Chapter 1: The 73-Cent Sugar Mama Bet

I couldn’t stop thinking about the cute guy singing in the subway tunnel.

Every time, I’d listen to just one song and—like clockwork—Venmo him exactly 73 cents.

There was something weirdly satisfying about it—the sound of his voice echoing off the grimy tile, the clink of coins in his guitar case. I loved that sound. And then that little digital ding when I sent the money. It felt like our own private joke, a secret handshake right in the middle of rush hour chaos.

After a while, even on days I didn’t show up, I’d still send him the money. Weird, right?

It was almost like a superstition, you know? On days when I was stuck in traffic or the rain kept me away, I’d open my phone, see his name in my Venmo history, and send 73 cents. It was just my way of saying, Hey, I’m still here.

He started sending me voice memos of his singing.

“Hey, check this out.” That was it. No context.

The first time I got a message from him, I replayed it three times, just soaking up his voice. There was a rawness to it—like he was singing just for me, late at night. It felt intimate. His words curling around my name.

I thought, huh, this sweet boy really took the bait.

I grinned at my phone, feeling a little wicked. He was hooked. I could tell. There’s a certain thrill in being the one someone’s waiting for, even if it’s just a little Venmo ping.

Until the day I was at my piano shop and overheard three hot guys. They were checking out a new baby grand.

The shop was bustling that day—students in hoodies, professors with their tweed jackets, and the place smelled like wood polish. I was behind the counter, pretending to dust, when I heard them.

“You still haven’t bagged that 73-cent sugar mama?”

“There’s three days left on the bet. Lose, and you owe fifty grand!”

“Bro, please. A woman her age? Please. I just snap my fingers and she shows up.”

They were laughing, loud and confident, like only college guys can. I felt a chill run down my spine.

That’s when it hit me. They were betting on me.

My heart did this weird lurch, like missing a step on the stairs. Suddenly, all those voice messages, the shy smiles, the flirty texts—they twisted into something else. A game. I hated that. I felt my face flush, but I kept my cool, just listening.

So, you know what? I made a bet of my own.

Within a month, I’d get all three of them. That was my bet.

I smiled to myself, heart racing. If they wanted to play, I’d play harder. Game on, boys.

After my divorce, I picked up a new hobby: raising puppies. Not the furry kind.

Not the furry kind, obviously.

But those beautiful, clueless little pups—college boys with big eyes and no idea.

My friends joked about my 'younger man phase,' but honestly, it was more about the thrill than the age. There’s something intoxicating about being the older woman, the one with the answers, the one they look at like you’re some kind of magic.

So I moved my piano shop right next to the State Conservatory of Music, ready to catch one right out of the pack.

The location was perfect—right on the edge of campus, where the scent of coffee and sheet music lingered in the air. I loved that. I’d watch the students spill out after class, laughing and jostling, and I’d wonder which one would catch my eye next.

Honestly, I’d already picked my target.

It was the subway singer. The one I’d been obsessed with lately.

He was pale and slim. Long legs folded under him, guitar in hand. Singing his heart out. He barely looked up, but still drew a crowd of girls.

He always seemed lost in his music, but the way the girls hovered nearby, giggling and whispering, told me he wasn’t as oblivious as he looked. His voice cut through the noise, low and rough around the edges.

The first time we met, I tossed a quarter his way. Just to make him look up.

Dark brown, slightly wavy hair. Long lashes. Deep voice. Absolutely stunning.

“Who even carries change these days? Seriously, lady, you’re something else.”

He pinched the coin, flicked his thumb. It landed straight down my v-neck.

The awkward part? I was wearing a low-cut top that day. And it just... stuck there.

I felt the quarter slip between my skin and the fabric, and for a split second, I was mortified. But I kept my chin up. No way was I letting him see me flustered.

He jumped up, totally panicked.

“Sorry! I swear, that wasn’t on purpose.”

His cheeks went bright red. He looked genuinely horrified. The crowd snickered, but he barely noticed, eyes wide and apologetic.

I looked down at myself, then up at him. I smirked. “Well, you’re not getting that quarter back for now.”

He laughed—a nervous little sound. A dimple flashed in his cheek.

I Venmo’d him 73 cents. Ritual complete.

He stared at his phone. Then up at me. A slow smile spread across his face. "Guess I’ll just have to live with the loss."

That night, a Facebook friend request popped up.

His name was Chase Reynolds. Student at the music academy.

He seemed squeaky clean. Almost too clean.

His profile was all music clips, song lyrics, and the occasional blurry photo of a streetlight at night. The kind of guy who’d write poetry in a spiral notebook and never show it to anyone.

After that, I made sure to pass through the subway tunnel after work. Every day.

It became my new ritual. I’d close up the shop, slip on my heels, and head down the stairs. The sound of his voice would guide me.

Each time, I’d listen to just one song. Then send 73 cents.

It was our thing. He’d glance up, catch my eye. I’d give him a little wave.

Finally, Chase asked me why it was always 73 cents.

I told him it was because he sang love songs.

He grinned, leaning closer. “Don’t you know why I sing love songs?”

I knew. But I didn’t say.

I just smiled. Let the silence hang between us.

Ever since he added me, he started posting ab selfies. Every day.

It was hilarious. One day he’d be all shy. The next, he’d have his shirt pulled up, abs on full display.

“Because they’re popular.” He left me on read.

He left me on read. Typical.

I could almost picture him rolling his eyes. Pretending not to care.

Later, as the days went by, I started skipping visits. But even when I didn’t go, I’d still send him the money.

I wanted to see how long it’d take for him to notice. Turns out, not long at all.

That 73 cents? It became his emotional anchor.

It was a breadcrumb trail. A way to remind him I was still out there.

Then Chase started sending me private voice messages.

“Hey, check this out.”

“Sounds good.”

“I thought you’d be sick of it by now.”

“Not on my commute.”