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“Emmet Riordan,” she smirks.
I think my heart just stopped. Seriously. I can’t hear it anymore.
“Breathe, Bella,” she coaches me.
“I am breathing,” I lie. “You want me go out with the president of the company? The millionaire? Wait… billionaire?? And write about it?”
“Yes,” she nods, eyebrows arched. She steeples her fingertips under her chin and gets a far off look in her big blue eyes. “I want a Cinderella story, soup to nuts. Little mouse friends and glass slippers and everything. Ooh — get yourself photographed picking out shoes at Gucci, going to openings at the MCA. Billionaire stuff, but not pervy. Build me a G-rated fairy tale. Okay, maybe PG. But in public, for everyone in the world to see.”
I shake my head in confusion. Emmet and Dillon Riordan are co-presidents of the entire company, after inheriting it from their dad upon his passing a decade ago. Early on, the publishing business was still in gold rush years. Emmet and Dillon were all over the newspaper tabloids and gossip television, living like rock stars while they somehow managed to get more and more wealthy, no matter how much money they spent. Or how carelessly. They had well-publicized affairs with a couple of married supermodels, mysterious songwriters, actresses… pretty much the whole menu of bangable ladies. Plus the a la carte.
Every time they did something bad, they seemed to get rewarded for it. Their stock went up, their new ventures skyrocketed to internet stardom, whatever. They couldn’t miss. Which begs the question: why would one of them need to date me?
“Yeah, Hannah, I'm still not getting it. How on earth does that have anything to do with the merger?”
Hannah rises from her chair, turning her back to me as she walks to the wall of windows and stares out. I can tell she does not want me to know the whole story, which means there is no way of getting it out of her. She’s Fort Knox when she wants to be. It’s part of her success.
“It’s gonna be great. You’ll probably really like him. Everybody does. And then we can get you back on track, okay?” I think she’s losing interest in this conversation. She picks an imaginary piece of lint off her skirt.
“But how? How am I supposed to date someone I don’t even know? When I don’t even want to date, you know, anyone?”
“You’re the writer. Figure it out. Tell me a story.”
“But how?” I whine again, and she pivots on her heel to glare at me, her expression very near to anger.
“Make up a character, Bella, and then live it. Do whatever you have to… I don’t care. But in case you’re really not getting it: the serious journalist you want to be has zero chance of existing if there’s no Riordan Publishing around to publish her works. Understand?”
“Make up a character,” I repeat numbly, letting the words sink in. Make up a fucking character.
“Yeah,” she insists. “Fake it til you make it, like the rest of the goddamn world does every day. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We’re done here. I know I could ask her a million more questions, but it would just be like throwing pebbles up at Juliet's window when Juliet's pretending not to be home.
“Well, I guess, um…”
“Thanks, Bella. You’re a lifesaver,” she mumbles, more calmly, but she's not looking at me anymore. She scowling at her laptop again, seeming to be a lot farther away than just on the other side of the desk.
So I guess that's that, I tell myself as I make my way back to the elevator, retrieving my validated parking stub and pressing the elevator button.
I’m going to invent a new me.
I’m going to date a billionaire.
And the new me — the character with a job she wants to keep — is going to pretend to enjoy every minute of it.
Hannah better appreciate this.
She will; won’t she?
CHAPTER 3
Dillon
I take the corners too fast, screeching through the parking garage ramp like a kid who’s just stolen his dad's car. This floor is almost deserted except for the back wall. I guide the Ferrari through the lanes, relishing the feeling of its tight steering, sensitive as a schoolgirl.
The back wall is all lined with engraved placards for the reserved spots. Jerking the wheel to the left, I whip into the spot marked Emmet Riordan. He won’t mind. Brothers share, like I'm always trying to
