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“You want to replace Elsa Blakely on the runway and on my arm.” I say it with certainty—because I don’t need to hear Mark’s elevator pitch to understand the dumbshit ideas that come out of his weasely little peanut brain. “You’re not exactly Hannibal crossing the Alps here, Mark.”
The tension in the room is fucking palpable. This isn’t what the board was hoping to hear and I know it. That’s why I keep talking.
If I’ve earned anything from all of this, it’s the right to twist the little dagger I’ve just stuck in their side.
“The fact that you think any one of these low-IQ bimbos—sorry, ladies—could replace Elsa fucking Blakely tells me that, not only are you all an entire bucketful of incompetent panty-chasing halfwits,” I announce. “But it also tells me that not a single one of you understands the very business you think you’re constantly saving from me.”
“But—”
“Go eat a dick, Mark.” I push away from the table and make for the door. “I’m taking a personal day.”
As I’m walking out, I’m wishing that I could pretend that what just happened was all bravado and ball swinging. But I’ve lied to myself for long enough. I haven’t seen Elsa since the thing at Times Square, and like it or not—I’m worried about her.
If only Elsa Blakely was the only blonde woman in my life that I have to worry about.
“Langley,” I say, offering her a curt nod. “What brings you snooping about Sharpe Tower today?”
“Sharpe,” Lis greets me. She holds her phone up towards my mouth, obviously ready to record my every word. “Are you aware that Jackson Halo, disgraced former CEO of Crooked Halo is, in fact, your—”
“Father?” I glance over at her, and enjoy the look of defeat on her face as she reacts. “Langley, I’ve gotta say, I’m concerned. Usually you’re ahead on the story—not miles the fuck behind it. Looks like you’re losing your touch.”
“Yeah, well you’re…” I see a dozen different insults run through Lis’ head before it clicks. “Being way too blasé about this, Sharpe. You know who that man is. You know his reputation. For him to be tied to you—genetically—”
“Lis,” I shake my head, “Jackson Halo knocked up his secretary and she gave birth to me after he put her out on her ass. Raised me herself too, actually. Not a penny from Jackson Halo and not a finger lifted in my direction. That shit has nothing to do with me.”
“He gave you your first job,” Lis points out. “I think my readers will be fascinated to learn how Tanner Sharpe really rose through the ranks of Crooked Halo so quickly.”
We’re walking now—I’m striding and Lis is trotting admirably to keep up with me in her expensive little heels.
“You think too highly of your readers, Langley. But look…You want a story that’s really going to grab them by their panties and make them salivate?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, but…”
“Come on, then. Follow me.”
Chapter 31
Elsa
Judging by the size of my baby bump, it’s getting difficult to tell if I’m six months pregnant, or six years overdue.
It’s the former, for the record. But like most predicaments that Tanner Sharpe drags me into—this one is large, cumbersome and…
Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it anyway. But the fact stands: I’m the biggest that I’ve ever been in my life.
“Remember, it’s not fat.” Dr. Garcia gives me that look like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You former models always get a little on edge about that point, but it’s true. Your body is changing to accommodate the little bundle of joy growing inside you. You’ll look just fine in your stockings and garter belt after the birth is done—women like you always do.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Women like me?”
She laughs. “Elsa, you’re not the first Wall Street executive or busty model to hide out in Connecticut for the duration of your pregnancy, and you certainly won’t be the last.”
“I wonder why we all choose Connecticut,” I muse.
“Because no one cares who you are here, dear.”
Dr. Garcia closes her eyes and places a hand on my belly like she’s blessing my child through it—prescribes me some vitamins and bids me farewell.
She’s not exactly wrong about Connecticut, really. I’m not a Cohen, a Vanderbilt, or a Kennedy—so as far as the wealthy and to-do out here beyond the streets of New York are concerned—I’m not anyone at all.
