Page 3 of The Price of Scandal

“Uh-huh,” I said, scrolling through my inbox again. I was waiting on news. Big news.

Lita and I had started the company together. However, it had been my trust fund that founded Flawless. Lita came from a working-class family in Virginia. When she wasn’t late or hungover, she brought ingenuity and creativity to the table. I brought the science and the money. On paper, the business was mine. But I couldn’t have done it without her. And she knew it.

“Hey, there, Madam CEO,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I need your focus for ten whole seconds.”

Reluctantly, I shifted away from my monitor and all the red flags that were currently demanding my attention. “What’s your urgent request?”

“The IPO is in fifty-nine days,” she began.

“I’m aware of this,” I said, tapping my nails—a classic French manicure—on my desk. The initial public offering was only the culmination of fifteen years of blood, sweat, and science.

“This is a huge deal, Emily,” she reminded me.

“We’re already a huge deal,” I pointed out. We’d built a billion-dollar company together. I felt like that monumental achievement was being overshadowed by the potential influx of even more cash. It felt… desperate? No. Perhaps just a little unseemly to be salivating over what some would see as “free money.” But it was the next logical step.

“We need to keep the press positive,” she said, unfazed.

“Of course.”

“And as the face of the company, you’re going to need to step up your public appearances. Keep reminding the world of how beautiful and talented and genius-y you are.”

I bit back a sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

Lita sat up straighter. “It’s just dinner with the bachelor son of a hotelier.”

I let my impeccable composure slip just a little bit and dropped my head back against the white leather of my desk chair. “You want me to go on a date to make the company more attractive to the public?”

My stomach gave a warning gurgle. I’d never admitted it to anyone, but certain situations threw me into anxiety-induced diarrhea with alacrity.

I always carried an emergency stash of Imodium with me.

“There’s my grumpy, geeky friend,” Lita crooned. “It’s a tough job going out to dinner on the arm of a handsome, single entrepreneur.”

“Entrepreneur’s son,” I corrected.

“Whatever. Dinner. A nice dress. A few pictures. You’ll be home in bunny slippers by nine. We need every ounce of positive attention we can get between now and the IPO.”

At least it wasn’t a gala or a charity golf tournament.

“What’s in it for him?”

“This guy is launching a luxury underwear line,” Lita said straight-faced.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She grinned. “You wish. Publicity for him, pretty pictures of you. It’s a win-win.”

I sighed, and Lita knew she’d won.

“I’ll text you the details,” she said triumphantly.

“Can’t wait,” I lied.

2

Emily

“Darling, that dress,” my mother said approvingly as we air kissed and pretended not to notice the interest from neighboring tables. The Palm was Mom’s favorite place to be seen lunching. And by “lunching” it was understood that she would push her kale salad around on her plate while enjoying her vodka tonic and pressuring her daughter into whatever scheme would most effectively raise the Stanton family profile.