Page 17 of Hate To Be Mine

If I dressed too feminine, they didn’t take me seriously. If I laughed at their jokes, they thought I was flirting. If I pushed back too hard, I was labeled “difficult.” If I didn’t push back enough, I was a wimp.

I’d rather be thought of as a bitch than a joke.

And I was already working under my father’s shadow, where everyone in the office thought I was a nepo baby who’d only gotten her position because of her last name. As if it was some blessing to work in insurance. As if I’d chosen this path because I loved it and not because my father had threatened to disown me if I didn’t.

Not just financially, either, but he would straight up cut me off, as in don’t come to family dinners, you’re dead to me.

“If you turn your back on this family, this family will turn its back on you,” he’d said when I’d been twenty-two and stupid enough to mention wanting to go to graduate school for something else. Anything else. “This company is your legacy. You don’t get to walk away from it.”

So I hadn’t. I’d put on the pantsuit, pulled my hair back, and learned to be the kind of ruthless professional my father wanted me to be.

Most days, I told myself it was fine. I was good at my job. I helped people, in my own way. And if the work itself wasn’t fulfilling, at least it was stable.

But then I would come home to this empty apartment with its endless silence, and I would wonder what the hell I was doing with my life.

I laid out the sundresses on my bed, trying to remember the last time I’d bought new clothes that weren’t for work. Had to be at least three years. Maybe four. I’d been seeing Max then—the guy who’d turned out to be way too interested in feet, among other red flags I’d ignored because I was lonely and he’d seemed nice at first.

Before that, there was John, who’d been rude to waitstaff and thought tipping was optional. And before him, Mike with the podcast about cryptocurrency and male empowerment, which should have been a red flag from day one but I’d been desperate enough to give him a chance anyway.

I hadn’t dated anyone in over a year. Hadn’t even tried. What was the point? I worked sixty-hour weeks. I didn’t have hobbies. I didn’t have friends outside of work, and the friends I had at work were really just colleagues who I occasionally got drinks with to complain about our jobs. There was no one to wear cute sundresses for.

Except Sebastian had looked at me like there was.

I caught myself smiling at the memory and immediately stopped. The man was a notorious playboy who probably looked at every woman like that. He’d probably forgotten about me the second I left the workshop.

But still. It had been nice. Being looked at like I might be worthy of a kiss or something more.

Maybe after this job, I could try dating again. Dip my toes back into that particular pool. Find someone stable and kind who didn’t have weird fetishes or terrible personality traits.

That was assuming I survived two weeks in Sebastian Blackwell’s orbit. I had a feeling that was going to be the most difficult part of my whole damn plan.

“After this job,” I said out loud to no one. “After this job, something’s going to change.”

I was going to find a way to live. Really live. Not just survive and exist anymore.

7

SEBASTIAN

The tarmac at six in the morning should have been quiet, but our little corner of it was absolute chaos.

I stood near the boarding stairs of the chartered 737, granola bar in hand, watching the controlled pandemonium of loading a fashion production onto a plane.

I might have been a tiny bit out of my depth, but that wasn’t going to stop me. All I really had to do was observe. People all seemed to know their duties. My job was to make sure they all did them.

Garment bags floated past like ghosts, carried by harried wardrobe assistants. Camera cases the size of coffins were being counted and recounted by nervous cinematographers. Models clutched their carry-ons and complained about the early hour. They were all dressed like they rolled out of bed in various styles of pajamas. Some had eye gel patches stuck to their face. One even had a green face mask on.

My eyes scanned the tarmac and I had to admit I was impressed. All this effort, all these people, all this equipment—everything coming together for one campaign. My campaign.

“Careful with that!” I called out as two guys from the loading crew manhandled a lighting rig toward the cargo hold. “We’ll never hear the end of it if that gets broken. Please save us all the lecture.”

They laughed and adjusted their grip. I took another bite of my granola bar, mentally running through my checklist for the thousandth time. If I fucked this up, my brothers would never let me forget. I would be cut out from managing anything and forced to keep posing.

“Nervous?” A woman’s voice startled me out of my thoughts.

I turned to find Elizabeth beside me, looking far too put together for this ungodly hour. She wore comfortable travel clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater—but somehow made it look chic and effortless. She was a natural beauty. I could understand why Adrian was attracted to her.

“Nervous? Me? No.” I shoved the rest of the granola bar in my mouth. “Why would I be nervous?”