Playboy Billionaire

“He’s a wild card, isn’t he?” Alk continues, and I’m uncertain if I like where this conversation’s headed because I can’t say what he wants me to. Can’t lie this overtly to the only person alive who knows me best.

“Yes.” I quickly agree, pursing my lips.

“No one will be disappointed in you for trying your best to make this work.” Not true. “A lot is riding on a union between your families… but you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. Just tell me, and we can go.” I furrow my brows at his insistence, and I can’t figure out why he’s pushing so fervently. I am stuck on this path, and nothing he can say will change it.

“I’m fine. Really, Alk, fine.” I force a smile to meet my eyes and grab his hand, giving him a quick squeeze as Iris’ car pulls up to the house. We stand immediately and walk down to it. Alk lets me in the back and sits in the passenger seat next to Iris’ driver.

“This will be so much fun,” Iris assures me as the car pulls away from the house. I grip my sketchbook tightly to my chest, hoping that something is good enough to be used by AMIRI.

We pull into a parking lot of a garden just off the coast. It overlooks the beach and goes on for miles and miles. An interesting spot to meet, I might add, but he’s an artist. I guess I will be considered one too, if I can impress him.

“Just through these gates.” Iris takes my hand. She's wearing an impossibly high white crop top, green low waist bagging cargo pants, and black heels similar to mine. Her blown-out blonde hair is in a green clip, and she has the cutest tiny olive sunglasses on the tip of her nose. She truly looks like a model today.

I admire her choice as we intertwine our fingers and head through the towering gold gates of the garden. Each step I take, I steady my breathing, focusing on the consistency of a slow breath. In and out.

There’s some laughter coming from over a hedge. Flowers engulf us as we duck under them and round the corner where the garden opens to a seating area with benches hugged by ivory, overlooking the choppy ocean below the grassy cliff.

At one of the benches is the designer himself and who I assume to be his assistant, a short man with choppy copper hair and circular black sunglasses that look like he copped them from the seventies. Very Gucci.

The moment Mike sees Iris, he stands with a beaming grin.

“Iris!” she lets go of my hand to give him a hug. As they embrace, I glance over to his assistant, who’s already moved his attention to the iPad in his hands.

“And this must beGolden-girl, Stella Lombardi!” He turns to me, embraces me before I have a chance to shake his hand instead, and I try my best to naturally wrap my arms around him after the fact.

“I love this look.” He steps back to admire me. He knows that it’s his, but just wants me to say it.

“AMIRI.” I grin, playing along.

“Of course it is.” He laughs and welcomes us to join him at a table closer to the corner of the garden. We follow, taking our seats across from him and his assistant.

“So let’s just get down to it. I want to see these designs!” He reaches his hand out for my sketchbook. I hand it over and try not to fidget too much as he begins to flip through. It’s silent for so long that I think I might faint. He points to things a couple of times, murmuring to himself and, occasionally, his assistant, who glances over and types on his iPad.

It feels like we’ve been waiting for hours when he finally looks up with a grin.

“They’re excellent,” I nearly sigh in relief, but I wait for the rest because he takes another breath. “I’m just not sure if they’re AMIRI.”

“Oh,” I nod. “Okay, yeah, that makes total sense. Thank you for your time.”

“Look, I don’t mean to question your artistic journey. But it seems like you could stand on your own. You have a significant following, are well-liked, and have a great sense of trends. Have you ever thought about putting out your own work?”

“I couldn’t—“

“You should think about it. Because if you were to be interested, I would love to do a collaboration. These designs are truly remarkable.” He closes my sketchbook and slides it back to me.

“Thank you.” I swallow the knot in my throat. I can’t put my name out there because doing so would be against what my entire family wants for me. The life that I’m destined to live is in an alliance with the San Giovanni’s to take back New York. We stand, shake both of their hands, and leave before I can process how big of a failure this meeting truly was.

Now that I’m no longer distracted with hope, all I can think about on the silent car ride home is Antonio. Fuck everything. I might as well fuck him. Even if we pull off our fake relationship, if I don’t have something lined up like this to survive on my own, I’m completely fucked all over again. I need to be free from my family’s control, and I can’t do that if every designer wants me to make my own shit or exploit my name for sales.

“He’s just one designer. There are more out there that could be willing to buy your designs without the credit of your name.” Iris fails at her attempt to cheer me up on the way home, but I’m not really listening much as she continues. My mind keeps bringing me back to Antonio.

Why Antonio? Why is he the one I want to talk to about what’s happened today? I should have told him where I was going. Maybe he could have convinced AMIRI to take my designs. He can talk anyone into anything, I think.

Then again, it wouldn’t be my own win, and I’m much too independent to need a man's help in that area. Why am I so hooked on him? I can’t be. I’ve got to do something to re-establish the relationship as neutral. A so-we-fucked-but-we’re-still-friends, type of truce.

Next time I see him, that’s what I’ll do. Just talk to him. That’s all. He won’t be a distraction, I’ll get my deal with another designer, and we can call this quits before it gets too weird. I really am a wonderful plan-maker. Now all I have to do is stick to it.

Iris drops Alk and me off in the late afternoon, the sun is less intense, and there’s a cool breeze swirling in the air. We step inside, and the house is quiet. Determined to talk to Antonio as I planned, I head upstairs and knock on his door. There’s no answer, so I knock again and again until I’m done waiting and open the door.