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“Love you too, Mom.”
I ended the call and covered my face. How could I take care of it when my life was hanging by a thread?
“You know we can’t leave without a press release and control this entire shit show, right?”
“Yes, I know.” I clenched my jaw and let out a long sigh. “I need you to book a ticket for someone.”
“Who?”
I looked out of the window and said, “My biological mom.”
9
I DON’T KNOW HER
DAMON
I glared at the replies and resisted the urge to slam the iPad on the desk and instead took a deep breath, holding the tablet gently.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked, glaring at our marketing agent who brought me the latest news of my late mother’s beauty brand, Moore, and how the new promotion was going down the hill.
I had invested over a million dollars, and it was going down the drain.
“I don’t think we are marketing the product well, Mr. Grant.”
I stood up, the chair creaking and rolling back as I glared at her. “You don’t think I can see that?! Remind me, Janice,” I said, keeping my palms on the desk and looming over her. She cowered, trying to hide behind her long bangs. “How much did I invest in this green lipstick? And it’s ads, marketing, PR, hm?”
“It’s Jane.”
My left eye twitched. “I don’t give a fuck about your name. I paid you—this whole weird marketing idea of frog—and I don’t see a single fucking cent of profit.”
She was trembling, making me want to ball my fists. I hated working as the CEO of Moore cosmetics. After Dorothy’s death, Emma owned the brand, but she was busy studying and smooching off with her old boyfriend that she didn’t have time to handle a multibillion-dollar beauty brand. In the end, I had to accept the CEO job and hand over my Vixen club to someone else.
I would rather work in that sex club, holed up in my tiny office than step into the pink and glitter world of cosmetics where everything smelled like chocolates and candies. Even the fifty-dollar foot scrub we sold came in different flavors.
Who the fuck needs different flavors for foot scrub?
“I don’t see the results I paid for,” I said in a calm tone as much as I could muster. But in the end, I was sure I scared her by the look of terror on her face. “I’ll ask Rahul to send me a list of our marketing team and who came up with this stupid fucking idea. Even a five year old has a better marketing strategy than this.”
I called Rahul, who was in his late twenties and the only person I’d trust with my calendar and schedule. I ignored his cackling when I asked him for the list of people in the marketing team and ended the call. Yes, he had warned me, but I was stupid enough to sell green lipstick.
“What the fuck are you still doing here, Jade?” I demanded, fixing my cufflinks as I sat down on my chair.
She swallowed. “Someone’s calling you, Dick.”
I stared at her. “What the fuck did you just say?” I was about to stand up when she turned on her heels and ran out of my office.
I glared at the empty spot and moved my gaze to my phone. It was Emma, but before I could pick it up, it went to voicemail. I sighed and leaned back in my chair. As soon as I closed my eyes, my head went straight to Thursday night. My cock bulged at the thought of the kitten.
Picking up my phone, I saw the text I had sent her,
Me: It was upsetting to wake up alone, but I hope we can have a repeat soon—D
She hadn’t replied, but it was only Monday. And, okay. I admit it. I suck at flirting through texts. But at least it’s better than sending her an unsolicited picture of my dick.
Or did she recognize it was me? Should I resend the message with ‘Sir’ in the end? I started typing and stopped.
What the fuck was I doing acting like a fucking teenager? I didn’t even react this way when I was a teenager. Jesus fucking Christ. I didn’t have time to think about her when I had to get the sales on track.
