Bad Boy Rich

“Nothing you say, or do, would get me anywhere near you,” I state, adamantly.

“Not even when I tell you that I have my email ready to go Entertainment News with pictures of you and Milana? There’s a nice one of her leaving your place wearing your shirt. The media will love this story. Can you imagine Emerson’s reaction? Her assistant banging her ex fiancé. Where’s the trust?” She laughs again, the edge of insanity in her tone.

“Why would you do that? Honestly, you’ve got no gain.”

“Why? Because it would hurt everyone you loved, then they will leave you and you will have no choice but to crawl back to me because I’m all you’ll have.”

“You’re fucked. I don’t care what you do, Milana won’t care. As for Em, she’ll get over it. We’re tighter than you think.” I grin, remembering how to get to Farrah and expose her insecurity. “I know how much you hate that. Gorgeous Emerson with her perfect life, natural body, fiancé you can’t seem to get your hands on and wait…everybody wants Emerson. Didn’t she just get the cover of Vogue? It’s like she has the whole package…and once upon a time I loved her. Not you…but her.”

The pleasure from hurting Farrah was far too much fun. I lick my lips, listening to her heavy breathing that follows with her hysteric scream and glass smashing against the wall.

“Are you done?” she cries, dramatically.

“Why yes, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye Wesley. Oops…click.”

“What would you say is your greatest fear?”

Emerson is sitting with her legs crossed in front of Entertainment News ruthless reporter, Kitty Seinfeld.

“I find that my answer continues to change as I grow older. What I once feared I no longer do. I guess, it would be having my daughter learn some lessons the hard way I did.”

Kitty is quick to fire off another question. “What if your daughter was to choose your same path? If we’re being candid here, you’ve made some questionable choices in your personal life and it has attracted drama.”

Kitty is a machine—a machine of drama. She is a typical blond-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful woman. The face that screams cheerleader back in high school. I often thought that women, or girls, like this had it easy. Never had to defend their ethnicity or explain why they don’t look white, nor look full Asian. Fits into a size 2 and hasn’t dealt with trying to find foundation that matched your skin tone because your skin is this weird pale-looking color that is not considered as normalcy.

Breathe. Nonsense rambling is not helping calm your agitated mood.

Truth: I didn’t like the way she dragged Wesley’s name through the mud. Though he probably deserved it.

She wasn’t the only interviewer that asked about him. Frankly—I was sick of it. No matter where we went, people were desperate to know about him. How he was doing, if Emerson and Wesley still remained friends, who he was dating. It surprised me how little they focused on Logan given he was her partner, not Wesley.

The interview carries on for another thirty minutes. Question, after question, and despite Kitty’s forwardness—Emerson was a pro. Emerson dominated the room and it was clear that it put Kitty in a foul mood. By the end, her questions were just stupid.

“Thank you.” Kitty extends her hand to Emerson; a fake smile in tow. It’s brief, and the moment she pulls away, she shouts for her assistant and demands that she gets out of this rat hole.

I purposely make it my mission to block the exit in order to say a few words.

“You know, Kitty, it sounds like you have an obsession with Wesley.”

Kitty lifts her head with a confused expression; quickly belting out a laugh shortly after. “Me? An obsession with Wesley Rich? Oh honey, been there, slept with that.”

My fists clench unexpectedly inside the pockets of my pants. With difficulty, I keep my eyes still, refusing to give away the jealousy that makes my blood boil especially since the image of Wesley fucking this woman is all I can now think of.

“Classy,” I respond. “I better not keep you waiting. I’m sure your vagina is looking for its next victim.”

“Excuse me?” Kitty folds her arms in distaste the same time her assistant yells that the driver is parked out front.

I lift my head, back straight, and walk away. When I hear her heels click away from the room, I’m quick to yell, “I hope you get crabs!”

Those that heard me, turn around in bewilderment. Not wanting to draw any more attention and make a further spectacle of myself, I focus on doing what I am paid to do—assist.

Georgia—Emerson’s makeup artist—touches her up with some foundation before her next interview.

“Do you need anything?” I ask, rather quickly.

“I’m fine, Milana. Go get yourself a coffee, you look beat and that crabs comment…Gold,” she chuckles lightly.