Page 3 of A Royally Fake French Menage (Rippton U Creatives #3)

GENIE

“ W hen are you coming back to Europe to see me? You haven't picked your shade for this season’s run. You need to send your feedback for my newest line. Oh, and I need your signature on the Genie in a Bottle range. It’ll be in gold and silver across the front, so make it pretty. I’m sure Lydia sent you the paperwork.”

I pretended to smile at my phone even though my mother hadn’t requested a video call. “I’m sure she did. It’s not like you’d handle something as basic as paperwork yourself, is it?”

My roommates rolled their eyes.

“Distraction required?” Molly mouthed at me.

I shook my head. “Got it,” I mouthed back.

I’d been putting off the monthly mother call for well, a month. And she was right. I had been delaying choosing colors for the new line for way too long. But also, I’d had a lot of other distractions over the past weeks. College took on a life of its own. Exams, assignments and life in general.

“I’ll pick a shade,” I promised. “Send me the email again, and you’ll have the signature,” From the email that was likely never sent in the first place.

Lydia wasn't half as efficient as my mother thought her golden girl of a PA was. The personal assistant badge of honor to the world’s most amazing luxury brand female CEO sat all too well on the executive’s shoulders.

At least, that’s how Lydia saw herself as she swanned around most of her day, shopping and having lunches on my mother’s time.

And having seen my mother flounder financially more than once in the past, I wasn't sure how any of that added up.

Thankfully, I had my own accounts unattached to hers, and my side of the business was secure.

If a little behind this year.

I flicked through my emails quickly as I chatted. Nope, no email as predicted.

Just how often Lydia worked for my mother was up for debate.

But seeing as I hadn’t exactly been pulling my end of the load, I wasn't in the ball park to whine. Then again, my mother didn’t pay me a high six figure salary, either.

My personal income came from my own investments or any joint projects we worked on together.

She did, however, expect me to perform on demand.

“And I'll be traveling this weekend. For a…date.”

Barclay wasn’t the only one who could play the fake relationship game. Pity it wasn’t a real one. The European lordling would be a fun toyboy, if only for the weekend.

“Oh, Genie. Can you stretch your trip out to London? That's where the gala is this Sunday night.”

My lips pulled back from my teeth in mock horror.

“Who set that date? It’s not even a brunch.

” I grew up in this world, and no one. No.

One. Set gala dates for a Sunday night. “Wait, let me guess. It was Barnacle Bob, wasn’t it?

That man can sniff out charity money like tomorrow isn’t actually coming. ”

“Tomorrow might not come for him, dear. He’s ninety-three next month. I’m sure we’ll all be back for another turn about the sun with his apparently immortal behind. Be a love and pick something devastating to bring in his new season with. We need to charm the socks off him.”

I frowned at the phone, suddenly wishing I’d made it a video call after all. “Why?”

Mom hesitated, and my vision tunneled in.

Because my mother never hesitated. Ever.

I could count the amount of times that woman paused for breath in my life on one hand, and once was giving birth to me.

The other three times were when she was caught out cheating on various husbands, and not in the order she married them.

“Why?” I asked coyly, twirling the blue dress with red trim that Molly passed between my fingers. I shook my head. “Too patriotic,” I whispered, wrinkling my nose.

“What?” snapped Mom.

“Nothing. Just picking out my dress for the weekend.” I waved at the black one with sequins. LBD. An oldie but so trustworthy.

On a lark I grabbed one with silver leaf shot through the bust. Molly gave me a double thumbs up.

Desiree, my other room mate who lay on her stomach on my bed, grinned. “Perfection.”

“At least you have a fan club going.” I could practically hear Mom’s eye roll from two oceans away, assuming she was where I thought she had situated herself today.

“They’re called friends.” I tried not to bristle, but then our relationship had never been as simple as mother and daughter.

Or business partners.

“As long as you look the part. Remember, if it's a chateau date, take as many dresses as you’ll need for the afternoon and evening sets. They have very specific expectations, even if their royalty doesn’t mean a damn thing these days,” Mom murmured.

“I guess I’ll see you on Sunday then. London time,” she reminded me.

“And wow me with that shade. None of that midnight-and-fuchsia rubbish from last season. I haven’t had anything perform so poorly. ” Mom sniffed.

“At least not since you tried to reinvent the splice. Lime and black never looked so terrible together,” I answered, but I was talking to an empty line and a dead phone.

Molly cheered my comeback.

It didn't hit me until my packed bags—fuchsia and midnight blue to suit the line that were still my favorite colors of the year regardless of my mother’s preferences—stood in front of my dorm, and I waited for Barclay’s driver two minutes early, where I made a mistake. Or rather, my mother had.

Because I never mentioned a fake chateau date.

But she did.