Page 5 of Her Billion Dollar Groom

“How do you feel about accusations that Mike was always cheating on you?” someone asks, followed by another calling, “Some are saying that Mike is going to release a sex tape. Is that true?”

Another journalist follows that atrocious question with, “According to one source, the reason your manager has run off with your money is because you two were having an affair. Is that true?”

Trust the press to make the disasters in my life into a sexy scandal. They know what sells, what people want to read, even if it’s not the truth.

My public face is still smiling, but in my heart, I want to break down into tears.

When I did these red carpets years ago, when I was just a teenager and didn’t know better, I would stand and answer all of their questions diligently, even the ones that made me cry. These days, I know better than to give them the space to breathe in.

I keep walking toward the entrance, waving at some people holding signs proclaiming themselves as fans. Fans I can deal with, even the weird ones. Fans want to tell you how much they love you and how much you’ve impacted their life. Even the strangest fan is better than the nicest journalist. Fans, even when they’re weird, are honest.

Forcing my best smile, I blow them a kiss, then lock my sights on the door. Finally, I push my way inside and find myself met with another crowd of people. Although in here I’m safe from the kind of questions that get me in the tabloids, I’m still not safe from the interrogation. Nobody gossips better than someone in the public eye, and this kind of event is all about gossip.

Then again, I’ve won one or two awards here before, so I know exactly where to go to hide. I don’t think I can face my peers without calming down in the bathroom first. I remember one on the basement level that is just annoying enough to get to that noone ever goes there. A couple of people try to stop me to talk, but I just smile at them and excuse myself.

As I head for the staircase, I shove past a skinny guy wearing an expensive suit, designer glasses and an expression that screams he doesn’t want to be here. He’s clutching a champagne flute to his chest and darting his eyes around like he’s waiting to be attacked. I feel bad for him. He’s clearly some sort of corporate nobody who’s been sent here by his boss and couldn’t be more out of his depth if he tried.

The limelight isn’t easy, even if you’re not really in it. This kind of way of life isn’t for everyone.

I rush down the steps, my heels clicking against the expensive floor, and finally find myself out of the throng and in a moment of peace and quiet. That’s all I want. A moment.

Slowly, I pull my phone out of my clutch and take a breather. The event isn’t going to start for another half hour or so, plenty of time for me to hide out in here. Plenty of time for me to take a moment for myself.

Plenty of time for me to work out my winning speech.

CHAPTER 5

JASON

More than anything, I find myself mesmerized by the swirling graphics on the screens above the stage. The whole place could not be more lavish if it tried, with its gold velvet and fingerprint-free glass walls. Everything here is designed to show off, and I, for one, am feeling intimidated.

I have no idea what I’m doing here.

I’m seated at a table with some other CEOs who are all loudly bragging about their products and businesses, telling each other about the social media platforms they oversee without really listening to what anyone else has to say. All of them are wearing high-end designer clothes, and all of them are there to show off.

When I sat down, I introduced myself to them, told them the business I owned, watched as they all nodded politely at me, and then let the conversation moved on.

I think the point of me being here might be for me to network with these guys, to get my voice listened to or at least throw my hat into the ring. But the more I sit here watching them bragabout advertisement and engagement and statistics, the more I realize I don’t want any part of this conversation.

I don’t know why I have to be the public face of the company.

Whatever happened to not knowing the names of any CEOs, not caring what they looked like or what they did? Why should anyone care what I’m doing?

“Handshake,” drawls the man next to me. He has a faintly Australian accent, and his suit is an ocean blue, with the pocket square in his jacket patterned with waves. I can very easily imagine him as a surfer dude wearing flip-flops and sunglasses out on the beach. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing here in the United States, but that feels like too personal a question to ask of a stranger at some awards show I don’t care about.

He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, though. “What’s your whole vibe with that, then? ’Cause I’ve never heard of it.”

I chuckle nervously. “I grew up on old-school forums and dial-up internet. I kind of wanted to tap into that nostalgia, and blend modern video formatting with the slow pace and genuine community of the forum. I wanted to create a place that would foster happiness and promote conversation, not just posturing and point scoring.”

The ocean guy nods thoughtfully, and I quickly ask, “What company do you own?”

“Lemon,” he says, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

I guess the best I can do now is pray that his marketing team didn’t say anything about me or my meeting.

“Do you enjoy it?” I ask before he can question me further, and he blinks in confusion. Maybe no one’s ever asked him that before. Are we even supposed to enjoy our jobs as CEOs?

“I guess I do, mate. And the money keeps the wife happy anyway.” I feel his eyes burning as he looks at my empty ring finger. “You’re not married, are you?” I shake my head. “Shame,” he says. “At least there’s a good pool of candidates tonight.”

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