Page 4 of Her Billion Dollar Groom

As she turns her head, her sparkling blue eyes sweep over me, and I foolishly give her an awkward kind of wave. I don’t know why. She doesn’t even acknowledge it. She obviously doesn’t know who I am. And I don’t really care about that - I barely know who she is. But I would have to be completely inhuman not to find her gorgeous.

That’s the whole point of what she’s wearing: to make herself look glamorous and beautiful.

Whoever tailored it knew exactly what they were doing because the whole look makes it almost impossible to take your eyes off her.

A few journalists yell out some questions, asking her about her boyfriend and about her manager, and if any of it bothers her at all, she doesn’t let it show. She snaps back a few light-hearted replies, all the time smiling sweetly.

Not a single person here can take their eyes off her. Me included.

I should just leave, head through the entrance and find my seat, but I’m immobilized by the presence of Eliza Holt on the red carpet. Something about the way she holds herself, the way she flicks her hair, and how she makes it seem like none of the intrusive questions are even touching her, fills me with a level of admiration I didn’t realize I was capable of feeling for a celebrity.

This must be why she is world famous; because she has this confidence, this charm, but without seeming obnoxious or entitled. And she easily could come across that way. She still has that kind of pop star attitude, but I get the sense she’s not like some of those others.

I get the sense that there’s a real person underneath all those layers of hairspray and frill. This is the kind of person mycompany wants me to be - not necessarily with the girlish charm, but a person who can command an audience.

But watching Eliza makes my heart sink. Because every time she giggles enchantingly, I realize I could never be anything like her at all.

CHAPTER 4

ELIZA

As I expected, the second I get out of the car I’m met with cheers and jeers and flash photography. Fortunately, I have a fantastic smile for the cameras, and no matter what my personal problems are, I’m excellent at disguising them.

And I’m not focusing on my problems tonight anyway. I’m expected to win an award, so everyone is calling out to me, asking me to turn in their direction so they can snap a photo, begging for my attention, and inquiring who designed my dress and where I bought my shoes. I ignore all of their questions.

I find it so tiresome having to answer journalists on the red carpet. None of them ever ask anything interesting.

I smile and turn, flick my hair for them, and try my best to look cute. Recently, I’ve been talking with my brand managers about updating my look. After all, now that I’m nearly on the wrong side of 30, I’m starting to think that teenage cuteness is perhaps a little bit of an outdated look for me. But right now, it seems to be selling, so I don’t complain.

If I’m really honest, I don’t want to be here. I don’t really like events like this. I’m good at them, and I’m used to them, but something about all this superficial attention is tiresome.

I don’t remember the last time I came to an event like this and gave a genuine smile.

Everything has to look perfect for the cameras, but that doesn’t mean I feel it.

“Eliza, over here,” calls one of the journalists, and I flutter my eyelashes at him. “Where’s Mike tonight?” he asks.

I grip my clutch purse a little tighter, letting that be the only way I react to the question. My smile unwavering, I say, “I hope he’s happy somewhere.”

“How do you respond to the rumor that he’s been meeting up with Vivian Rask for the past few nights?”

I feel my lip tremble and force my smile to get brighter. That scheming, two-timing son of a bitch. Even if it is only a rumor, I don’t doubt that it’s true. After all, I know he cheated on me with her repeatedly.

Usually, I try not to harbor any ill will toward her, but hearing that she’s dug her nails into him so quickly feels like a slap in the face. “As long as they’re out of my sight, I’m happy for them.” I smile.

I’m going to get told off for that later. I know it’s best to keep my mouth shut in situations like this, but sometimes the press makes me so angry that I can’t resist snapping back at them.

“How do you respond to rumors that your career is over?” yells a young woman.

I grin at her and fall back on my favorite trick of picturing myself flipping off every single one of these so-called journalists. I’ve always found that imagining swearing at them all makes me want to giggle, which makes my smile brighter, and that’s the real effect I want to have.

It’s bait, so I ignore the woman, but then another guy hits me where I’m sensitive. “Without Robert Calvo, some are saying that everything in your life is going to be taken from you, that your career is going to end. Would you like to respond?”

I hear my brand manager in my head sayingdon’t do it,but I’m feeling vulnerable, so I snap, “You’re about to watch me grow, babes. No one’s ever going to hold me down. Just you watch.”

I can see all the journalists frantically scribbling in their notebooks. I hope that whatever words just came out of my mouth were quotable enough for them to publish. I don’t know what I said. I don’t know what I’m thinking. If I’m still talking, I can’t hear it over the blood rushing in my head. All I can think iskeep smiling. Keep smiling, even though it’s the last thing on earth I want to do.

With my heart pounding, I take a wobbly step toward the entrance, which puts me within earshot of some other journalists, though I suspect for some of these people calling them journalists is a stretch. Some of them are no more than glorified bloggers.

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