Whoever she is, she clearly can’t be seen with Owen. But why is that? Is it because she’s married? Is she an ex or a rival of Carl’s? What’s with the secrecy?
And keep in mind, Owen doesn’t have a reputation for caring about what the public thinks. The Capitalist Chronicle has written numerous articles about him and his philandering ways, and I’m sure he’s laughed at each and every one of them. After all, he has openly admitted to reveling in his infamy.
So why does he suddenly care now what the public thinks of this woman? Is it possible that the blonde’s identity is so important that if it’s to be revealed, it could ruin either one of their reputations? If that’s the case, then readers, we might have a scandal in the making.
For more updates on this developing story, stay with Lis Langley. I’m always seeking to uncover the dirt that the Westbrooks try to hide. And this time, I’m most interested in Owen’s Louboutin blonde secret.
Chapter 15
Owen
Armed with Mira’s dress and still ripe with her perfume, I decide to take a visit at the Wilder Lingerie office to personally deliver it. Like I said, it’s what a gentleman would do.
Of course, I could have easily sent one of my drivers to do it, but fuck that; I just want to see her hot body one last time. Besides, I just rubbed one out, so I think I can behave myself accordingly in her presence without exploding. Hell, it’s an office, so it’s not like anything crazy can happen.
Although, if she has a private office…
As I step into the suite, the first thing I see is a white wall with nails sticking out of it and a sad-looking table with nothing but a phone on top.
Uh, am I in the right place?
I step out of the office into the hallway and check the door again.
Suite #305. This is it.
Holy fuck. How can this be Wilder Lingerie? It looks like a battered rehearsal space a couple of stoners pay $50 a month to “jam” in.
What’s with the bare walls? No sign for the company? And where the hell is the receptionist?
As I stand by the sad table, which looks like it was found on a street corner, I can’t help but feel bad for Mira. Maybe the interior of the office space is nicer—I mean, I can’t imagine it looking any worse than this shit.
After waiting a few minutes or so, I realize the receptionist is definitely not showing up, if one even exists.
I walk out of the entry area and turn down a hallway. The drab white color continues, but at least the walls have been decorated with framed magazine covers and articles.
One of them includes a feature from Forbes about young CEOs.
Mira is pictured all dolled-up in professional hair and makeup while holding her hands on her hips. It’s kind of weird seeing this other side of her. She looks so…pure.
I then close my eyes and imagine her all dirty and naked in my kitchen. Now that’s the Mira I know.
As I walk away from the picture, I hear a loud crash behind me. I turn around and see a ceiling tile broken in pieces on the floor.
That almost fucking hit me! God, this office needs a warning label.
I enter the main workspace, and it just gets worse.
It’s like a start-up office designed by a sadist; all departments are crammed into one massive open-floor with co-workers layered on top of each other, sharing small desks. Everyone’s typing on ancient computers while looking up from their screens with a pathetic look in their eyes.
I feel like I’m in some war-torn country, and these people need my charity. Either that, or at least an office that won’t give them a concussion from falling ceiling tiles.
This place is a fucking disaster. Mira’s clearly getting screwed over by these investors. If this is the best their money can buy, then they’re clearly not doing enough.
As I continue my depressing tour of the office, I hear a familiar voice. It can only be one person, one obnoxious asshole of a person.
“You went home with him?!” the muffled voice carries from somewhere in the back of the office. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
I look around at the co-workers who are all trying really hard to ignore the commotion coming from a closed office in the corner.