of Midas, waiting at the edge of  Eden. He smiled and waved for me to meet him at the top of the stairs.

“So glad you could make it,” He grabbed my hand and led me to a near-by bedroom.

“Look mister, we did NOT agree on that,” I stake that claim early.

At first he looked positively perplexed, then he offered a wry chuckle, “I got you some options for dinner.” 

He swung open the door to reveal a rack of clothes, various glitter dressed in shades of green. 

“I had some last minute funders show up, so the theme changed” 

I cocked an eye-brow. 

“Your outfit is magnificent of course,” his eyes-traced my body up-and-down, “we are just switching to green.” 

Being I chose black, I obliged to his offer to play Barbie.

“Meet me in the garden, when you’re done”

The dresses were exceptional, what I thought was a sequence was actually the finest pattens of beading woven into the dress. The designs seemed to blend and blur, but if I could finger on it, it seemed familiar. 

I chose a low-cut, high-cut barely there feather dress that would have made Josephine Baker jealous . The garden held a greenhouse that had a table set for an intimate affair. From the outside the greenhouse showed several people conversing informally. Yet, when I stepped in it was if, no one could see the outside after stepping in.

The walls were darkened and covered with fluorescent flowers.

The flowers made the air feel heavy which could best described as the fragrance of no smell at all. My finger couldn’t help to reach out to see what the flower was. Before I got too close, the heat of the petal frizzled near my skin. 

“You like that” Sage walked up behind me.

His breath carried that synthetic sweetness that made my neck hairs frizzle like the petals.

The flowers are embedded in black mirror panels to capture maximum energy while filtering out every trace of scent,” he explained, still grinning. “We get full use—as long as we pay the gardeners.”

Then I realized he wasn’t talking to me anymore; he was talking to the room.

The Phoenix Flower—his miracle—could be grown, harvested, and monetized. A bit of lipstick on the good ol’ DNA. He sold it like salvation in a bottle: purity with quarterly returns.

The mirrored walls lifted, petals glinting into a full-force pitch deck. Applause followed—sharp, metallic, palms hitting palms like rainfall on sheet metal. Sage smiled, all teeth and stock options.

Change takes courage, he said. I nodded, unsure which kind of courage this change needed.

The night switched to after-hours, all glitter; no glow.

Then Sage appeared—tailored, timed, and too precise, like he’d practiced the moment in a mirror that clapped back. He moved through the crowd the way water finds a drain: smooth, silent, inevitable.

His smile was calculated to the millimeter—warm enough for photos, cool enough for control. When a guest brushed his arm, he adjusted his cufflink before locking eyes with me.

“I knew you’d fit my purpose just right,” he said.

“Purpose or prop?” I asked.

He didn’t flinch; just glanced at his reflection in the champagne tower. “Same difference, when it works.”

I laughed. He didn’t.

Beneath the chandeliers, his gold looked earned. Up close, it looked like armor.

When the room relaxed, Sage reached for my hand and brought my to a funder.

He began, “This is my date…” .

I moved, “Nyra Nox” taking the man’s hand, steady as smoke. “Nice to meet you.”

“Exotic name. Good job, my boy.” The man clapped Sage on the shoulder.

While they talked about metrics, I slipped away; token trophy mission complete.

The fragrance followed me to the corridor, sweet yet, stale.

“Hey, wait!” His voice sliced through the hum of generators.

I didn’t.

—

To be continued