Brutal Billioniare

2

I follow the message up with a covert snapshot of the man who is none other than Holt Sebastian, the CEO of Sebastian News Corp. The man I’m supposed to be charming the pants off tonight in hopes that he’ll notice me and one day give me my own show.

I study the photo I took while I wait for the messages to go through— stupid weak elevator signal. As the youngest CEO of SNC, Holt has more than his fair share of media attention. And because I aspire to work for him

—like in this very building, not for one of his lowly network stations that

no one ever watches anymore—I have done plenty of internet stalking. I already knew he was wicked attractive, but damn. Even at the weird profile angle my camera caught, his jawline is a work of art. I can’t imagine looking at him straight on. My ovaries won’t be able to take it.

I zoom in on his face and realize his mouth is upturned into a smirk. Did he know I was taking his picture?

Before I can get too panicked about it, the elevator halts abruptly.

I look up at the indicator to see where we’ve stopped. Instead of saying a number, the panel is blinking a bright red ER.

“Are you f*****g kidding me?” I imagine the letters stand for error, but I feel like it should mean emergency, because this is truly a disaster. Michael is going to go ballistic.

Though, if he knew who I’m stuck with, he might feel differently.

Speaking of Holt, if he’s concerned, he doesn’t show it. He pulls his phone out from his inside jacket pocket and types something. “Dinner is worth missing.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. When he’s finished his message, he puts his phone back. Either he has better cell service than I do, or he’s not concerned whether or not the message goes through.

I hadn’t planned on eating anyway. No way am I messing up Zully’s makeup job. “I’m more concerned about missing the actual ceremony.”

Holt turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his back against the steel wall. “I don’t imagine it will start without me.”

No other explanation. As if I’m supposed to know who he is, which I do, but still. It’s awfully presumptuous.

Or that’s what it’s like to be a celebrity.

“At the very most,” he continues, “you’ll miss the local awards.”

My stomach drops. “I’m receiving one of those local awards.” I turn to mirror him, sighing as I press my back into the wall behind me. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed about potentially missing my moment in the sun or about Holt Sebastian not knowing who I am.

But why would he know who I am?

SNC has hundreds of stations across the country. Holt can’t know everyone who works for him. Even ones that are here tonight to be honored for excellence.

He studies me a second, and I wonder if I was wrong, if he’ll recognize me now. But his gaze looks more predatory than perceptive, and all he says is, “Whoops.”

Again, what did I expect? These events are probably everyday for him. He was born at the top of the ladder. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to start from the bottom, what an achievement it is to even get up one rung.

It occurs to me that this might be a perfect opportunity to introduce myself. That was the goal for the night, after all—make him get to know me. Make him remember me.

But what if that’s too forward? Too eager? I’ll get the chance to meet him later.

Or I will if I don’t miss the f*****g ceremony. “Should we hit the emergency button?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think we should hit the emergency button?”

He’s staring at me intensely, so I know he heard me, but it seems to take him a second before he comprehends my words. “Oh. I was too busy thinking about how tempting the zipper is on your dress.”

Heat runs from my decolletage to my cheeks. Truthfully, it was the point of this outfit. A Dolce & Gabbana splurge that Michael picked out, the dress is a modern reinterpretation of a classic black sheath dress, with a double slider zipper that runs all the way from my cleavage to the bottom hem and another one that matches in the back. It means I can make the neckline—and the backline—as low as I’d like. Michael had suggested I go low enough to not be able to wear a bra. He said men would be thinking about unzipping me all night.

I didn’t go quite as low as Michael had wanted, but apparently the dress has still done the trick.

I guess that’s something to be happy about.

I might be if I can get over my shock. The dress was supposed to be sensual so he’d remember me. I didn’t expect him to come on to me. I’m a stranger to him. A stranger except that he knows that I work for his company. Who would have the audacity to say something so forward?

Oh. That’s right. He’s a Sebastian.

“I suppose with your name, you don’t have to worry about Cancel Culture.” And I suppose that was probably a thought better left in my head instead of spoken aloud.

He seems as surprised by my comment as I am. His brows raise, and his jaw flexes as though he’s considering. His shock gives me the opportunity to really look at him, and I was right—face-to-face, he’s devastating. His

cheekbones are cut high, but not too sharp. A closely trimmed beard darkens his jaw, preventing him from looking too pretty, which he might otherwise. Especially since his skin is flawless. No makeup or photoshopping needed.