Hot Billionaire's Drama Queen

Sofia's POV

My friends in America think I have the best brother in the world because he paid for a private charter plane to bring adult cream pies to one of my parties. But he's Machiavelli and Lucifer's bastard love child.

So for the good of mankind, I'm going to murder him. Then ask Dad for understanding and forgiveness.

It's too much to wait for the silver Mercedes to come to a complete stop. Or for my chauffeur/bodyguard to open the door. Seething, I jump out and march into the glossy skyscraper that houses the Golden Gate Group's headquarters in downtown Paris.

I walk through the vast lobby, the clacking of my Chanel heels like a metronome on the marble floor. My entourage follows. They're my mom's spies, but I tolerate them and pretend I don't know what they're really up to because they can be useful. Look at Exhibit One Ms. Katherine serves as my assistant when she isn't reporting my every move to my mom. She's rushing forward to hit the button for the executive elevator car to make sure that the doors are open and ready for me to step right in.

I'm not an executive at my family's giant multinational conglomerate, but I get to use the special glossy black elevator anyway because my doting dad, who's chairman of the Golden Gate Group, gave me access.

It's too bad Charles  hasn't received the memo. But I'm going to make very sure he gets it in the next few minutes.

The elevator doors shut, and Ms. Katherine hits the button for the thirtyninth floor, where my brother's office is located. My temper is boiling, but I try not to scowl. What Charles did was infuriating, but it's not worth getting wrinkles for.

No. Instead of having fury create lines on my face, I'm going to unload on my older brother. He deserves nothing less.

How dare he.

The second the elevator stops and the door opens, I walk out. Ms. Katherine follows, along with two bodyguards.

Ms. Lucia, the most senior of Charles four executive assistants, starts to rise from her desk. She's also the most conservatively dressed, in a black skirt suit with pantyhose and heels. She even has pearls in her ears. Her face is covered in multiple shades of nude makeup, which, unfortunately, makes her appear oddly colorless.

"Ms. Ben," she says, her tone very circumspect. "Mr. Ben isn't available "

I raise a hand. "Don't. I know he doesn't have an appointment."

I have my own eyes and ears at the headquarters. Although I have no managerial power at the company, I have something better ready access to my father. He indulges me and lets me have what I want, as long as it's within reason. But "within reason" is pretty wide when it comes to my requests. Everyone at Golden Gate knows this, and they suck up to me some overtly, some subtly. And I use it to my advantage. I need, to survive cases like this.

Ms. Lucia bites her lip but doesn't try very hard to stop me. Getting in my way wouldn't end well for her.

I open the double doors to Charles corner office. It's enormous, the décor tasteful, with bright, neutral colors. Two entire walls are made of glass. They overlook the Seine River and the sprawling city that houses almost twenty percent of the country's population.

It's a massively urban landscape, complete with bustling crowds, snarling traffic, and distant hills. But one thing mars the vista a gigantic blackandwhite billboard featuring a hot underwear model whose face is so gorgeous it's gotta be Photoshopped. Too bad for Charles, it's a male model...with a huge bulge, you can't miss. Too bad it doesn't glow neon pink in the dark. That'd serve my brother right, especially since he loves to work late.

Charles looks up from a black leather folio, a small frown on his face. Unlike me, he doesn't care much about getting wrinkles. But then, he's male and married to a perfect merger wife. He doesn't need to keep his face pretty anymore. He just has to be fit enough to look decent in the bespoke Italian suits he loves more than his spouse.

"Sofia," he says, his voice cool. "You don't have an appointment."

I point a finger accusingly. "I don't need an appointment to see my family! Especially when that family happens to be an irritating older brother who ruined my shopping! Do you know how humiliating it is to have all your cards declined?"

"Hmm..." He makes a show of consideration. "No. It's never happened to me. Coffee?"

My blood pressure skyrockets. I wonder if I can throw him against one of his giant windows hard enough to break it and drop him thirtynine stories.

But the glass looks thick. So probably not, assuming my anger would give me the strength to toss my much larger older brother around in the first place. The only option left is punching holes in his head with my spiky stilettos.

Or better yet, poison the specialty snacks in the break room next door. Ms. Helen ordered them just for him, but I know a few things that would give him epic diarrhea.

"I don't want coffee!" I say. "I want to know why you froze my accounts!"

He leaves the chair and comes around the desk then gestures at one of the couches in the seating area.

Since I'm feeling pissed, I take his favorite armchair and cross my legs.

He raises an eyebrow but sits down on the couch to my left. One arm draped along the back of his seat, he regards me coolly. "You didn't go to the restaurant as I asked."

I pause for a second, wondering what he's talking about. Then I remember Ms. Katherine relaying a message about meeting Dossier #32 for a freakin' Matsun Date. I told her there was no way I was going on that particular type of blind date. Matsun Date is what you do when you're serious about considering the other person as a spouse.

"You froze my cards over that?" I stare at Charles in shock.

"Yes. I told you, Father and Mother want me to have you married by the end of the year. I'm going to do whatever it takes. I already had Ms. Helen order a dress and reserve a venue for you. All you need to do is show up with a groom."

"And I told you that the man isn't my type, and I don't want your assistant planning my wedding! You weren't listening, were you?"

Still not listening, Charles starts to tick off points on his fingers. "He's well educated, trilingual, in charge of......."

Charles spreads his hands. "You could've picked last week's guy. That would've resulted in a fifteen percent increase."

"No," I say firmly. Amazingly, he can keep track of details like that. All the dossiers look the same to me: rich, educated, and have something to add to the Golden Gate Group's bottom line.

He sighs. "We gave you a hundred dossiers. How hard can it be to choose one?"

"Extremely, since I don't like any of them."

"They're the most soughtafter, most eligible bachelors in the country! We created the list two years ago, and fortyfour of them have been snatched up since. That should tell you something about Mother's discerning taste in men. If you keep being so stubborn, there won't be anyone left to choose from."

"Good! Then I'll be able to pick my own!"

Charles gives me a pitying look. "Remember how that worked out for you last time? He gave you up for two hundred million dollar."

Humiliation sears my face. Two hundred million dollars isn't even real money. But eight years ago, an exboyfriend accepted that amount that pocket change to dump me. Mom called it a service to my future. I have to agree that if I'd married that cheap jerk, my life would've been miserable. But that doesn't mean I'm okay with Charles rubbing it in my face. Or my parents trying to force their picks on me.

"It isn't like you never made a mistake," I shoot back.

"At least mine took half a billion dollars."

He states it matteroffactly, but it only pisses me off more. What the hell does he think this is? A competition to see who has the shittier ex?

If so, fine! My ex is worse than his. That asshole fled the country after discarding me like garbage. A smart move on his part, because if I ever see him again, I'm going to have Mr. Clifford run him over, then back up and do it again. My family has the best lawyers in the country. My chauffeurslashbodyguard would get off with a minor slap on the wrist, and I'd have the pleasure of turning that lower intestinal orifice into a human pancake.

"And unlike you, I learned my lesson," Charles adds. "Which is why I married my wife."

And thanks to that merger marriage, our combined market cap increased by twenty percent. But to me, that isn't the most important thing.

"Uhhuh. And are you happy now?" I ask.

Charles looks at me like he doesn't understand the question. Finally, he says, "We have a son."

"That isn't what I asked."

"We have a son," he says again. "What more do I need?"

"Love? Maybe a little devotion to each other? I mean, do you even like her?"

Pity fleets across his face.

And the fact that he feels sorry for me for wanting love makes me madder and just a little bit sad. I flick a hand in the direction of the doors, on the other side of which Ms. Helen is undoubtedly working diligently at her desk. "Or is Ms. Helen buying yet another anniversary gift for her?"

"Ms. Helen has exceptional taste and pays meticulous attention to detail." He explains it to me like he's talking to a fiveyearold who doesn't understand why everyone can't get a piece of candy.

Of course, she has all those qualities and more. Otherwise, she wouldn't have lasted so long working for my brother. "Dad picks out Mom's gifts himself."

"Because his assistant is too oldfashioned to know what's trendy," Charles says.

My teeth grind with frustration. It's just like my brother to be obtuse on this matter, but I know he's doing it on purpose. He didn't study economics at the University of Chicago and then get into Harvard Business School by being stupid.

"You know that isn't true," I say. "There's nothing wrong with Mr. Patrick's taste."

"No. What's true is that you want to benefit from being a member of this family without living up to any of the responsibilities."

I bristle. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not causing some huge rift or political infighting by trying to challenge you for control of the company. Why? Because I know you're better suited for that sort of thing. And instead of being a concert pianist like I wanted, I've accepted that working like that wouldn't be okay. So I'm heading up the Ivy Foundation."

"Leading one of our family's charitable organizations is fine, but you have other responsibilities as well."

"I don't just run it, I created it. And it's a good fit. Being a pianist myself, I can discover talent faster than anyone else around here. And I'm not drawing a salary."

He gives me a look. "Do you think this is about saving a few pennies?"

Okay, he has a point. My salary wouldn't even be a rounding error to the family in the grand scheme of things. And I didn't ask to be paid because I don't need the money and I'd rather have it go toward more scholarships. I get plenty through the huge trust my late grandparents set up for the family's personal use. I don't control it, but then, I've never had a reason to care about controlling it...until now.

"We can hire someone to lead the foundation, but we can't hire someone to marry in your stead," Charles says.

"Then just accept that I'm not going to get married without love and give up."

"You can easily fall in love with one of the fiftysix who are left." His tone says I should be thrilled that he's given me a perfect solution.

"Charles, I'm not marrying a portfolio."

And I'm especially not marrying a clone of my brother. Every single one of the hundred dossiers is just like him raised in the most expensive and exclusive neighborhoods, properly educated in private schools and, most importantly, drilled since childhood to put work above everything else.

Those men talk about shares, market caps, and dividends. To them, a wife is a means to a financially beneficial merger and acquisition...and then a proper heir to take over the empire when the time comes. Birthdays and anniversaries are something their assistants keep track of and buy gifts for. If the wife is exceptionally lucky, she might get dinner with her husband.

I don't want that. I want what my friends have. Ivy's husband Tony never looked at her portfolio because she didn't have one. He married her because he loved her more than his own life. Evie's husband Nate married her because he'd been in love with her for the longest time since she started working as his assistant. Then there are Katherine and Williams...Jennifer and Edgar...

Even my parents are in love. Dad makes time for Mom. He lets her know she matters.

Why should I have to settle for less, just because I happened to be born into a wealthy family?

Charles sighs. "If you want to reject the men Mother and Father have chosen, prove yourself."

Wariness creeps over me. My brother hates to lose. So there's going to be a major trap in this seemingly innocent dare. But there's no challenge I can't rise to. And since I'd love nothing more than to show him I don't need one of those dossier men in my life, I keep my voice calm and confident. "How?"

"Survive on only what you can make. No falling back on the family connections or your friends. If you can prove that you're capable of that level of independence, sure, I'll back you when Father and Mother come after you with another list of bachelors."

Based on the cool confidence on his face, he's convinced I'm going to fail. But he isn't making an empty promise. My brother is many things, but he keeps his word. He'll side with me if I can show him I don't need the family money to live.

I smirk. "Piece of cake."

"You say that now, but wait until you have to downsize. You'll never be able to maintain your lifestyle on your own." A corner of his mouth quirks as his eyes flick toward my purse. "Your bag costs more than what Ms. Helen makes in a month."

I stand up, my gorgeous Dior clutched in my hand. "Then maybe you should pay her better," I say, feeling sorry for Ms. Helen that my brother is such a cheapo. "I'll email you when I have a job and the amazing independence you think I can't manage."

Charles gives me a toothy smile. "I wait with bated breath."

I exit the office, my head held high. Ms. Helen stands up behind her desk. I shoot her a pitying look. It must suck to have to buy all those expensive and pretty things for my brother's wife, but not be able to buy anything for herself.

Ms. Helen goes slightly pale, and she clasps her hands together. Are they shaking? Her eyes dart away.

Why is she reacting like I'm about to push her off a cliff?

Mr. Clifford is holding the doors open for the elevator. We all step inside.

I gesture Ms. Katherine closer. She steps forward until she's standing half a step behind me, with her body angled so she can whisper into my ear discreetly.

"What's wrong with Ms. Helen?"

"I think she suspects she's in trouble."

"This isn't the first time I've barged into Charles's office. He knows who to blame." I.e., me. And then Dad for indulging and spoiling me not that there's anything wrong with that.

"But you gave her that look."

I turn my head. "What 'look'?"

"Then I feel bad for you look. You always have it when somebody's in trouble with the chairman."

Ms. Katherine's being extra circumspect, but what she's trying to tell me is that I use that look whenever I have Dad demote or fire somebody. I've only done it a handful of times when I caught somebody stealing or being grossly negligent. Besides, I have never suggested to Dad how he should handle any particular matter. I leave that part entirely up to him because he knows best how to manage the people who work at the company. It's just that Dad quietly does what I think he should do.

"Ms. Helen has nothing to worry about. I was feeling bad for her for an entirely different reason."

Ms. Katherine's phone buzzes. She checks a message, then puts it away. All my other assistants' phones start going off as well.

The elevator arrives at the lobby, and I march out first. "Ms. Katherine, can you make me a list of all job openings I can apply for with my skill set? Nothing from the Golden Gate Group or its affiliates, though."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ben, but I don't work for you anymore." Ms. Katherine's voice is tight and uncomfortable. If a voice could squirm...

I stop, turning to face her. "What are you talking about?"

"I received a message from HR. I'm to report to the admin pool."

Shit. My stomach sinks. That was quick. Petty jerk. "What about your assignment? To spill mean, report to my mom about what I'm doing?"

"I suppose that's over as well."

Her shoulders are high and tense. She looks confused and upset. Probably dreading what this is about. Since she knows I'm not angry with her, she might be thinking it's my mom who's unhappy with her performance. And annoying my mom is never a good thing if you want to have a long and fruitful career at the company.

But I know for a fact it isn't Mom who did this. It's Charles. He's trying to ensure I have nobody around to help me.

Asshole.

I smile at Ms. Katherine. "Well then. I wish you luck. Hope you have a good assignment."

"Thank you, Ms. Ben." She bows and leaves.

I turn to Mr. Clifford. "How about you? Do you have to leave too?"

He nods, then clears his throat. "After I drop you off at your home. I'm sorry."

I wave my hand. "No need to be sorry. It isn't your fault."

It's my brother's. And Mom's for using him to get me married. She knows how Machiavellian he is. To him, everything justifies the end. The only reason he isn't trying physical violence is that it isn't his MO. Also, wedding photos look like crap when the bride is black and blue.

The other people in my entourage back away, bowing and mumbling apologies, and Mr. Clifford drives me home. The car stereo plays Chopin's Waltz in E minor, the rapid, turbulent notes reflecting my mood.

So Dad lets me live in a large luxury condo complex in the tony section of Paris called Chez, which is famous all over the world I wonder how much longer I can stay there without Charles finding a way to kick me out. Unfortunately, the lease is under the company's name for complex legal reasons I never quite understood.

And if he does, do I get to move back to the primary residence, or do I have to find an apartment on my own?

Probably on my own, because he specified not using family money. The primary residence has to fall under that category.

Tapping my fingers to another waltz, I mentally go through a list of friends in Paris I might be able to stay with, then shake my head. None of them will take me in, not if Charles makes a call. All of them have some kind of business dealings with Golden Gate or its subsidiaries. Friendships are fine until your market cap is at stake.

When the car stops at the glitzy gold and black entrance to my condo complex, Mr. Clifford  opens the door for me.

"Thank you for everything," I say. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Ms. Ben. I hope you have a good day," he says pleasantly, but I catch a hint of wistfulness. Mr. Clifford is a physical guy who likes to be out and about. So being my chauffeur and bodyguard has been an ideal assignment for him.

He drives away. I watch the black Mercedes vanish around the curve and wonder how I'm going to get around. There might be a bus stop or subway station somewhere, but I have no clue where. We don't get taxis driving by either, because every resident here has a car or two. Besides, I probably can't afford to ride taxis all the time now. I only have one hundred thousand FRF in cash like a hundred dollars in U.S. currency which is pathetic.

A loud engine roar catches my attention. I look in the direction and frown at the sight of a lemonyellow Lamborghini. A familiar guy in his midtwenties sticks his head out of the driver'sside window with an overly white grin. Excessive tooth bleaching. His pale, strawlike hair is spiked with gel. A pair of reflective sunglasses hides eyes I know to be small and unexceptional.

"Hey, babe. Finally caught you alone." His teeth gleam like a row of tiny searchlights.

I roll my eyes heavenward. Normally, Ms. Katherine  or Mr. Clifford f would keep people like this away, but I'm on my own now. Should I beat him with my heel? But is he worth ruining a Chanel?

"You're dressed nice," he says, trying again.

Obviously. Violet Georges Hobeika is more than nice. And Chanel heels are to die for. I love fashion, and I have excellent taste.

"Wanna go for a ride? This car's almost as nice as the way you look."

"I don't go for rides with convenience store cashiers who have to borrow their uncle's Lamborghinis. Or try to pick up girls who are way out of their league. You shouldn't be driving a car you can't fill up with money you make yourself."

His jaw drops. "What How did you...?" His face turns blotchy. "What are you talking about?"

"I know everything about everyone."

When I moved here, the security team created a set of extensive reports on everyone in the building, including the janitorial staff. I didn't read or remember everything about everyone, but I looked this idiot up when he repeatedly tried to hit on me despite Mr. Clifford's prolevel cockblocking.

"You still haven't finished college, have you?" My voice drips with feigned pity. "Does your girlfriend know what you're up to?"

He swallows. "Freaky bitch."

"At least I'm not a loser and a cheater."

I turn and walk away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I'm not worried about him trying anything. There are guards all over the place, one of the many benefits to living in the building.

I pray the passcode is still good and enter the sixdigit combination into the lock panel on the door to my unit. There is an interminable moment...

The panel beeps and turns green. Thank God. I step inside my condo.

The spectacular early summer view of the city greets me. My white Steinway baby grand in the sunken living room floor gleams under the sun. I sit down and play a few scales. It always helps anchor my thoughts.

Charles wants to win. So he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure I can’t get a job. In fact, he’s probably already done it. By now, I’ll be lucky to find employment scrubbing public toilets for the city. But I’m not going to give in and marry someone he picks from the dossiers. Nor am I going to pick one out myself so he can feel good about giving me a “choice.”

Basically, I need to go to someplace beyond his reach and influence. That means out of the country. And I’d better do it before he can stop me. All he has to do is make a call to somebody in the Ministry of Justice and have my passport flagged for a travel ban. Too many politicians owe him favors, and I won’t even be able to sue because they’ll all laugh like we’re buddies and say, “No hard feelings, just a misunderstanding.”

I stop midscale and pull out my phone. Fortunately, the service is on a separate contract under my name. I text Ivy and Tony, hoping one of them is awake, since it’s almost eleven p.m. in Los Angeles. They might not be. Ivy’s hugely pregnant and often exhausted. And Tony likes to go to bed with her and rub her back and feet.

Me: Hey. Can you get me a ticket to L.A.?

I tap my fingers on the Steinway, waiting. Then stand up abruptly because I shouldn’t be wasting time like this. I need to start packing.

My phone rings. It’s Ivy.

I answer instantly, putting her on the speaker so I can pack and talk at the same time. “Hey, girl.”

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pull out a huge suitcase and start throwing in my dresses and purses. “I just need to get out of here. Don’t need a roundtrip ticket,” I add, since most ticketing agents will want to have a return date.

“Oh no…” Ivy sighs. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t the best situation.” The understatement of the month. But I don’t want to go into detail. It’s too much for an international phone call, plus it’s late in L.A.

“When are you coming?”

“As soon as possible.” Before it occurs to Charles to make that phone call to the Ministry of Justice. “Like, now. Immediately.”

The suitcase is full. I pull out another and start stuffing it with shoes and accessories. Must have shoes and accessories to go with the clothes and purses I already packed.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say, not wanting her to worry. Stress is bad for pregnant women. My honorary nephew and niece deserve only the best. “It’s just my brother being a jerk. A long story. I’ll tell you everything when I get there.”

“Okay. What do I need to get you a ticket? I have your name, but don’t I need your passport number and stuff, too?”

“Probably. Let me text you a picture of my passport. Give me a sec.” I rummage through dresser drawers until I find my passport. I take a photo of the page with all my details. “Sending it now.”

There’s a pause. “Okay, got it. I’ll send you the ticket info soon. How about something that leaves in the next three hours? I see one here.”

I think for a second. It shouldn’t take that long to pack, and it’s about fifty minutes to the airport. Since I have no clue how to catch an airport bus, I’ll just have a taxi come pick me up.

“That’s fine. Thanks, Ivy!”

“My pleasure. Can’t wait to see you,” she says, still sounding a little worried.

This is all Charles's fault.

I finish shoving everything I need into two suitcases, but I still want the rest of my stuff. I stop to think for a moment. Who is someone Charles can’t screw with?

I call Mr. Patrick, my dad’s chief executive assistant.

“Ms. Ben,” he answers immediately, his tone professional. “The chairman’s in a meeting.”

“Hello, Mr. Patrick. I’m not calling to talk to my dad. I need to ask you for a small favor.”

“Anything.”

“I’m going to Los Angeles and can only take two suitcases. Can you pack up the rest of my things and overnight them to Ivy Blackwood’s home address? It should be on file.” My family maintains the addresses of everyone we associate with.

“Certainly. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you. You’re a gem.” I smile although he can’t see it. I don’t ask him to keep it from Dad because it wouldn’t be right to test his loyalty that way. But he isn’t the type to gossip, and he won’t tell Dad what I wanted unless asked.

“My pleasure. Have a lovely trip.”

“Oh, I will.”

I hang up, feeling smugly triumphant. So Charles hasn’t been able to turn absolutely everybody against me. But then, he knows better than anyone how much Dad indulges me. We grew up together, after all.

I make a mental note to ask Dad to give Mr. Patrick a fat bonus. Or the fully comped use of one of our resorts. That should make him and his wife happy.

My phone pings.

Ivy: Got the ticket. Emailed it to you just now. You need to leave soon to catch the flight, though.

I check my email to make sure. First class to LAX. I smile.

Me: You’re the best!

I call the concierge in the lobby and ask them to arrange for a taxi pickup for the airport, then roll my suitcases out into the living room. I stop and put a hand over my fluttering belly. I’ve never done anything like this before. It feels like cutting ties, making my desires known, insisting on them, in fact…and hoping for the best. I’ve never not had the support of my family, and now here I am, not even telling them I’m leaving.

But I know that if I do, they’ll try to stop me.

My parents love me to pieces. Unfortunately, that means they can be a bit overprotective at times.

But I can’t let them run my life. They don’t have to sleep with my future husband and have his babies. I’m not having sex with a guy I feel nothing for.

I blow a kiss at the baby grand. “I’m going to miss you, sweetheart.”

Nothing calms my anxiety like playing the piano. If I could, I’d take it with me. But I can wait until I get to Ivy’s place. She has a Bösendorfer concert grand I can use.

Inhaling deeply, I grab my bags and head downstairs to go to the airport.

Davidson's [POV]

I step off the flight from Italy to France and smooth the minor wrinkles in my shirt. My mood could best be described as extremely irritated, because the flight was five hours late. Which, of course, means I've missed my connection to LAX.

Just how difficult is it for the airline to maintain its fleet properly and operate on time?

Delays due to mechanical issues just mean the airline is terrible at its primary function. And I hurried through everything in Italy to make the damned flight for nothing.

I pull out my phone and turn off airplane mode. Texts and alerts fill my screen. Some of them are from the airline about the damn flight, like I wouldn't know I've been hugely inconvenienced without their idiotic alerts.

A mountain of todos are waiting for me in L.A. I don't have time to waste here, even if this airport is spectacularly spacious and nice.

One new email in particular is near the top of my inbox. Despite the fact that it's in French, I check it first because it's going to be more effective than meds for bringing down my blood pressure.

Sure enough...

The email contains pictures of old golden retrievers. They look adorable and happy. I smile. Only a sociopath could stay angry seeing those panting doggy grins. And just look at those cute, bright eyes. The dogs are lovable. No other word for it.

This is exactly what I wanted when I started sponsoring a "retirement center" for old seeing eye dogs in France. I never knew what happened to those dogs. Actually, I never gave much thought to them at all, since I've never known anybody who needed one.

But three years ago on a long transPacific flight, I watched a documentary about what the French people did with their animals once they grew too old to serve. Since they can't be seeing eye dogs anymore, they're sent to a kind of retirement center where they live out the rest of their lives. Their owners visit them if they live nearby. But it has to be painful for the dogs to be away from someone they've known and loved for so long.

Toward the end, the film featured a sick dog named Nana. That poor thing was old and suffering from an unspecified illness. A center worker said they were waiting for a vet to come in, while rubbing Nana to comfort her.

The slow way Nana blinked...and how unfocused her eyes were... It just gutted me. The film wasn't trying to solicit donations. But I found out where the center was located, hired a translator, and flew out there.

Nana had already died, so there was nothing I could do for her. But I got to see the other dogs at the center. How intelligent and gentle they were, how happy they were to have a visitor, tails wagging and noses questing to meet this new person.

They've spent all their lives in training and service to humans. Now that they're retired, they could use some pampering beyond what the center's budget can give. Every single one of the dogs there deserves steak and biscuits. They deserve dignity.

I set up an annual donation on the spot.

Everyone was thrilled about the decision except my accountant. He advised me to choose a different organization to give money to, saying I couldn't write it off my taxes. Apparently, a foreign entity that isn't registered with the IRS doesn't entitle me to a deduction. It's my accountant's job to worry about stuff like that, but I ignored his advice. It's my money. I'll give it to whoever I deem worthy, not who the IRS considers acceptable.

And I say those dogs deserve to be treated like royalty.

So every month, the center sends me updates and pictures...sometimes videos. I can't read the updates because they're in French Google Translate helps to sort of parse it out but opening the updates is always a happy moment.

Finally I close the email, then send a quick text to my best friend Aiden.

–Me: Can't make it for drinks like we planned. Got delayed.

–Aiden: That sucks. Some other time, then.

Assuming we can agree on a date. We both keep busy schedules. He's an attorney and lives to protect his clients and destroy their enemies. I'm one of his clients too, and I love having an asshole on my team. Comes in handy at times.

–Aiden: Lemme know when you get back.

–Me: Ok. I'll have Benedict check my calendar next week.

–Aiden: Too special to hang out with me this weekend?

I snort. Because of my trip, I suggested meeting for drinks on Saturday rather than Friday, but he told me he was busy.

–Me: Like you have any free time.

–Aiden: Yeah, true. TTYLater gator.

That done, I contact my assistant Benedict.

–Me: I just landed. Call me.

I see another security checkpoint. Shit. But at least the lines are moving.

–Me: Wait. Call me after I clear security. Ten minutes.

And when is Benedict going to call? I said ten minutes, not eleven—

My phone rings. "Tell me you put me on the next flight out of here," I say.

"Sorry. The airline put you on the one after."

"Why?" The gall of the airline. "Don't they know they've wasted enough of my time?"

"I made that clear, but they were worried that you might not clear the second security check after getting off the flight from Singapore. But they assured me that was the fastest they could arrange. Even said it was with their partner airline."

Oh for God's sake. "Well, I've already cleared it. So can they put me on the next flight?"

"Probably not. Unless it's been delayed, it's already boarding. Or about to."

Fuck. Me.

"But according to the schedule, you should be home in the next fourteen hours for sure."

That fails to improve my mood. I should be halfway over the Pacific by now, damn it. But there's nothing to be done, so I latch on to something that I can do something about. "Fine. Update me on anything I should know."

"No emergencies. Your agent sent five more scripts since you left for your little getaway in Phuket. How's your tan, by the way?"

"Good enough." I grunt with half annoyance and half pleasure.

I don't regret adding the threeday detour to Thailand to my trip to Japan, where I was filming a few whiskey commercials for a local brewery.

I'd never been to Thailand, and a producer told me the beaches in Phuket are fantastic. But I resent the hell out of the fact that the airlines fucked up my return trip home.

"Also, FYI, you have fourteen calls from Jessica Martins," Benedict says, to distinguish her from another Jessica, a photographer I used to work with some years ago.

Davidson's [POV]

Something bitter and sour coats my tongue. An exgirlfriend. An annoying, clingy exgirlfriend. If I'd realized she'd turn out to be this pathetic and irritating, I would've tossed her overboard the moment she said hello at that yacht party four months ago.

"You didn't actually take any of them, did you?" I already told Benedict not to, and he's excellent at following instructions.

"Of course not. She left quite a few messages and texts, though."

"Delete them, unread. I'm not paying you to waste time with that trash."

"Already done. But I thought you should know she's not giving up."

Of course she isn't. But it's to her benefit to look for the next sugar daddy elsewhere...and as soon as possible. Every second she grows older, the less desirable she becomes as a trophy. "I already blocked her on my phone."

"I warned security," Benedict says.

"Good." This is why Benedict is my righthand man.

"And Ella called."

"Ha. Not just once, I'll wager."

"Twentysix times."

My teeth grind together. My halfsister always calls when she needs something. And it's almost always money. Until she got engaged, she also asked me to introduce her to rich men in my circle. She refuses to understand I wouldn't wish her on my worst enemy. Not because my enemies deserve better, but because I don't want her to get to live her dream of being a rich man's wife.

"What did she want?" I ask impatiently.

"The usual. Money. Fifty K."

I nearly choke. Fifty thousand dollars? She still hasn't figured out that I'm not giving her anything? "For what? Plastic surgery?"

Benedict lets out a small, muffled laugh. He knows how much I hate my halfsibling. "No."

"Good, because it wouldn't help."

She's not ugly, per se, but her features are off. Unbalanced. Every single one of them. And living in L.A. makes it a hundred times worse, since the city's full of gorgeous women. Every small town's prettiest girl makes the journey and dreams of becoming a movie star.

"It's for her wedding." Benedict manages a calm, nonlaughing tone.

"Didn't she already get fifty thousand from her mother?" I demand. Although it supposedly came from her mother, it's really my damned money. Father was many things, but he wasn't a font of cash.

"Eighty, actually. And yes, she did. But apparently she needs more."

"Tell her no. She's lucky I'm not praying for a tsunami for the wedding."

She plans to get married on a beach. With flowerfestooned arches and rose petals in the air. The entire idea is ridiculous. The sea winds will sweep every petal away before the ceremony starts.

I wonder if fifty K could buy her a new and improved brain? She needs that more than a ludicrous wedding to a trustfund moron. That way, their children won't end up with turkeylevel IQs.

"I don't think the chances of a tidal wave are particularly high."

"Can't you sacrifice a goat or something? Appease Poseidon?"

"Sorry. Outside my work scope," Benedict says.

"What 'work scope'? Celebrity assistants do anything their bosses want them to do. It's not like I don't pay you enough." His salary and benefits are at least twenty percent above the usual pay for celebrity assistants. I make sure to compensate my people well. "Make it a virgin goat."

"I'm quite sure it's illegal to sacrifice an animal within the city limits."

"I'll bail you out if you get arrested."

"It won't look good if you have an assistant who gets arrested for caprinicide. Bad publicity."

"For what?"

"Caprinicide. Caprine is the adjective for goats. You know, like bovine for cows, ursine for bears, porcine for pigs..."

Benedict the aspiring writer. Of course he would know a word like that.

"Fine," I say grudgingly. My public image is important.

I run a hand along my jaw. I take after my mother one hundred percent, and that apparently means I'm too pretty for my own good. I suppose I'm goodlooking, but it's hard to be impressed with something I see every time I glance in the mirror. They say familiarity breeds contempt. In my case, it's bred indifference.

But that doesn't mean I'm unaware of my good fortune. It's this face that's allowing me to make an amazing living as a model and actor. The two Netflix dramas I starred in did well, so offers for more acting roles are flooding in.

"Also, I'm going on vacation for two months starting next Monday," Benedict says. "Just a reminder, in case you decide to consult Aiden about the legal fine points of massacring goats, although I'm not sure if animal rights are his thing."

"What?" I say, stunned. "Vacation?"

"You approved it last month, remember?"

"I did? Was I sober?" He might've sprung it on me while I was drunk. Or exhausted from latenight filming or during some sixa.m. photoshoot. There's no way I said yes without a temp to replace him.

"Oh, quite. It was during your breakfast. You also had a cup of coffee before you approved, which I made for you and waited for you to finish because I didn't want you to claim I took advantage. I told you I needed two months off to finish my screenplay, and you said okay."

Hmm... I vaguely remember him saying something about wanting to win an Oscar for a screenplay. I guess that means he has to write one first. I just didn't realize it would be so soon!

"So who's going to be my assistant while you're gone?"

"You told me you'd figure something out."

"I did? I must've been high."

"Nobody gets high off one cup of coffee. Anyway... You don't have anybody in mind?"

"No." Fuck. There's no way I can live two months without an assistant who can act as a gatekeeper. And bring me coffee. And groceries and anything else that might pop into my head.

"Well, you still have today and the weekend." Benedict sounds singularly unsympathetic.

"I don't have any résumés. And I'm in Korea!"

"It's only for two months. You just need an ironclad NDA, which Aiden has already drafted for you."

"Oh yeah, that sounds super simple," I say. "You know what? You aren't going anywhere unless you get me a replacement."

"What?"

"It's only for two months, and you still have today and the weekend. And you happen to be in L.A."

"Come on!"

"Less complaining, more working."

Benedict sighs. "Fine. I'll find someone before I leave."

"Thank you. It wasn't that hard, was it?"

The second I hang up, a new flight ticket pops up on my phone. I check it and sigh. The gate is at the opposite end of the terminal. Of course. At least the lounge for firstclass passengers is near the gate.

I turn around and start walking through the crowd, getting the usual looks. This airport is cavernous. Well, cavernous might not be the best word it is bright with sunlight. But holy mother of God, you could run a marathon in here.

At least the walk will give me the time to gather my thoughts. Why the hell didn't I remember this vacation? And how is Benedict going to find somebody decent?

Argh.

Although I told him to get a temp or else, I don't want to be that kind of jerk celebrity boss who makes him cancel his time off. I know an actress who called her assistant to get the poor woman to handle freakin' phone calls when her mom died, and the assistant quit, which the actress deserved. I don't want Benedict quitting on me. We work well together, and I like the guy.