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“None of your business,” I tell him.
An audible gasp rises from the press line. Then a hearty laughter.
“You just got owned by that girl!” One of the journalists taunts.
“So what’s your name, anyway?” another reporter asks me.
I take a deep breath and say, “Sarah Salamuri.” As soon as that answer leaves my lips, I imagine my name in lights. I imagine my name on the front page of magazines. I imagine my name everywhere!
Mr. Peak finally joins me. We stand there for a moment. And then something weird happens. Journalists continue to ask me questions. Photographers continue to scream my name. They don’t care about my famous and powerful billionaire boss. They care about me.
“Mr. Peak. Could you move away for one moment please?” one of the photographers asks. My boss awkwardly stands to the side. I am in f**king shock. That is the first time I have ever heard someone ask my boss to do anything. Of course, this is what Mr. Peak wants. But damn, this is just surreal. As soon as the camera bulbs flash, I strike my pose for the media. And for the first time in weeks, I completely forget all about Mr. Peak.
My boss finally grabs my hand and walks me to the party. A jolt of fear hits me. Did I displease my boss? I look up at him, hoping that I didn’t offend him. He whispers into my ear, “Boy, you are much more comfortable in front of the media than even I anticipated.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say proudly.
Excellent. I have pleased my boss by deflecting the media attention away from him. Now all that attention is on me. The seduction has started. My head spins at the thought of all the press and subsequent fame that I’m going to receive. But a nagging thought starts to run through my head - am I seducing the press? Or is the press seducing me?
As we walk into the privileged air of the Met Gala, I hear the press screaming my name over and over again. “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”
