Chapter 1
Elsa
I consider myself a zen, understanding person.
But Tanner Sharpe?
He can go eat shit and die.
“Oh, fuck you, Elsa,” Tanner sneers at me. “I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch. I mean, I come here offering peace—”
“At least you know what it feels like to come in my presence,” I counter. “Such a shame that the feeling can’t be mutual.”
A flash goes off inches from me, blinding me with its brightness. And, just like that, I'm snapped back to reality.
My ex and business rival, Tanner Sharpe, and I aren't hurling insults at each other in private this tim
e. No, we're on the biggest stage of the last night of the New York Fucking Fashion Week.
Surrounded by TV cameras, the press, and everyone included in the list of Who’s Who in the world of fashion.
Not only are these people witnesses to my most humiliating moment, but so is the rest of the world—and it’s all being broadcast LIVE.
I notice in the corner of my eye, my board of directors are staring at us.
No, make that angrily staring at us. Like, furiously angry. Angrier than I've ever seen them.
Shit. This is not good.
Okay. So shit looks bad, right? But let's back up a little, if only for posterity’s sake. Because this show—my show—started off as the greatest moment of my life.
Except that Tanner was sitting in the audience, which is where every single problem began.
* * *
“I can't believe that jackass had the nerve to show up today,” I seethe. “He's trying to knock me off my game, Monique.”
“That’s his game, babe,” Monique agrees.
“Exactly. And I’m not let him rattle me. Not today, of all days.”
Honestly, Monique is right—and I can believe it. It's typical of Tanner to crash my fashion show, and make it all about him.
He’s God's gift to women, after all. At least, according to him.
But I, and many other strong, confident women who’ve had the misfortune of dating the pig, know the truth.
“You have to admit…you do think he’s sexy though.” Monique does her signature hair flip and I roll my eyes.
Maybe I've been working her too much with all these long nights leading up to tonight's fashion show…because she’s obviously hallucinating. Tanner Sharpe is the opposite of sexy. Tanner Sharpe is like the inside of a college dorm room Hot Pocket—hot on the outside, dead cold within. I make a mental note to book her a day spa package as soon as this is over, because she’s obviously too exhausted to function.
At the same time…as much as I hate to admit it, she’s kind of fucking right. The man knows how to carry a suit, I'll give him that.
But that's all I'll give him.
One thing became perfectly clear to me, once our disaster of a relationship ended: I can never, ever fucking trust that jackass of a man-boy again.
Not with business and, certainly, not with my heart. Not again.
I catch sight of one of the television cameras—yes, that's right, I was able to secure a television special for my spring fashion show. Tanner the Man Whore can't say that, can he?
So, I smooth my blond hair, and smile my most alluring smile. Who am I kidding? All my smiles are alluring.
Sitting on the front row surrounded by socialites, award-winning actresses, and even goddamned royalty, I'm trying to let all this sink in.
I did this. I made this happen. All the sleepless nights, the gallons and gallons of coffee to get me here are all worth it.
This just proves that I fucking rock.
I smile, assuringly, as I watch my designs practically float down the runway on my gorgeous models, and everyone is eating them up.
I can feel it. I'm a fucking hit.
It reminds me of the days when I used to rock the runway myself.
Hell, I still could if I needed to. I have the body for it.
I was one of the hottest and most in-demand lingerie models just a few years ago. Thanks to Pilates and barre classes, I could still pull it off if need be.
But I’m a different kind of woman now. Corporate. Suits and pencil skirts, strictly speaking.