The Billionaire's Seduction

by Jay S. Wilder

  The following morning, things don’t look much better. I sit on my sofa, alone. My parents don’t know what to think of me anymore. They’re disappointed in me for letting this happen in the first place, just as they were when my face was splashed all over the tabloids. I laugh to myself when I remember thinking a little backlash was the worst things could get for me. What a joke. The tabloid fiasco was nothing compared to this.

  I don’t think they believe I plagiarized, but they don’t understand how I could have allowed another person to so heavily edit my piece without my knowing about it. They’re right, of course. I have to take full blame for my part in this.

  This is my first job—or at least, it was my first job. I had been too trusting, too distracted by all of the excitement in my life.

  Adam. He tried to call me a few times after I threw him out of the apartment, but there was no way I could speak to him right now. I just saw my dream die, right in front of me. There’s nothing he can say to make things better, so what’s the point of speaking to him right now? It would be too painful, anyway. Besides, he’s seen enough of my tears already.

  I realize something, out of the blue. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I race to my room, where my laptop still sits in my bag. I never even got the chance to unpack anything before my dad called. Once he did I didn’t care about anything else. I bring the computer out to the living room and sit with it in my lap, then search my files until I find the article in question.

  I read through it. Sure enough, just as I’d suspected, there is no plagiarism here whatsoever. Every word came from my own head. I remember taking every note, typing every letter. At least I know now I have the original, with a date on which it was last saved. Nobody can say I changed it to make myself look innocent. I have this much, at least.

  I close my eyes, thinking back. Did I talk to anybody in Paris, any writer or editor, who said something I might have jotted down to use in my article? I pull out my notes, still handwritten on my notepad, to look through. Nothing here sparks my memory. I don’t see anything which would have been printed elsewhere.

  None of it makes sense, at all. The more I think about it, the more confusing it becomes.

  My phone rings, jarring me out of my reverie. I glance at the screen. My heart sinks when I see Adam’s name there.

  I press “Decline” then toss the phone aside. I still can’t speak to him, especially since he claims to believe me yet allowed me to be fired. I wonder what his father threatened him with to get him to go along.

  I realize this is the worst part of the mess. I lost out on my dreams all because I allowed myself to fall for him. If I’d been smart I would have stood by my principles and insisted we stay away from each other. No, I let him convince me it would be all right if we were together. I let him convince me it didn’t matter. So what if he was my boss and we were sleeping together?

  Then I had fallen in love. Plain and simple. I stopped pushing him away. I let him into my heart, instead. The stupidest thing I could have done. I lost focus, forgetting my purpose for working at Trendsetter: Building my career. Not getting laid.

  Even if getting laid had been pretty spectacular.

  My phone rings again, but I’m glad this time. At least it’s stopping me from going down memory lane, reliving our sexy moments. Only regret could come from it.

  I don’t recognize the number. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail, worried it’s a reporter from some sleazy rag. I can always defend myself to them, too. Maybe it would be better not to run, to try to have my say.

  As it turns out, my worries were for nothing. Because it’s Adam, calling from a different number.

  “Please don’t hang up!” he blurts out. I wait, but I don’t say anything.

  “Thanks,” he says when he realizes I stayed on the line. “I just…I just had to call you to see how you’re doing. I hate it that you’re going through this by yourself.”

  “Sweet of you,” I mutter.

  “At least you’re speaking to me,” he says. I snort. “Please, Anna,” he says, “I want to help you. If we put our heads together, we’ll figure it out. Sometimes you just need a different perspective.”

  I find myself laughing harshly. “Now who sounds naïve?” I ask him. “You’re usually the jaded one, but now you’re talking like some character out of a Disney movie.”

  I’ve hurt him with my words. I feel a momentary pang of conscience. I remember I’m the injured party here, not him. The thought bolsters me, somewhat.

  “I don’t want to speak with you any more right now, Adam,” I say. “I’m sorry if I sound like a bitch. There’s too much happening in my head and my heart to let myself be sidetracked by you.”

  “Sidetracked?” he says. Now I know I’ve hurt him.

  “Well, Adam, you can’t tell me you don’t know how much you distracted me. You left me wide open to this,” I tell him. “Maybe if I hadn’t been so…caught up…with you, I could have noticed what was happening right under my nose. I would have noticed somebody had it out for me.”

  We both go silent for a long time. Then I say, “I found my original file, by the way. The save date is days ago. There’s not a single bit of plagiarism in it. I’m sure of it.”

  “Great news! I told you this would work out,” he says. “See?”

  “No, I don’t see. Unless I manage to find out who got to the file before the article was published, it means nothing.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how true they are. Now everything seems more hopeless than ever.

  “I won’t let this go, I promise,” Adam tells me.

  I want to believe him. I honestly don’t know who or what to believe anymore.

  Chapter 13

  Anna

  By Sunday night, I’m pacing my apartment in desperation. I’m like a caged animal, filled with pent-up energy. Most of it stems from rage, the rest from confusion and frustration. I know there’s something I could be doing. But what?

  Adam’s no help, I know it now. His father has him so tied up, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He might be on my side, but he can’t do anything to assist me. Having a backer who’s a backer only when his Daddy isn’t looking isn’t helpful.

  My parents might believe in me, but there’s certainly nothing they can do aside from encouraging me to get back up on the horse. I intend to get back up there…eventually. For now, I need to work out the messy situation I’m in. I can’t rest, knowing there’s some sort of mix-up ruining my life and, potentially, my reputation. I know until this is all worked out, I won’t be able to relax. I just don’t know who to turn to in the interim.

  Then I realize: Kelly. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of her before?

  I leave the apartment to go down to the hall, then knock on her door. I hear the TV going inside, so I know she must be home. It sounds almost as though someone walks over to the door, but I don’t hear anything else for a while. So I knock again, and wait.

  “Who is it?” The voice filters out from the other side, which strikes me as strange. I know there’s a peephole, having used mine on more than one occasion. I can tell she’s standing right at the door, as her voice is clear instead of faint as it would be if she were in the kitchen or something. How odd.

  “It’s…it’s Anna,” I manage to say, wondering why she’s acting so sketchy.

  The deadbolt unlocks, then the door opens. Before me stands my neighbor and former coworker, looking effortlessly chic even though it’s Sunday night. She’s clearly watching TV while enjoying a large glass of wine, if the bottle and single glass on the coffee table are any indication. She’s wearing what I recognize to be a ruffled Gucci blouse and slouchy pants. Her golden hair is pulled back into a low side bun. Even at home she looks as though she could have walked from the pages of a magazine spread.

  “Anna,” she breathes, leaning against the doorframe. I can smell the wine on her breath from here. There’s so much in her tone: Disappointment, sadness, sympathy
. I hoped she would invite me in, but it seems though she doesn’t intend any such thing.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I say with a nervous little laugh. We stand there, the awkward silence palpable. “I…uh…I guess you’ve heard what happened.”

  “Oh, sweetie, who hasn’t?” she asks, her thin arms crossing over her midsection. Her body language tells me she isn’t feeling very friendly toward me. Here I was, hoping I had a friend in her. Will the nightmare ever end?

  I had hoped to maintain some shred of dignity here, but it’s clear to me now I have to pull out the big guns. Dignity is getting me nowhere. “Kelly, I’m begging you—please, help me,” I plead. “I’m innocent of all of this. I didn’t plagiarize anything. I don’t know how this happened! All I know is I’m being set up. It’s a nightmare.”

  “A nightmare,” she muses. “Just like the nightmare of my entire career going down the drain because you came into the picture. Now I guess you know I’ve been going through lately—ever since you entered the picture.”

  I’m in shock. “Oh, Kelly. I thought we were past all this old shit. I thought you were okay with it.”

  She laughs, the sound cutting through me. “Honey, you made it clear early on you were willing to do anything to get ahead, including sleeping with the boss.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up one perfectly manicured hand to stop me. “Don’t bother trying to deny it. I saw you out here in this very hallway. You told me yourself in LA about sleeping with him. You can’t backpedal now and pretend it wasn’t very convenient you happened to be screwing Adam.”

  I know she’s right. I didn’t do it intentionally, of course, but my relationship with Adam had definitely gotten me to LA, not to mention all of the other events I’d attended during the course of my tenure with the magazine. I couldn’t lie now or pretend sleeping with Adam didn’t get me through doors I might not otherwise have known existed.

  “So tell me, Anna,” she continues, “why anyone should believe you now when you swear you wouldn’t copy somebody else’s hard work in order to finish an article?”

  My head is spinning. This is going downhill, fast. I thought I was coming here to see a friend, but I know now I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Kelly…I don’t know what to say, other than to apologize again. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt, or for your career to suffer. I didn’t plan on any of this.”

  She shrugs. “It’s a little late now, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Late for what?” I ask, confused.

  “Late for skulking around my front door, trying to rebuild a bridge you already burned up. It’s too late now to expect pity from me, or anybody else you stabbed in the back on your rise to the top.” She puts the last four words in air quotes, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  I don’t know what to say. I stand there, helpless, as she starts to swing the door shut. Then she stops, as though remembering something.

  “By the way,” she adds, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face, “don’t be surprised if you stop hearing from your boyfriend, since the two of us are seeing each other now. I guess he needs a little comfort after finding out his girlfriend betrayed him.” Her smile widens when she sees how this news affects me. I’m practically swaying on my feet. She closes the door, locking it against me. I’m standing alone in the hallway, shaking.

  At least I manage to make it back to my apartment before the dam bursts and the tears threaten to drown me.

  * * *

  “Yes?” I call out when there’s a knock on the door. As I’m getting up to peer out the peephole, a familiar voice greets my ears.

  “Anna?” Adam calls out. I freeze in place, wishing I hadn’t spoken. It’s been twenty-four hours since I spoke with Kelly. Since then my heart has broken a million times. I haven’t even changed my clothes today. A closet full of Parisian clothing taunts me. I’ll never have an excuse to wear any of it now. Old yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt from Columbia are what I’ve lived in.

  “Anna, I know you’re in there. I just heard your voice,” Adam says, sounding irritated.

  “Who are you now? Sherlock Holmes?” I mutter as I cross the room to open the door. There’s a twinge of longing when I first see him, since he’s looking just as delicious as ever. I don’t want him to look delicious. I want him to look overwhelmed and fraught with emotion. He won’t, obviously, since he so quickly bounced back from me. Right on to Kelly.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, his voice quiet. Maybe he’s afraid of me. I’m fairly certain if I saw me coming, in my sweatshirt and messy bun, I’d be afraid too.

  “No, I don’t think it would be a good idea,” I say firmly. “I wouldn’t want you to be seen going into the apartment of a plagiarizer. Besides, since you’re now seeing someone, why would you care about me?”

  “What do you mean, I’m seeing someone?”

  “Oh, come on,” I say bitterly. “Don’t play dumb. Were you laying the groundwork even while the two of us were sleeping together? Did you tell her you wanted to be exclusive with her, too? Or was your best line reserved just for me, since I was the one shutting you down on that particular night?”

  “You sound completely fucking crazy right now,” he said, throwing up his hands in frustration.

  “You’ve let me down in so many ways,” I counter. “So I think you need to leave. Right now. If I never see you again, it’ll be too soon.”

  He looks stung. “Nice line,” he murmurs, then turns and walks down the hall, away from Kelly’s door.

  “Aren’t you walking in the wrong direction?” I can’t help calling out after him. “Or were you coming from Kelly’s in the first place?” I see him spin around, questions on his face, but I slam the door shut before he has a chance to ask any of them.

  Chapter 14

  Anna

  Weeks pass. Adam stops trying to get in touch with me, which I tell myself is for the best. At first, I actually believe myself. After all, he betrayed me all over the place. He let his father tell him what to do. I was sure he had some sort of a choice, somehow, which would have allowed him to stand up for me. Then he jumped right into bed with Kelly, which completely blew my mind.

  The thing was…I was so certain he was serious when he told me he wanted to be with just me. It had all seemed so real. When we were together in London, I was so sure he felt the same as I did. The tenderness and sweetness of it, the gentleness with which he touched me and kissed me. Honestly, I had thought it might be love.

  How could I have been so wrong about him, about what we were doing together? How can I ever trust myself again? Whenever I think about it, about how he ruined my trust, I hate him. I really do. So I try to avoid thinking about him now, which is about as plausible as keeping a toddler on a sugar high quiet in church.

  I spend a lot of time binge watching TV, basically vegging out. I elevate “Netflix and chill” to an art form. I sulk for as long as I possibly can before I hate myself for acting like a useless bump on a log. As nice as the idea of burying my head in the sand seems, the fact is I’m going to go crazy if I don’t start working again. Besides, my savings account is rapidly dwindling. I know my parents will help me for as long as I need the help, but I need to try to get things back together if only as a gesture of good faith.

  I start looking online for job openings. Of course, all the other positions I’d considered applying for when I was first looking for a job have long since been filled. There are a few openings at lower-level magazines and online publications which seem like they’d be a perfect fit. I also flag a few positions involving social media. I can definitely use the reports I generated for the Trendsetter accounts as proof of what I can do.

  I’ve been keeping an eye on things over the weeks of unemployment. It’s been gratifying to see the engagement levels go right back to where they stood when I first started working. I know it’s immature, but if the interaction on those accounts stayed where I left it I would have been crushed. Instead, the updates went back
to being sporadic and poorly-constructed. Followers need something engaging. The concept takes on a completely different appearance from one platform to the next. Too many businesses—even some individuals—make the mistake of posting the exact same updates to every account, across the board. What works on a visually-driven platform such as Instagram won’t work as well on Twitter. It’s a common mistake, which was being made here.

  I scroll through the Facebook feed to find the last post I created, featuring a group of models I managed to grab a quick photo of while an actual photographer was snapping away in front of me. They had just finished the final show of the week and were still dressed in their final pieces. I notice the many commenters who loved how I was always looking for the next interesting thing to show them.

  Then, an entire day later—which might as well be a lifetime as far as the internet is concerned—the following update thanked the page’s followers for “coming along with Trendsetter to Fashion Week”. Okay, it was nice. It got a lot of likes, too, then nothing for nearly two days, until a photo of a shoe was posted with the question “Would you wear this? Yes or No?”.

  I look through the comments. Several of them are along the lines of “Who’s running this page now?” Again I’m gratified to see I’ve been missed, even if the people in question don’t know they’re missing me, specifically.

  * * *

  I’m sitting in the waiting area of the headquarters of another magazine. It’s my third interview after losing my job at Trendsetter. By now I’m accustomed to the dance which is commonly performed with assistants and HR representatives.

  “Miss Nash?” one such assistant said as she emerged from an office. I look up from where I was reviewing my resume in my lap, flashing her what I hope is a confident smile. Unlike Trendsetter, this magazine is geared more toward lifestyle—particularly, the lifestyle of young urban professionals. I notice the fashion I see walking around the office isn’t quite as on-point here, so I look well put-together in my Chanel suit and Ferragamo sling backs. It gives me a bit of a boost, anyway.