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His jaw dropped mockingly. “You mean I’ll have access to the unfathomable wealth and splendor accumulated by a lowly cable news assistant?”
“National,” I corrected. “And judging by your clothes, you could use all the help you can get.”
His shirt was faded, his belt halfway torn off. My comment left a sour taste in my mouth—commenting on people’s clothes was bad form, but the adrenaline coursing through me made me say and do unlikely things.
Riggs’s eyes widened, and I had a feeling that his funds, or lack thereof, were a very serious business for him. “You’re the shallowest, bitchiest, meanest woman I’ve ever met—and I’ve met plenty.”
My belly slithered with venomous snakes. I was usually thick skinned, but Riggs’s impression of me hit home, because ... well, because I rather agreed with him.
“Just go, Riggs.” Gretchen’s voice cracked. Her head lolled between her shoulders, like she was boneless. “You’re not going to help me, and you’re not making things better.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” He shoved his feet into dirty army boots and slung an old backpack over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
He stormed away, leaving both of us to stand there, like we were in a duel.
Maybe itwasa duel. Maybe it had always been a duel between Gretchen Beatty and me.
Only now, one thing was for certain.
She knew my gun was cocked, loaded, and ready to fire.
CHAPTER THREE
RIGGS
Emmett Stauce was a schmuck.
This wasn’t only my opinion but a fact. Another not-so-fun fact: that schmuck was my boss.
The big irony was, I didn’t need to have a boss. Or a job, for that matter.
Before my grandfather took his final dirt nap, he’d left me a $1.3 billion fashion empire, about $800 million of it liquidated. I wasn’t only rich; I was fuck-you rich. The kind of rich people hated on principle. But because I grew up with people who were loaded, and I’d witnessed how deeply money corrupted the soul, I’d refused to submit to its allure. See, what people didn’t know was that being a billionaire was the most boring thing one could be. You spent your life hopping from one vanity venture to the other. The stakes were never high. The outcome of failure and success remained the same. And don’t get me started on people who hung on to billionaires like remoras on a shark. Feeding off scraps of prey.
Which was why I’d always lived like I didn’t have money.
Money was a great substitute for happiness, but you could always tell the difference—because unlike money, happiness wasn’t something you were constantly afraid of losing.
Usually, living like everyday folk was a decision I prided myself in.
Today, I wanted to punch my own balls for the decision.
“Riggs, I’m gonna need you to stay after this meeting.” Emmett tapped his pen over his notepad from across the boardroom. “I have something important to discuss with you. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Thank me later.”
Yeah, hold your breath, ass-face.
I rarely attended the monthly editorial meetings forDiscoverymagazine, choosing instead to travel the world and actually do photography work. Sometimes, when I was between assignments, I showed my face at the headquarters, but not often. Confined spaces made my skin crawl.
I nodded, glancing at my phone again. Gretchen had been blowing up my DMs since last night, begging me for help with her PA situation. I felt bad for her, but not bad enough to wed an entire fucking stranger. And one who spoke and acted like a Harry Potter villainess, no less.
On top of being a terrible negotiator, Poppins was also rude, overbearing, and snobbish. She was hot, though. I would give her that. Then again, so was the Carolina Reaper, and I didn’t want to stick my dick into one of those either.
Gretchen: We need to talk ASAP.
Gretchen: Just the way she looks at me while we’re at work, Riggs. You should see her. I know she’s in talks to sell our story.
Gretchen: I couldn’t even concentrate on Lyric’s birthday today.
Gretchen: Please reconsider. You wouldn’t even have to see her. It’d just be paperwork. She spends most of her timetrying to move her way up the social circles of NY and buying seventh-hand designer bags. Like that fake heiress from that documentary. Only less sophisticated.
