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“You’re basically saying I can’t Snapchat a pic of his sex dungeon.”
“He doesn’t have a sex dungeon.” J.T. pauses immediately after the comment as if deep in thought. “No…” The contemplation in his gaze briefly deepens. “No…” Once he’s sold on his own answer, I’m given a headshake. “Yeah, no. He probably doesn’t have one of those.”
“Your certainty is overwhelming,” I sarcastically retort.
Lurch gives an impatient knock to the window reminding J.T. to hurry the conversation along, an action that leads to him pushing the device at me for a second time.
“What happens if I don’t sign it?” Yet again, I make no attempt to take it. “What happens if I refuse to play by the big, bad, billionaire’s list of rules?”
“Then you can’t see your mother.”
Chapter 3
Wes
I think the only emails that I hate more than those from other board members are the social ones that my newest assistant, Zaidee Khan, forwards to me from journalists – social to financial – dying to get a word with me.
A look at me.
Which they won’t.
Not now.
Not ever again.
Sure, I don’t love that the media speculates about every little aspect of my personal life.
The supermodels I’m not actually dating.
The sex workers I’m not actually hiring.
Where I’m literally not jetting off to – primarily because I haven’t flown anywhere since the accident.
They print lies because lies sell.
Gossiping that the reclusive billionaire avoids the spotlight because he has a clown fetish will most certainly get them more money than the basic truth of his hatred for his deserved disfigurement.
And making money is what they’re trying to do.
I respect that.
Keeping my name in their nonsense, keeps my company’s name in their headlines, and that is free publicity.
Unpaid for advertisement placement.
Placement that is basically free marketing as it keeps my brand towards the front of their minds versus the back.
Like I said before, I don’t love that the media speculates about every little aspect of my life, but I do love how well Wilcox Enterprises benefits financially.
“How’s your tea?” Penny curiously questions from the doorway of my upstairs main office that doubles as a personal library. “Yum?”
I don’t bother looking in the direction of the untouched red liquid I didn’t request. “Cooling.”
“It’s red tea.”
“Yes, Penny. I’m attractively impaired, not visually.”
“I meant um…that uh…” her stumbling over her words is accompanied by her nervously swaying further into the extra-large space. “It’s nicknamed red tea. It’s made from rooibos. The plant?”
