In some early versions of Brutal Billionaire, a chapter was missing between nine and ten. Here is the real chapter ten.

Brutal Billionaire

Chapter Ten

Brystin

Zully looks up from the nail she just painted. “And you haven’t heard from him since?” 

“Not a peep.” I try not to sound disappointed about Holt’s lack of communication. It’s been six days since he called me over FaceTime. I should be relieved. 

I wonder if Zully can tell that I’m not.

The benefit of having a best friend who professionally does personal cosmetic services means that we have a standing Saturday brunch appointment where she paints my nails and tweezes my eyebrows while we eat carb-heavy delivery food and catch up on our lives. She’s been here for over an hour, and all we’ve talked about is Holt.

I’ve been honest and forthcoming about most of what’s happened between us, including the terms of the arrangement he proposed, but I haven’t included all of the ways Holt makes me feel. Mainly because it’s confusing. And a little bit embarrassing.

A whole lot embarrassing, and I can’t explain why, even to myself.

“But he’s for sure giving you a show?” 

“Michael’s been in the city all week almost every day in meetings with the SNC programming department. He’s there again today, even. They’re still negotiating details, but he assures me it’s happening, and that I’m still currently the headliner.” 

She must hear the doubt in my voice. “You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my pinky finger where the coating has smeared to get her attention. Then I think more about her question as she fixes it. “It’s funny—if Holt had offered us the show that night, I would believe it was a done deal. I know that’s not how the business works. Lots of projects get killed in planning, but I would have believed it because I wanted to believe it so badly.”

“You still want it badly. I know you do.”

“I do. Maybe even more than before. But now I feel like I haven’t earned it yet.” I realize how backward it sounds, and yet there’s no other way to say it. 

Zully stops painting, her nail brush suspended in midair so she can give me a severe look of disbelief and disappointment. “And you think spreading your legs is how you earn it?”

“I told you I said no to—”

“No penetration. I heard you. But it’s all the same. It’s sex. It’s a man valuing you for your body and not your mind. You get that, right?”

Her words make sense.

Still, I remember Holt fully aroused on his horse and what he said. It’s a woman’s brain that gets my cock hard first. 

When I don’t answer right away, she repeats herself. “You get that…right?” 

“I do. I get it.” I slide my fingers under the drying lamp when she moves to my other hand. “I get it, but I think that’s oversimplifying.”

Her mouth gapes when she glances at me this time. “Oversimplifying? What the fuck, Bryst. He wants you to perform sexual favors in exchange for a contract. How can it be any more complicated than that?”

“It just is.” It’s not enough of an answer, so I scramble to give her more. “You wanted me to sleep with him, at first, remember?”

“Because I want you to get laid by someone other than that dirtbag husband of yours. Not because I wanted you to enter into a deal with a devil.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” 

“Barely anything has happened between us, so yes. I haven’t had to do anything uncomfortable at all.”

“You shouldn’t have to do anything uncomfortable at all.” She finishes the coating and puts the brush back in the bottle while I change out which hand is under the lamp. “Look, when I suggested you sleep with him, I wanted it for you. For your sexual desires to be met. This is all about him. Then add that he’s requiring this from you in exchange for you getting a job that you deserve—”

“—but I don’t. I haven’t put in my time.”

“Bullshit. That’s him gaslighting you. Sure, it usually takes longer to get a deal like this, but sometimes it doesn’t. If you’re good enough to be considered, then it doesn’t matter how much time you’ve put in.”

I feel my lips turn down. I lower my head so she can’t see my thoughts on my expression. This was what was embarrassing about explaining my feelings. Because everything she says is right and true and accurate, and yet I feel like something else is happening between me and Holt. Maybe he hasn’t given me sexual pleasure, but I’ve given it to myself. Every night this week, in fact. That’s how much of a turn-on the whole situation has been for me. 

It’s why I’m practically aching for him to reach out again. Not because I want to know what he’s doing to get me the job but because I want him to flirt with me again. Want him to ask me to undress. Want to see him get worked up over our intense connection. Want to watch him explode.

I don’t know how to express that without sounding like I’m a brainwashed girl with a crush.

Zully knows me well enough to get some of that without me saying anything at all. “I just don’t want to see another Michael situation,” she says, softly.

My head lifts sharply. “Holt is nothing like Michael.”

“He’s not?” She pauses, letting me see the picture she sees. When it’s clear that I don’t, she continues. “A man in a powerful position gives you attention, and you turn it into something more.”

My eyes suddenly sting. I shake my head, refusing to let the hard words affect me. “I see how it sounds the same, but it’s not. I promise. I’m not in love with Holt.”

“Not yet.”

I ignore her comment. “I know what we are and that this is all transactional. I know it from the very beginning, which was not the case with Michael. My eyes are open.”

She still looks skeptical.

“If I’d known from the beginning that Michael only wanted us to be a partnership of convenience, I would probably have still agreed, Zully. I know you think I’m looking in the wrong places for true love, but the truth is that I’m not looking for true love at all. My career is my true love. There is very little I won’t give to get where I want to be.”

Her features soften, and she lets out a breath of air. “I hear you. I just think you’re wrong.”

My jaw tightens, but I try to remain reasonable. “About which part?”

“About your career being your true love. I think you’ve convinced yourself that it’s what will make you happy because you’re too scared to put your heart out on the line. Afraid someone will break it the way Michael did.”

Again, my eyes prick. “Even if that were true, I’m committed to him now. This is the life I’ve chosen.” The lamp timer goes off, and I pull my hand out and offer it to Zully to check. 

“One more round each hand and you should be dry,” she says.

I slip my left hand under again, still thinking about what she’s said about my heart and not putting myself out there. “Also, I’m confused by what you want from me. Are you saying I should put my heart on the line for Holt?”

“No. No, I don’t.” She considers for a moment. “I’m saying a few separate things, I guess. In my dream version of your life, you would get the job at SNC, and fine, get it by exchanging favors, if you’re good with that. But you’d also leave that fuckhat of a husband of yours, and you’d find a man who loves every part of you so much that you can stop compartmentalizing and give him all of you. Not just the sexy parts. Not just the good-at-your-job parts. The whole package. Someone who loves you like I do.”

Now I want to cry for different reasons. “Well, you’re fucked up in the head, so that’s unlikely. But for what it’s worth, I love you too.” 

“Ew. You’re being squishy.”

“You started it,” I say with a laugh. “Seriously, though—you could do a YouTube show where you do a makeover for them while giving them therapy.” She says she loves that her job is low pressure and lots of variety, but she’s often wondering if she should try to do something more ambitious. Having her own shop has never appealed to her, and I get that. Having a show though…

“Make them up just to have them cry it off?”

“Okay, maybe the idea needs finessing. But you should think about it.” My phone starts to ring, and I glance down at the ID. “Oh my God. It’s him.”

“Michael? Oh. Holt.”

I nod. Butterflies take off in my stomach, and my brain goes blank. Like, what should I do? And why am I torn between wanting to hear his voice and wanting to run into my bedroom and put my head under the covers?

“Are you going to answer it?” As much as she’s harped about him this morning, Zully sounds as excited about his call as I am.

Shook into action, I scramble to pick up the phone and push accept, ignoring her warning to, “Be careful of your nails!” 

“Um, hi. Hi. Hello. Hi.” Great. I’ve suddenly forgotten how to use the English language. “What’s up?”

Zully covers her mouth, but I can still hear her laughing. I glare at her and take the phone with me to pace the living room. 

“Get ready to go into the City. I’m on my way to pick you up.” Laid back and flirty Holt from Sunday night is gone. This Holt is all business.

“You’re…what?” I’m an hour outside Manhattan. It makes no sense. He should have had me meet him somewhere or sent a car. “You’re in a car?”

“Yes. In a car. Driving. On my way. To you.” He sounds irritated, and something about his tone makes me pretty sure he’s actually driving, not being driven.

I want to ask about that, but the other bit of info he landed on me is more pressing. “Get ready for what?” I look back at Zully, my eyes wide as I mouth, he’s on his way here. 

She mouths, what? I don’t know if she’s echoing my sentiment or if she didn’t understand what I said. Either way, my attention is on the voice coming through the phone.

“It doesn’t matter what for. Dress to impress.”

I blink, trying to decide if I want to be irritating or not. A glance at Zully, and my decision is made. I don’t want her thinking I’m being taken advantage of. Irritating as it is. “Dress to impress can mean a lot of different things. It would really help to know where we’re going.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter where we’re going. It matters what I want you to look like.”

Something about that statement makes me feel warm. From the look Zully gives me, I’m sure she sees it on my face. 

I turn away, ignoring her. “Okay, well, like formal? Or like for a job interview?”

“Something like what you wore in the elevator.” He sounds annoyed and impatient, but the fact that he said the elevator and not the award show gives him away. Lets me know what direction his thoughts are going.

It sends my thoughts in that direction, anyway. “Something tempting?”

“Something classy.” He’s brusque, as if our arrangement is the last thing on his mind.

My back stiffens, and when I turn once more toward Zully, she has a disapproving look in her eyes.

What? I mouth. 

“Stand up for yourself,” she whispers.

In other words, be more irritating. “How long will this take? What if I already have other plans?”

“Don’t do that.” Even more annoyed. 

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t pretend like we didn’t get this hashed out. I’m giving my Saturday up for you. When I ask you to be somewhere, you drop everything to be there. Any other woman up for an anchor job at SNC would do the same.”

I start to say something when he adds, “Even if they weren’t willing to take their clothes off.”

My face heats, thinking about what I’ve already let him do. Zully might be right in some ways. I’ve set a precedent with him that I can’t unset now.

But he’s right too—if I want this job, I need to cooperate. Within reason. “Fine. I’ll be ready. How long do I have?”

“I’m about to turn onto the 287.”

Fuck. That’s max twenty minutes away. Fifteen minutes, knowing my luck. I start toward my bedroom, waving Zully to follow along with me. “That doesn’t give me much time.”

“Then you better stop talking and—” I don’t hear what else he says because I hang up on him.

I throw my phone on the bed and immediately start shedding my clothes. “I don’t have time for a shower. Can you do something with this hair?”

“We’ll do a knot.” Zully passes me to flip through the dresses. “What look are we going for?” 

“Something like what I wore to the award show.” I don’t need to look at the contents of my closet to know I don’t have anything up to that level. It’s why Michael had splurged for me to buy the zipper dress. 

“You could do your black.” She holds up the generic dress I wear to almost everything. It looks good on me, but it’s not impressive. 

“It’s forgettable.” I already know what the best choice is. “I’ll wear the zipper dress again. It’s all I have that fits the bill.”

“I’ll start pulling out your makeup. Meet you in the bathroom.”

Exactly fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on the toilet, dressed, and my hair up while Zully puts the finishing touches on the quickest makeup job ever. Suddenly, she pauses. “Is that your phone buzzing?”

I strain to listen, but she’s already heading toward the bedroom. A handful of seconds later, she returns with my cell. “Three texts and four missed calls. All from him.”

My stomach drops as I quickly read through the texts. The first two came back-to-back.

You hung up on me?

No one hangs up on me.

The third came only a moment ago. I’m turning down your block.

The most recent missed call came right after that. I hit redial and scramble to find my shoes, preparing an apology when he answers. “I’m not happy,” he says, forgoing any greeting.

“I’m sorry. I was—”

“You can defend yourself on the ride into the city. I’m circling the block until you get down here.” This time he hangs up on me. 

Zully seems to have heard him because she doesn’t ask questions. “Grab your purse. I’ll get the hairspray and lipstick and we can finish putting you together in the elevator.”

Five minutes later, we’re standing on the sidewalk when the most gorgeous Bentley Continental GT pulls up, in front of the fire hydrant, no less, because of course Holt gives no fucks about the law. 

And when I say gorgeous, I mean gorgeous. 

It’s totally a sports car, but a super luxury version, all speed and money. 

Needless to say, it’s very Holt Sebastian.

“Holy fuck,” Zully whispers, as the tinted driver side window rolls down to reveal a sunglass-wearing Holt behind the wheel. “Hot.”

“The car or the man?”

“Yes.”

At least, she understands my dilemma. I’m not even into cars, but I might even fantasize about this later tonight. 

Right now though, he’s looking at me expectantly. Probably wanting me to circle around and get in the passenger seat, but my friend is standing by me. “Holt, this is Zul—”

He cuts me off. “What are you wearing?”

I look down at the dress, as if it will be something other than what I know I put on. “You said something like—”

“Like is the keyword. You can’t wear the same thing. Isn’t that a rule you women made?” He’s terse, and I can feel Zully at my side, itching to stand up for me. 

I put my hand on her arm to stop her before she says anything that will do damage. Besides, I need to prove to her I can handle myself with Holt. “I don’t have anything else that’s this caliber,” I explain. “If I’d had more time, I could have purchased something, but even then, it probably wouldn’t have been this nice.”

“You’re saying you don’t possess the wardrobe for the job you want.”

“Because I also don’t possess the salary of the job I want. Funny how that works.”

A car honks, and I look up to see if it’s a cop. It’s not, thankfully. 

Holt doesn’t even look. Doesn’t seem to care if he’s holding up traffic or not. He does check his watch, though, and frowns. “We’ll have to skip the luncheon. It will be tight. Let’s go.”

I turn to say something to Zully, but he won’t even afford me the courtesy of telling her goodbye. “We’re running late, Brystin. Get in.”

Sorry, I mouth to her, as I circle around to the passenger side. She does the universal gesture for call me then waves. 

I give her the universal gesture for pray for me. Then I slide into his car, and hope I’m not a willing lamb off to slaughter.