The Billionaire’s Desire (His Submissive #9)(13)
Author: Ava Claire

"I’d studied business. There was no way I was going to go into anything but business. And I knew I’d inherit Whitmore and Creighton someday. She was my father’s baby. The only child he cared about. And when he gave me my graduation present, telling me the business was mine, I was so honored." He grit his teeth angrily. "He was letting me take the reins. Barely graduated. I thought that maybe he was finally seeing me. Respecting me.

When I found out how much disarray the company was in, I was more than angry. I’d always told myself that it was the job. He wasn’t around because he was hard at work. He had responsibilities. We weren’t the only family he was providing for because there were all the employees that counted on him too. But when I saw the company was a swift breeze away from bankruptcy, I was offended. He didn’t care about us–and he sure as hell didn’t care about all the people that would be unemployed if the company went under.

And it was my name above the door too. I was the one that would have to live with the failure. So I had to be the adult. Cut out the partying. Drop the dead weight. Take a company that used to be synonymous with ‘yeah right’ and turn it into a force to be reckoned with."

And it was. The company wasn’t the sum of its past, a comeback kid. They were innovative, hands-on, turning the biggest divas into relatable figures that connected with everyone from their colleagues to small town audiences. Whitmore and Creighton was a multi-billion dollar company and Jacob was always making contacts, branching out, building something new and incredible. When there was a crisis, you called Whitmore and Creighton.

"And I guess I’m the monster." He had a smile on his face but it was one filled with a quiet sadness that made me want to just throw my arms around his neck. "The tyrant that followed the Great Carlton Whitmore."

"Don’t worry about them," I said firmly. "They don’t know that you’re the reason they still have jobs. And they don’t know you."

The smile broadened, the light returning to his intensely blue eyes. "But you do."

I leaned in, lowering my voice like I had a secret. "I do. You’re a tenacious businessman, but you’re not heartless. You care a lot more than you let on."

He followed through, coming forward until we were face to face, lips almost touching, our breaths mixing.

Tingling.

"I love you," he whispered. And just in case I didn’t catch it, he kissed me, tattooing those very words on my heart.

****

The clock read thirty minutes past 11am.

Thirty minutes past the start of Mia’s appointment.

Missy was running point and I could tell from the way she sat, rigid and unmoving, eyes straight ahead, that she was getting closer to losing it with each passing second.

I heard a voice carry from outside the conference room and breathed a sigh of relief. It had to be Mia because no one else would dare make a peep knowing Missy was on the warpath. And when the voice got closer, louder, I recognized the high pitch of someone that really didn’t give a damn.

"I’ve got this thing. No, I’m not partying…I’m not that bad,” she giggled. “Whitmore and Creighton. Yeah, from that show. I know…Jacob is HOT."

I tightened my grip on the armrest. Do not walk in here on your phone. Do not-

The giggles were at the doorway. Since everyone in the room was grimacing, I knew that she was adding insult to injury, breezing in late with her cell glued to her ear.

I was the only one that dared to look up from my folder and at our client. Mia had only crossed legal age territory four months ago. I could still remember clicking through news websites, making sure my mother was out of ‘Aha!’ distance and detouring to the gossip section.

She’d been so happy in her birthday pictures, flashing the paparazzi a peace sign to go with her hippie approved maxi dress and floral crown. There’d been rumblings that she was caught using a fake id, smoking, drinking–but who doesn’t test the limits at eighteen? It would have been way more bizarro if she was holed up having knitting nights.

But Mia embraced her newfound freedom a little too liberally, arms wide open as she plummeted into a world full of headlines like, ‘Mia’s Cry For Help’ and ‘Mia’s Sultry Mug shot’.

I didn’t think it was possible for her to look worse than the ‘stoned chic’ that had become her signature look, but the girl still yapping on her phone proved me wrong.

Her honey colored hair had been part of her character’s identity in Carolina, California. In the show, her agent was always trying to lighten it, make it edgier. She was a far cry from those soft curls now. Her hair was bleached to the point that it was a shade below white. It hung in stiff, bone straight layers–except for the right side of her head, buzzed painfully short. It didn’t match with her features. Instead of making her look rocker chick she just looked like she was trying way too hard.

Her makeup was just as heavy handed. Her foundation was slathered on to the point it was a mask, a prominent line beneath her chin where her application brush had come to a stop. The silver eye shadow was too heavy, too glittered and washed out her sky blue eyes. The false lashes were too much, the length tacky and jarring. Bright red lips were the icing on the cake, making her look like she should be working the streets instead of owning them.

And then there was her clothing. Her pants, shorts, whatever had been left at home. An oversized flannel shirt hung on her gangly frame, the greens and browns dingy and worn. She paired it with a pair of combat boots that looked like they’d been worn by an entire army before they passed on to Mia. Of course she didn’t need to be in her evening finest for a meeting, but considering the purpose was to repair her image, it would have been wise to NOT look like she’d just rolled out of bed and could care less.

She took in the room, her attention clearly still firmly on whomever she was talking to on the phone. I could feel the tension, thick and suffocating. I tried to draw her gaze so I could send her some sort of signal that now was not the time to be catching up with friends, but she was in her own world.

“Nah, it shouldn’t last too long,” she said with a shrug. “Why don’t I–”

“Get off the phone NOW.”

The growl from Missy made me want to crawl under the desk. She wasn’t playing around. Unfortunately, Mia didn’t pay any mind to the severity in her tone.

“Hold on one sec, Scott.” Mia held the phone away from her ear. “Excuse me?”

“Miss Kent,” Missy blazed, rising to her feet. “We have been waiting for you for over thirty minutes. This may be hard to believe, but our time is precious. You need to get off your phone, sit down in that empty seat and let us do our job.”