Brutal Billioniare

BRYSTIN I glance at the text, trying not to move too much since Zully is currently applying my eye shadow. “Michael?” Zully asks with typical disdain. She’s never likedMichael and has never made any attempt to hide it. She blames it on her Middle Eastern heritage, claiming that being mouthy is in her genes. There’s no point, but I defend him anyway. “He has his producer hat on.” “My boss ever talked to me like that, and I’d tell him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, baby. Look up.” Looking up means I can’t reply to the text. Anyway, I’m almost there, and I’d rather have Michael anxious than have smeared eyeliner. Thank God our Lyft driver isn’t a thrill-seeker. Still, we’ve had more than a few stops and starts as we’ve crept along 52nd Street. “How are you even doing this in a car?” “Very carefully.” The speed of her words matches the carefulness of her hand as she lines one eye then the other. When she’s done, she leans back, eye pencil propped in the air like it’s a cigarette or a magic wand, and admires her work. “I really am brilliant.” My laugh is more giggle than usual. Must be nerves. “Not that you don’t deserve the praise, but cocky much?” “Yes, please.” She waits a beat. “Oh, that wasn’t an offer. I hear the word c**k and my mind goes places.” She pulls a pencil from the makeup kit spread across her lap. “Open up, sweetie.” I can’t make any dirty comment in reply since now she’s working on my lips. My phone buzzes again, another text from Michael, most likely. “Touch your phone and die,” Zully tells me. Just then, the driver slams on the brakes, and the pencil swerves. I can tell from Zully’s wide brown eyes that the jolt caused a lining error. She glares at the back of the driver’s head then takes a breath. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” She uses her finger to blot at the skin above my mouth. She pulls back to look at me again, her genie-style ponytail bobbing like she’s about to grant a wish. “Actually, you look fantastic. I must be a god.” “Zully!” “It helps that you’re absolutely gorgeous, even without makeup, but you know that. You don’t need to hear it. I do. I’m fragile.” She has one hell of an ego for being fragile, but I suppose those two traits often go hand-in-hand. I squeeze her hand. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.” “I’d love for you to tell me, but we’re here, and you’re late.” Zully reaches over me and opens my door before the car has stopped completely. “Fly, little bird!” Sure that I have my phone and my purse, I’m giddy as I step out of the car, bolstered as I always am from my oldest friend’s company. “You’re a knockout,” Zully calls after me. “Everyone will be dying to get into your Simone Pérèles. Just remember to hire me as your face designer when you make it to the big time.” Of course the sidewalk in front of the Sebastian Center is busy as usual, and I’d be embarrassed about all the heads turning in my direction if I had the time. But I don’t. So I keep my chin up and ignore the looks and comments from strangers. As I push my way toward the doors, I wonder briefly if this is how it will feel to be a celebrity. Because I will be one. Positive mindset, as Michael always says. Inside, I skip the main elevators and hurry down the hallway toward the wing devoted to the media division of the Sebastian empire. This bank of elevators is only for employees, which technically I’m not, but since I’m an anchor at one of the Sebastian’s local news networks, I’m on the list tonight. “Brystin Shaw,” I say to the security guard when he asks for my name. While he enters it into his iPad for confirmation, I look around to get my bearings. There’s a trio wrapped in conversation a few feet away, dressed in cocktail attire, suggesting they might also be headed up to the ceremony. There’s also a man in a tux, his head down as he types something into his phone. I seem to be the only one trying to get on the elevator, which means I’m really late. Everyone else is probably already upstairs and seated. Michael’s so going to kill me. I catch my reflection in one of the steel panels. At least, I look good. A dark lip, smoky eye, my blonde hair pulled up with a few wisps curling at my shoulders. Zully really is a magician. “News 9 in Jersey?” The guard draws my attention back to him. “That’s me.” “Got you. Head on up to sixty-three.” I scurry past him and into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the sixty-third floor. The doors begin to shut, and I let out a sigh of relief. But then an arm shoots through the opening, and the doors part once again. It’s the man in the tuxedo. As is typical for many women when put in a small space with a man they don’t know, I scoot toward the back corner, lower my head, and try not to make eye contact. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, which is helpful. When the doors are shut, and we’re on our way, though, I sneak a peek in his direction. And the breath is knocked from my lungs. Holy s**t, holy s**t. My phone still in my hand, I unlock the screensaver and pull up Zully’s name in the text app.