The Billionaire’s Lust (His Submissive #7)(3)
Author: Ava Claire

I felt the tears rise in my throat. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe. But it’s the truth. You’re the one that’s keeping secrets and reading letters that don’t have your name on them. He would be insane not to have questions.” She dropped her money on the table. “And I was insane to think that maybe you’d be a friend to me tonight.”

She started to slide out of the booth and I started babbling, not wanting to lose her. To prove that somewhere along the way, I hadn’t gotten lost in all of this. “Is it Brad because if it is–”

“Jesus frickin Christ, Leila!” She laughed, but there was no joy in any of it. She was disgusted. Angry. “It had nothing to do with him. If you weren’t so busy playing PI with a man that has proved his love, you would have known that I’m seeing someone. That I’ve been seeing him for a month, but I’m pretty sure it’s over now. Just once, just for tonight, I needed my best friend.” She stood up, her pain streaming down her face. “Thanks for a great evening.”

****

“My mother is where?”

I could tell the involuntary, Jacob ordered truce Natasha had agreed to was shaky from the way she cleared her throat. Like she was struggling against the desire to hang up the phone or tell me that she wasn’t my secretary.

“The front desk just called up here and there’s a woman downstairs who claims she’s your mother.” Before I could react or say the words myself, she threw a clipped ‘You’re welcome’ my way and hung up the phone.

I clutched the receiver, not believing my ears, even though I knew if Natasha was joking it would go something like:

Knock knock/Who’s there?/You’re fired…finally.

That meant that my mother had taken the train into the city and was down in the lobby and probably talking the security guard’s ear off. Or anyone that slowed long enough to fall in her trap.

And then I remembered…the production team was filming today.

I’d never moved so fast in my life. If I trusted my legs to get me down the flights of stairs without breaking my neck I would have said screw the elevator altogether. Luckily, it zipped to the lobby in record time and I was off, moving like I was on a track in tennis shoes instead of skating across the marble floor in heels.

Fred Lyons, one of the security guards, was eyeing my mother warily but she didn’t even notice because she was engrossed in conversation with one of the producers of the show.

“Mom!” I tried for cheerfulness, but my voice cracked on the last bit.

‘Ma’ was close enough and she spun to face me. She was decked out in a slick navy sheath dress, her gray lined dark hair pulled into a bun. She’d even gone light on the makeup.

“Leila!” She leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek, but my eyes didn’t leave the show’s lead producer, Marla Waylon. The woman had a shit-eating grin plastered on her face, clearly moments from promising my mother on-camera time if she convinced me to reconsider doing a segment for PR.

“I was just saying hello to your lovely mother,” Marla said innocently.

I bet, I thought with an eye roll. “Well, I know your team is busy filming today so we’ll get out of your way.”

I tried to steer my mother toward the elevators, but she didn’t budge. “Ms. Waylon was saying that she’d love five minutes of our time.”

“That’s nice,” I said, wanting to give Marla a piece of my mind, but not wanting to start a scene or be disrespectful around my mother. “I have a busy schedule–” Anticipating Marla’s next play, I finished, “–and I want to give my mom the VIP tour.” I knew the words ‘VIP’ would at least give me time to get Mom in the elevator. I took the visitor badge from Fred, mouthing ‘thank you’ as I shepherded her away from the cameras.

“That Waylon woman was a real sweetheart,” Mom piped.

I covered my snort with a cough. ‘Snake’ was a better noun. With midnight hair and near black eyes, she was a force to be reckoned with. Marla would sell her first born for a ratings spike. If you were a nobody you didn’t exist in her universe but if she thought you’d make good TV, get on board or get run over. I’d put her off as long as possible, but I knew eventually I’d have to tell her no and face her wrath or just bite the bullet and agree to be on camera.

“I want to see the floor they film PR on,” Mom chirped excitedly as she stepped into the elevator. “There’s that girl with the thick accent and the attitude–”

“Missy Diaz?” I said, not wanting to hit the fifth floor button. Not wanting to introduce my mother to the woman who made my working life miserable.

“That sounds right,” she said, jittery with excitement. “And the older women, Claudia Joy?”

I relented and punched the button for Mrs. Joy alone. After all of her help with the photo situation, I owed her another thank you. And she was technically my only friend in this high rise building.

The doors retracted when we stopped at the fifth floor and my mother hesitated like she’d snuck past security into some red zone and at any moment, people with guns would rush in and carry her away.

It was adorable.

I stepped out of the elevator, putting my arm out to keep it from shuttling her to another floor. “It’s okay, Mom.”

Her mouth spread into a smile of awe as she moved out beside me, scanning the place she’d only seen on television. People bustled past, not doing anything remotely glamorous, but in my mother’s eyes, she was on the red carpet.

She gripped my arm as Missy came out of one of the private offices on the wall. Her gaze narrowed over the bullpen, clearly looking for someone that wasn’t working at a fevered pace. When her dark stare made its way to where I stood, she scowled–until she cut to Mom. Her eyes went back and forth between the two of us, weighing our similarities and when she figured it out, she smiled like she’d just won the lottery.

Great. She was coming over.

“Leila!” Missy gushed, flipping her mahogany hair over her shoulder. “To what do we owe this honor?” She didn’t even wait for me to respond. “It’s so great to see you!”

Great to see me? I thought, eyebrows perking. Why was she so happy to see me?

It took less than a second for me to answer the question. Mom was shaking her hand like she was meeting a celebrity and Missy was eating it up. I wanted to tell her that Missy wasn’t what she seemed, but I knew that would just make things worse for me.