My mom pats him on the arm. “Herald, your blood pressure.”
“I’m not on drugs.” I keep my voice completely calm. It’s not an act; I am calm. I’m blowing up my entire life, and I’ve never felt so at peace. “I just need something…different.”
My sister shakes her head. “Oh my god, you’re twenty-seven. Aren’t you, like, too young for a crisis?”
“It’s not a crisis.” I don’t care that they don’t understand. Not caring about their approval, it’s liberating. I want to stand up and scream, I’m free, but I’m pretty sure that will raise more suspicions about drug use, so I stay completely composed and reasonable instead.
The waiter brings another drink to the table and my dad takes a large gulp. “You know, I’m still the executor of your trust fund. If I have reason to believe you’re mentally incompetent, or a danger to yourself, I can have it frozen.”
It’s a threat, that’s all. He won’t go through with it because it will look bad and he’d have to take me to court. The publicity alone would be a nightmare. Besides, he’ll lose. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m completely sane.
Saner than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
I give him a steady look. “Go ahead.”
“Are you daring me, young lady?”
“Yes, I am.” I don’t bother to tell them that once I get a job I’m not going to touch my trust fund. At least until I figure out how to live on my own like regular people, living a regular life.
“Veronica.” My mom is staring at me as though she’s never seen me before. “What has gotten into you?”
I shrug my shoulder. “I don’t know.”
All I know is I want to find out what it’s like to live a real life. I want to know what it’s like to laugh, to have genuine friends, to work, and cry and struggle and strive. I need to understand who I am and what I’m about. I’m not going to live my life as a pawn in a chess game other people have already played out.
I want to be someone different.
Yeah, this is the very definition of first-world problems. And you know what? I don’t care. Go ahead and judge me.
It’s my problem and I’m not going to sit around whining about it. I’m going to fix it.
Just as soon as I figure out how.
2
Veronica
“It’s him. He’s here,” Bitsy Stanton says in a mock stage whisper.
I look over my shoulder, taking in the man in question. The man I’ve been waiting for since I got here two hours ago. My reason for being here tonight, and why I’m willingly subjecting myself to gossip, the topic of discussion behind raised hands. The current theory is I’m on drugs or suffering a nervous breakdown.
I’d love to know what explanation my parents supplied, but they’re not speaking to me. Tonight, other than a polite hello they’ve given me the cold shoulder, as my father is well aware of its past effect on me. I suspect he’s growing impatient because I haven’t begged for forgiveness yet.
Something I have no intention of doing and he’ll figure out sooner or later.
I’m committed. Every day since the day I blew up my life I’ve only grown more certain I did the right thing.
I do miss my mom though, and I think she misses me too. Shortly after my bombshell she took me to lunch at her club and tried to talk some sense into me, but when that didn’t work, she followed my father’s lead.
Tonight I caught her worried expression when she looked at me over her shoulder as my dad dragged her away. For a moment I hoped she’d break away from his viselike grip on her arm and come back to talk with me, but he yanked her to a group of colleagues and that hope had been quickly dashed.
Only Bitsy, my oldest acquaintance and the closest thing I have to a real friend, hasn’t shunned me. Up until the man I’d been waiting for showed up, she’d been trying to talk some sense into me. Probing me for information about why I left Winston, telling me if I don’t take him back someone else will snap him up. When I’d stated the vultures were welcome to him, she’d looked at me as though I’d grown a second head.
But none of that matters—my parents, the whispered gossip, the darted glances—I don’t care about any of it. Because my only reason for being here tonight stands in the doorway.
Brandon Townsend III.
Handsome and untouchable, he’s one of Chicago’s most illustrious and mysterious playboys. He’s tall, probably six-three, lean and lanky, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist that looks custom designed to wear a suit. In our circle, Brandon is legendary. Not only is he the sole heir to one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest fortunes, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, incredibly smart, and everything he touches turns to gold. For the past ten years he’s been quietly building a small empire that spans from real estate to upscale nightclubs. If that wasn’t enticing enough, he wants nothing to do with our social set.
An extra challenge to people entirely too bored.
That wasn’t always the case, once he was the king of our generation, but about ten years ago, something happened and he went into hiding. There were rumors, of course—ranging from mild to the extreme—but no one knew for certain the events that unfolded or where he’d gone. After a year, he’d emerged a new man, with a new business, and no inclination to reclaim his king of the trust fund babies’ status. Other than occasionally making an appearance at a charity function, he doesn’t associate with any of Chicago’s high society.
The mystery and notoriety around him has only grown, and the room takes on a certain kind of buzz whenever he shows up. Tonight’s no exception.
From across the room, a beautiful blonde bats her lashes at him and he flashes her a dimpled smile. I’m surprised she doesn’t faint right at his feet, or at least drop to her knees. Combined with that dirty-blond hair, cut a touch too long, those intense blue eyes, and killer bone structure I can practically hear panties dropping throughout the ballroom.
Feigning surprise, I say in an absent tone, “I wonder what he’s doing here?”
Of course, I’d known he’d be here. He’s the only reason I’d come. My plan is risky, and most likely won’t work, but I’m going to give it my best shot. He’s step one on my path to transforming my life. My first chance to strive.
I haven’t made a plan B, and don’t intend to unless absolutely necessary. I’m a Westwood. We don’t take no for an answer.
I have to try. We have enough in common to make it plausible. At least in my mind we do.
Like me, his family is old money. Also like me, he has a considerable trust fund.
Unlike me, he’s managed to break free from the world we grew up in and become his own man, successful, independent of circumstances.
That makes him the most fascinating man in the room.
Bitsy grasps my arm and lets out an excited little gasp. “Oh my god, he is so gorgeous.”
It’s the truth. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t matter to me. Who he is, what he’s done, is what I’m interested in.
Other than a greeting of acknowledgment in passing when we’re with our parents, I have never talked to him.
That’s about to change.
“I wonder what’s the occasion.” I keep my voice neutral, as though I don’t really care, because the last thing I want to do is alert Bitsy to my interest. Bitsy is a talker, and if she catches wind I’m up to something, stories will be circulating through the room and into Brandon’s ear before I can make my move.
I want to be a surprise attack.
It’s funny; once you start paying attention, information comes to you in the most interesting places. I’d had no idea what to do when I’d turned down the partner job. I’d had no thought but escape. I had options, I mean I have a Harvard MBA, but I wanted something unique. I’d spent hours scouring the Internet to no avail, nothing ever striking me as quite right. Then forty-eight hours later, while I had lunch at the club with my mother where she’d spent the entire time attempting to talk
me out of my breakup with Winston, I’d overheard Brandon’s name at the bar.
The rumor was he was hunting for a general manager to help him run his business.
Excitement had vibrated through me as the hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I’d known, somehow, someway, I needed to interview for the job.
Nobody really knows much about Brandon or his business. Well, of course they all know who his family is, that he’s very connected, and he’s successful despite his inherited wealth. The word is anything he decides to invest in turns a profit. So while the men in our circle are wary, they flock to him because he’s old money that’s somehow managed to adapt and make new money.
Greed and capitalism never go out of style.
And then there are the women.
Unlike the rest of us, who almost exclusively date each other, Brandon Townsend hasn’t touched a member of our social group in ages, so details about him are scarce. Of course, there are some rather interesting rumors about him. Namely that he has unusual sexual appetites, but I have no idea if any of those are true, and I’m not sure it matters. Powerful, elusive men of mystery are like shark chum to a group of females that rarely hear the word no. He could be a complete disaster in bed and women would still want him. As a result, every event he shows up at is followed by sacred vows by females that they will be the one he’ll fall for.
I mean, we all fancy ourselves Cinderella, don’t we?
However, I have no such illusions. No notions he’ll fall for me. Or take me to bed and rock my world. My only hope is having no designs on his body will provide me with an advantage when it comes to his company.
Because he has to hire me. I don’t know why I’m so certain of this, but I am. Ever since I’d heard about the job, the same instincts that wouldn’t let me sign that contract, and forced me to break up with Winston, have pushed me toward him.
I haven’t figured out how I plan to get him to interview me, when I’m part of the group of people he seems to despise, but I’ll wing it. In business school, and at each of my corporate internships, people always commented on my instincts, my knack for knowing where to look, the right execution, and exactly what to say, when. I didn’t beat out all those other candidates by luck, or because of my father. He may have gotten me in the door, but I’d annihilated my competition all on my own.
If I follow my gut, I’ll know what to do when I’m in front of Brandon.
Across the room, he shakes hands with his father, and the two of them turn and offer polished smiles for a photographer before he kisses his mother on the cheek.
I tilt my head, studying him.
I wonder how long it took before his father spoke to him again?
Mine shows no sign of letting up.
“How do I look?” Bitsy lets out a little squeal of delight and fluffs her hair. She’s a pretty brunette with waist-length hair extensions, full lips, and a gorgeous, gym-toned body highlighted to perfection in a tight, floor-length black gown.
She’s supposed to be my best friend.
But I honestly don’t feel like I know her. And she certainly doesn’t know me. We’ve done everything together since kindergarten. I know her favorite color, her preferred brand of makeup, how many calories she’s consumed that day, and her favorite designers—but I don’t know her deepest fears.
Or if she even has fears. If she did, she’d never tell me, just like I’d never tell her mine. I’m not willing to reveal that much. Not to people in this crowd who are always looking for the upper hand as we jockey for position in our small, sheltered world.
“You look fantastic,” I assure her, before smiling softly and touching her arm. “But you know that’s a foolish dream.”
Her dark eyes are hungry on Brandon and she’s got a determined set to her jaw that tells me she’s going to go after him with a vengeance.
She waves a hand in his direction. “He doesn’t have a date tonight.”
“True.” He usually has a beautiful redhead hanging off his arm. I’ve noticed he has a preference for redheads.
I sip Champagne as I smooth my blonde hair, contained in a sleek bun at the base of my neck. It is lucky he’s unattached tonight. One less person I have to contend with. One less person standing in my way.
“What’s the sluttiest act I can offer? Something out of the ordinary to catch his attention?” Bitsy’s gaze is still locked on her target.
I don’t answer. I’d be willing to bet Brandon Townsend III has been offered every sexual favor known to man.
“What about anal? Do you think that would work?” Her tone is thoughtful as she muses.
“Maybe,” I offer, noncommittal. She doesn’t have a shot in hell, but I’m not about to tell her that.
She has her plans. With my own plots to hatch, I can’t worry about hers.
It wasn’t luck that brought us to the same event. Instead, I like to believe it was serendipity. A sign from the gods that I’m on the right path.
After overhearing about him at the club, I’d had a vague recollection of seeing his name on the guest list my mother had sent me when she’d asked me to do a mail merge for her. After all, how else would I use my two hundred grand Harvard education? I’d checked the Excel spreadsheet from my phone at the club and there he sat, like a beacon of hope.
I’m convinced he’s my fate.
Now all I have to do is convince him to hire me.
Once you figure out what a person wants, convincing them isn’t that hard. But the question is, how do I figure out what he wants? A man that’s intent on keeping his private life, private.
A man, whom, by all appearances, wants for nothing.
“Are you even listening?”
I jerk my attention away from the sight of him. “I’m sorry?”
She leans forward and her gaze darts around the room. “I’ve heard stories, you know, about him.”
“What stories?” I doubt whatever rumors she’s heard will help me, but it never hurts to listen. I drain my glass and watch as he moves around the room, greeting people like he was born to do it.
Which, in fairness, he was.
Her voice lowers even farther. “I’ve heard he expects girls to do anything for him. That he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
I laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Where would you even hear that?”
“He dated Sharon Manning in high school. She said he was demanding and insatiable. That she couldn’t say no, but that it didn’t matter because he was so good.”
I roll my eyes. “They were in high school.”
“But still.” Bitsy shrugs. “Even if it’s not true, what man can resist a girl that will let them do anything?”
Brandon Townsend III, that’s who. I’m not sure why I’m so sure about this, but I am. I’d attempt to dissuade Bitsy from her pointless endeavor, but she won’t listen. Plus, if I show too much interest, she’ll latch onto him even harder, and I need him unattached. So I encourage her instead. “What do you have to lose?”
“Nothing.” Bitsy squares her shoulders. “I’m going to talk to him.”
So am I, but I’ll keep that to myself. I smile. “Good luck.”
“I’ll let you know.” She pushes her hair back and slinks off toward the man in question.
I lean against the wall and watch. Hoping it will give me some clue as to how to talk him into an interview. My resume is quite impressive, but that doesn’t seem like it will be enough. My only real choice is to bide my time.
From across the ballroom Bitsy sidles up to Brandon and beams at him while holding out her hand. He takes it, kisses it, and smiles at her. He’s very charming. I’ve heard he rejects you so smoothly you leave feeling almost flattered.
I’m so intent on Brandon I don’t notice my now ex-boyfriend until he’s standing right in front of me.
I blink him into focus and straighten. “Winston.”
“Veronica.” His eyes skim down my body. I wore a white, strapless satin dress tonight with a black sash
tied tight around my waist. It’s a black-and-white ball.
I nod. “How are you?”
“How do you think I am?” His face flashes with that ugly temper he tries so hard to control but can’t quite mask.
I lower my gaze and attempt to look contrite. Sometimes it’s best just to take a knee and I have no problem with that if it gets him away from me. “I’m sorry.”
“I thought you weren’t coming?” His voice is mean, accusatory. Like I’ve done something wrong.
“I changed my mind.” My gaze skirts to my purpose. Brandon is untangling his arm from Bitsy and skirting around her. A couple starts toward him, but he smiles, waves and detours out of the main hall. My heart gives a hard thump and I know it’s time to make my move. I nod at Winston. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He grabs my arm. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I attempt to shake my arm loose, but he won’t release me. “Let me go, Winston.”
“She meant nothing to me.” His expression shakes with a rage that sends tendrils of fear through me as his fingers tighten on my arm, digging into my skin. “Just let me explain.”
Of course he thinks it’s about her, when she has nothing to do with it. Yes, I threw the proper fit when I found him screwing the girl up against the glass windows in his bedroom, but I hadn’t really felt anything. I can’t explain this to him though. He won’t understand and when he gets like this he’s…unpredictable. All I want is to get away from him, but I have to hold my ground. “Winston, please, there’s nothing to explain. It’s over.”
He doesn’t let go as he breathes out a hard, angry puff of air. His hot, gin breath makes my skin coil.
I jerk away, but he’s immovable. I give him my most menacing glare and say sharply, “Let go of my arm, or so help me god I will tell every person here you fucked that girl instead of taking the blame like I’m currently doing.”
That gets his attention and he drops my arm. The mention of appearances always catches his attention. He straightens and his features twist into that perfect, good-guy mask. “Veronica, if we could sit down and talk, I’m positive we can work this out.”
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