Page 46 of Babies for the Big Shot

She’s coming.

And I don’t care what the board says. Or Jonah. Or the internet’s relentless appetite for blood.

I need to see her again.

In my space. On my terms. On my arm.

Not as a rumor. Not as a scandal. Not as my subordinate.

Just as her.

And for one night: undisturbed, undisputed, mine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sara

This is a scam.

I know it’s not. Technically. But it’s unreal. Any second now, I half-expect Ashton Kutcher to pop out from behind a rhinestone clutch and announce I’ve been punked by capitalism.

I’m standing in the middle of Little Black Book, this absurdly bougie boutique in SoHo that smells of vanilla, power, and generational wealth. Everything is silk. Everything is shiny. Everything costs more than my car insurance.

I do not belong here.

I feel like an unpaid intern on a makeover reality show. You know, the before girl. The one who cries into a scarf while a team of well-moisturized experts debates her eyebrows.

And over in the corner? Nick. Of course. Final boss energy, posted up against a velvet chair with the quiet confidence of a man who’s never had to try twice.

His jaw could cut glass. His suit looks impeccable. And he’s just there, completely unfazed. Typing on his phone as if dragging a woman off the street and into a luxury boutique is just another Tuesday between boardroom takeovers and leaving emotional wreckage in his wake.

Meanwhile, a sales associate dressed in head-to-toe black watches me with cool detachment. She introduces herself as Bianca, her voice even and edged with the kind of calm that comes from surviving wealth, chaos, and more than one celebrity breakdown over couture.

She moves toward me with practiced grace, judgment in her eyes, the scent of Chanel No. 5 trailing behind her. Her clipboard rests in one hand, her mouth set in a smirk that doesn’t waver.

“I can justtellyou’re going to be fun,” she says in that syrupy smooth voice reserved for cashmere clients and insecure women trying not to choke on the price tags. “You have such… potential.”

Potential.

Great. I’ve been here ninety seconds and I’m already a pity project.

Bianca gives me a once-over, her expression calculating, then gestures toward a rack of glimmering gowns that I know I could never afford on my own.

“Let’s start with this,” she says, pulling out a silver strapless number that somehow manages to look both aggressive and flimsy. “This silhouette is very forgiving, especially with a fuller bust. And silver is so… fresh on someone with your complexion.”

My complexion?

Bianca says it with all the warmth of a weather report. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m nodding, stiff and awkward, barely holding it together.

She hands off the dress and I vanish into the dressing room, a velvet-draped box where the walls seem to press in, heavy with silence and scrutiny.

I peel myself out of my hoodie and jeans, pull on the dress… and immediately regret every life decision that’s led me to this moment.

It’s crunchy.

Weirdly loud.

Like if tinfoil and rejection had a baby.