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“Try harder, babe,” I mutter. “It’ll take much more than that. Enjoy your date.” I give a mock bow. “Your Royal Highness. Should I get used to addressing you that way?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know,” I reply with a grin. “And you know it too.”
I force myself to step back, knowing there’s no antidote for Billie Calloway. I glance over my shoulder before disappearing from view, and I catch her watching me. She swallows hard, then heads to the restroom.
Our moments together are always brief.
My cock is rock hard, and I adjust myself as I cross the lavish room. In the center hangs one of the world’s most extravagant chandeliers.
Louis locks on to me, and I pretend not to notice him. I don’t owe him my attention, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck who he is. He’s another nepo baby, like the rest of us, except he gets to wear a crown.
I return to the oversize booth and take a seat. Nick looks at me, then glances toward the hallway. Billie comes into view.
Nick tilts his head, clearly tipsy. “Wait, are the rumors true?”
“I should probably bail.” I pull my wallet from my pocket, grab some cash, and set it on the table.
Nick studies me closely. “Be careful, little brother. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Dangerous is my favorite,” I say, downing another shot. I offer my goodbyes to Nick’s friends. “See you guys around. Don’t be strangers if you’re back in the city, okay?”
They chime in at once, and I laugh. As I head toward the stairs, I text my driver the address, knowing I can’t walk home in my current state, especially with the paps lurking outside. Diamond is a prime spot for photographers, always ready to snap shots of people coming and going. That must be why Billie chose to bring her prince here. It’s another publicity stunt, another one that I ruined.
While I wait for my driver, I unlock my phone and search for recent articles about me. At the top, there are photos of Billie and Louis arriving at Diamond. Thirty minutes later, there are shots of Nick and me entering.
I knew he was up to something. My eyes scan down the list of articles.
I click on the top link LuxLeaks posted. LadyLux is an anonymous, divorced, middle-aged socialite who seems to knoweveryone. At least, that’s the rumor. I’m skeptical about most things, especially when they come from hidden sources online.
The title—“What I Think about Asher Banks: Part 1”—catches my eye. I skim her words, some of which are a bit too raw for my taste.
I did a lot of research,and my question to Asher is, why have you and Billie hated one another since your Stanford days? I contacted several of your old college friends, and they’ve said this rivalry has lasted years. Why? As I traced your steps over the years, it’s clear that your paths always cross. I think you have a crush on her and realize you’re running out of time. This is you trying everything to show her what you have to offer.
Do I think Billie should choose you? I’m not sure yet.
I reachthe end of the article.
Asher,if you’re reading this, I believe what you’re doing publicly is performative. I’m not convinced you two have ever had a private moment together. I guess this is me sayingprove itbecause I’m overly skeptical, but I know you won’t.
Remember, this post is my opinion about public figures based on information that’s publicly available.
“Okay,”I mutter to myself.
If she’s skeptical, plenty of others are too.
I open Instagram and upload the photo of Billie and me, her face cleverly blocked. I had just whispered in her ear. The public probably won’t have a hard time guessing who it is, even if it could be anyone. It’s enough to make my point.
I type a quick caption. My finger hovers over the blue Share button as I debate whether to go this far.
I weigh the different outcomes, and then I disrespectfully hit the button.
“Thanks, LadyLux,” I say proudly as the likes and comments start flooding in.
I will find out who you are if it’s the last thing I do.
I scroll through the comments and notice people tagging Billie. I quickly go to my Settings and unblock her so she’ll see every single one.