chapter 3

The legal briefing ran late. As I’d anticipated. Put seven attorneys and their paralegals in a room together, and they would debate everything from where to get the

best coffee in town to what an obscure 1950s ruling in a Mississippi courtroom meant for a business conglomerate in Dover, Delaware.

Keeping them on task and speaking in layman’s terms was an exercise in futility.

I headed briskly in the direction of the in-house graphics department on the other side of the floor with the intent to bribe a designer into showing me a preview of the “new direction” in product packaging.

This was the kind of thing Lita and I would have done over drinks at my house or hers just a few short years ago.

But circumstances changed. Schedules got busier. And friendships morphed. We found ourselves in an awkward dance with Lita insisting on veering from the Flawless vision. My vision. Just last week I’d had to put my foot down when she’d announced Flawless would be partnering with twenty-something YouTube makeup vloggers on sponsored posts featuring our wrinkle reducer. A twenty-two-year-old did not have wrinkles. Nor did she have a wrinkled audience.

My sigh was closer to a groan, and it made an assistant in a pink skirt shoot me a wide-eyed look.

It bothered me that Lita wasn’t interested in adhering to my vision. But like everything else, I’d deal with it later. We had bigger fish to fry, so to speak.

According to my legal team, the IPO was on track with the SEC. We’d been working toward this for the last two years, and the finish line was in

sight. In less than eight weeks’ time, we would be offering up $1 billion in shares to the public. It was the culmination of years of effort and the beginning of a new phase of growth for Flawless.

My watch vibrated on my wrist.

Lita: Don’t forget your hot date tonight!

Shit. I had forgotten. I changed directions and headed back to my office. I could remind Lita over email how the packaging needed to reflect our brand and vision while I changed for my “date.”

This sort of thing was more common at a certain level of fame rather than plain old wealth. Unfortunately, it was a line my circumstances straddled. Being seen together was a discreet, mutually beneficial favor when attention was required. I’d taken dates I’d never met before to galas. I’d been a plus-one to strangers’ weddings and had been photographed going to dinner with gal pals I’d only known to nod to across the room.

In general, I avoided those kinds of favors on principle. I didn’t like lending myself out. My value—as I saw it—was in the office, not being seen on the arm of a man or in the company of starlets. However, Lita was right. We needed to keep the public interest up if we wanted the stock offering to meet expectations. And that meant I had to be seen… outside of the office or the lab.

Back in my office, I stripped out of my workwear and yanked the dress Jane brought for me over my head.

I’d have my picture taken. Grab a bite to eat. And put in another hour or two of work in my home office.

Glancing in the mirror, I frowned at the sedate updo I’d styled that morning.

“Dammit,” I breathed. Snatching my discarded dress from the floor, my bag from my table, I bulleted from the office.

The salon lights were still on. Maxim, the head stylist, lifted his head from the beachy waves he was styling for a woman I recognized from our payroll department.

“Damn, girl,” Maxim said, giving me the once over. “You looking to make someone fall in love tonight?”

I glanced down.

Jane had gone overboard with the damn dress. It was short and black with very unsubtle sparkle. Speaking of lack of subtlety, the deep V between my breasts skirted the line of classy and “hunting for a prenup.” I should have a necklace. Give people something to look at besides my small but mighty cleavage.

It was a dress I’d bought years ago thinking about special occasions with a special someone. And here I was wasting it on a stranger’s publicity because there was no special someone in my life.

Sacrifices.

“Do you have ten minutes for face and hair?” I asked Maxim.

“For you?” He gave me a slow wink while still wielding the clampless curling iron and producing perfect waves. “I’ve got all the time you need. Sheila, my beauty, you’re done. Give it a good shake and then go make What’s His Name speechless.”

Payroll Sheila gave me a nervous wave and scurried out of the salon, beaming in the glory of new hair.

“Thank you,” I said, collapsing into a chair and relishing having ten whole minutes during which nothing was required of me. “I’ve been running late since I got here today.”

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said, his fingers already working their way into my shoulder-length blonde hair. “When are you going to do something fun with this?” he demanded.

I thought of my mother’s comment at lunch.

“Soon,” I promised. Maybe after the IPO. Who knew what effect a haircut could have on an initial public offering?

He sighed, his skinny mustache perched over the flat line of his lips, and went to work with hair clips.

I’d hired him out of a salon in South Beach, doubling his salary and giving him a voice in product development. Our professional relationship consisted of me popping in once every few weeks when I worked too late to properly prepare for my evening responsibilities and Maxim grumbling over my conservative style. To be honest, it wasn’t even my style. My closet was a replica of my mother’s.

It was just easier that way.

True to his word, ten minutes later, my hair was big and bouncy. And I had smokey taupe eyes and red lips. I looked nothing like the prim and proper Emily Stanton who kicked ass all day.

“You’re a miracle worker, Maxy.”

“My canvas was especially stunning. Now go have a little fun before you forget how,” he called after me as I hit the door at a jog.

Jane was waiting in the garage for me, the Range Rover’s air conditioning on full blast.

“Did you have to pick a dress that my boobs are going to fall out of?” I asked.

“Your fault for sending me on wardrobe errands,” she smirked. Jane’s fashion knowledge began and ended with whatever showed up in the LL Bean catalog. “If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have it in your closet.”

“Fair point,” I nodded. “What’s the game plan?”

“We’re meeting Prince Charming two blocks from the restaurant. We transfer you to his car so you can be photographed driving up together. I’ll hang back and wait for you to call when you’re ready to go home.”

I nodded, scrolling through my phone. Still no word from Esther at the lab. I wondered if I could squeeze in an in-person visit tomorrow. Checking my calendar, I winced. I’d be lucky to get a pee break tomorrow.

“I hope this guy drives a normal car,” I sighed. My intestines did a slow kinking twist. I hated that my anxiety manifested itself in such an uncouth way. It wasn’t irritable bowel, but it was in the neighborhood. I’d always been thankful that my career aspirations had earned me my own private washroom, especially before big meetings that determined the future of thousands of people.

Jane laughed. “I did some digging for funsies. Let’s just say it’s a safe bet he’s got some $500,000 spaceship with undercarriage neons.”

“Lita so owes me,” I groaned. Someday, my debt to her would be paid.

“I’m following you to the restaurant,” Jane reminded me, consulting her mirrors as she veered around a huge Cadillac that was weaving across the lanes. “Text in case you need to make an emergency escape.”

“You’re a good friend,” I told her. “Yup.”

MERRITT VAN WINSTON did not drive a normal vehicle.

I didn’t know my luxury sports cars, but I was pretty sure this bumble bee yellow lump of aerodynamic metal and plastic was a Ferrari.

A stupidly expensive car for a man who didn’t actually work for a living. Wonderful.

The Emily-Lita scales were definitely tipping in my favor.

The two blocks to the restaurant were the most interminable of my life. And that’s saying something in Miami. The man dressed like a European playboy and spoke like a valley girl. His bootcut jeans were so tight I wondered if the blood supply to his legs was cut off. And then there was the glossy purple shirt worn so open we could be cleavage twins.

“You’re like super-hot,” he said, grinding the gears and flashing me a smile so white I had to avert my eyes.

A Bentley, tires squealing, pulled out in front of us from an alley. Merritt slammed on the brakes and stalled the car.

“What are you doing in town?” I asked, craning my neck to peer out the window. The car sat so low I felt like I was laying on the street.

“I have a little business with my bros,” he said cagily. He turned the engine back on, and we lurched forward.

Porn probably, I guessed. No, wait. Maybe a yacht party with underage starlets? Bath salt abuse contest?

I was being uncharitable. And entertaining. It kept my digested food on the inside of my body.

“How do you know my brother?” I asked.

“Trey? Oh, man. Me and him go way back. Prep school. Tahoe.

Greece.”

For one out-of-body moment, I wondered what it would be like if my own story hadn’t been limited to classroom, lab, and boardroom. I didn’t have any friends from Tahoe. Or stories from Greece.

Then again, I also didn’t have to pull up to a restaurant in a car that cost more than most people’s lifetime income to get my kicks.

“Here we are,” Merritt sang as he revved the engine up to the valet stand. The photographers stationed outside salivated on cue, and camera flashes blinded me.

“I’ll come around, pretty lady,” he said, wrestling the door up. He tossed the keys to the valet and shot his arms in the air in a V. Passersby stopped to stare.

Maybe I could just stay in the car? This kind of attention couldn’t really be valuable for either one of us. What did it matter who I went to dinner with? Or didn’t go to dinner with.

I thought longingly of my pajamas and leftovers in my fridge.

But my door was lifting like an eagle wing, and there was no longer a barrier between me and the hungry photographers. Someone—Merritt or a valet—reached in and offered me their hand. Thank God I’d worn sensible underwear today. Climbing out of this damn car was like requesting a public gynecological exam.

It was Merritt’s hand, I realized when I gained my feet on the sidewalk.

He tossed his sugary hair out of his eyes and offered me his arm. “Smile big.”

At least that’s what I thought he said. I couldn’t tell for sure over the sound of the sirens. The flashes weren’t just from cameras now. Red and blue lights were painting the outside of the restaurant, bouncing off the glass facade.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Merritt yelled over the noise.

“Is this your car, sir?” a uniformed police officer, hand on her weapon, demanded.

I needed that voice for board meetings.

Merritt’s yellow monstrosity was being swarmed by more police. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

Merritt shrugged but looked uneasy.

“Sir? Is this your car? Don’t make me ask you again!”

“Yes, it’s my car, and you don’t have to have that attitude with me,” he snapped back loud enough for every photographer on the entire block to hear him.

Oh, hell. He was going to say it. He was going to say it, and I was standing right next to him. Words like that splattered on anyone in the vicinity.

“Show me your hands, sir,” the cop yelled. She flicked the snap that holstered her gun. I took a decisive step to the side and kept my hands in plain sight.

“Do you know who I am?” he bellowed.

What a fucking idiot.

“Found something,” one of the officers searching the car called. He held up a baggie of something white and powdery.

Oh, shit. My digestive system gave a warning rumble. I moved to open my clutch, dial my lawyer.

“Ma’am! Put your hands behind your head,” the first cop yelled.

“That shit’s not mine,” Merritt howled. His tan face was red with entitled rage.

“Everything is fine,” I said calmly to the cop. “I’m just reaching for my phone.”

“Hands behind your head!”

I put my hands in my wasted hair and then schooled my features into a mask of impassiveness while a cop yanked my arms behind my back. As the cuffs snapped into place on my wrists, I spotted Jane jogging up the block, already on the phone. She nodded grimly at me.

At least my legal team was already informed of my very public humiliation.