Page 3 of Her Billion Dollar Groom

Maybe that’s how I got myself in this mess to begin with, but if there’s anyone in the world that I can trust, it’s Natasha.

Then I hear something that makes my blood freeze. “Whoa,” I say. “Say that again.”

“Because of this whole debacle,” she says, fixing me with the kind of look that saysI know you weren’t listening to any of this.“Property taxes were neglected on your parents’ home, so the threat of repossession is very real.”

“They’re going to take it away?” I gasp. “They can’t do that!”

Natasha purses her lips. “They can do that, and they will do that unless the amount is paid in full very soon.”

“And how much is it?” I ask.

Natasha shakes her head slowly. “More than you can afford right now. And…” Natasha takes a studying breath, and that’s when I realize this is even worse than I already thought it was. “The press is going to get hold of this story soon. Like, tomorrow or the day after soon.”

“They can’t come after my parents,” I say, tears filling my eyes. “Can they?”

“As you well know, journalists have no scruples.”

“But Mom and Dad have nothing to do with this. None of this is their fault.”

“Of course it’s not, but fault isn’t really important here. The money needs to be paid. That’s all the government cares about.”

“How is this happening?” I sob. “My life is being ruined. What can I do?”

“Well,” Natasha smiles reassuringly. “I’m going to do everything I can to get us out of this. And I’m going to start by suggesting you get yourself a new manager.”

CHAPTER 3

JASON

Even through the tinted windows of my car, the flashing lights are too bright. There are few things I hate more than red carpet events. One of them is public speaking. Another is having to reply to questions about press releases.

But what I want to do and what I have to do are things that haven’t correlated for a very long time in my life.

Chris and the PR team have come up with a scheme to try to raise my profile and turn my image from a scrawny, nerdy guy to a hotshot CEO. I tried to suggest we hire someone to do that job, but the PR team and the marketing team were steadfast. What people want these days is a CEO they can relate to, and that means I have to get cooler, fast.

“We’re here, sir,” says my driver, looking at me through the rear-view mirror as if I hadn’t noticed.

“Great. Thanks, Oskar,” I say, giving him a tight-lipped smile. In reality, I hate having a driver. It makes me feel slimy. But I was told that he would come and pick me up because the team knewthat if I had to drive myself, I wouldn’t come. Besides, it looks better to get dropped off on the red carpet than to take the bus.

I sit in the car for a moment longer, but when Oskar’s scrutiny becomes too much to handle, I clench my fists, put on the best smile I can muster, unbuckle my seatbelt, and step out of the car.

I’m met immediately by cameras shoved in my face, but as the press photographers and paparazzi realize who I am, the applause and the snapshots die down. I linger awkwardly on the carpet and grimace at the cameras.

I can feel myself sweating through my tailored shirt. The fact that my suit is black with sparkling silver pinstripes makes me feel like I’m standing out way too much. I know the whole point of me being here is to strike an image with all these people who care about that kind of thing, but it goes against everything I’ve ever been or ever wanted to be to look like this.

If it were up to me, I would scurry through that entrance, then leave swiftly through a back exit. But there’s a table reserved for me, and I know that I’ll be in deep trouble with Chris later if I run away from this. He had to pull a lot of strings to get me here. He has a friend who has a sister who writes lyrics for some band. That’s why I’m here at these music awards, rather than the art show I wanted to go to.

I stand for as long as I can bear to, having my picture taken and answering a few questions about who I am and why I’m there. I get flustered as journalists yell out at me in a cacophony of overlapping voices, so I slowly take long strides toward the entrance, hoping that I can project an air of confidence even if I don’t feel it.

Time is moving comically slowly, but when I finally reach out for the door handle, an enormous cheer goes up behind me. I turn on my heel in surprise that such a huge chorus is calling out to me, but when I look around, I quickly realize it has nothing to do with me at all.

Stepping out of a flashy black car is a young woman who everyone knows, even if, like me, they know nothing about pop music. Now, standing just a few feet away from me is Eliza Holt, a teenage superstar and the kind of person who, it seems to me, spends her life walking from one disaster to another.

I don’t mean to keep up with anything she does, because I don’t care for sordid gossip about someone’s personal life. But I can’t escape hearing it in the office all the time - how she’s been betrayed by some boyfriend, or let down by a manager, or flirted too hard with some guy in some store, or she’s releasing a music video that’s too loud, or too saucy, or something else I don’t care about.

But even if I don’t care about her personal life, I can’t help but be starstruck now that I’m laying eyes on her. Her blond hair falls in waves around her face, each curl defying gravity in a way I can’t explain. And that’s just the first of the things I can’t explain about Eliza Holt.

Her makeup has clearly been done by a professional: her porcelain face looks smooth and perfect, her lips pouting and pink, her eyelashes longer and darker than any I’ve ever seen before. I can’t figure out how her dress works either. The bodice is tight against her chest, neon pink, while the skirt is ruffled and long and sheer, the color fading to the floor like a sunset, her beautiful legs showing in glimpses.

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