Chapter 48 – Pleasing the Boss

“f**k you.”

“You wouldn’t let me, remember?”

I’m barely listening to him. He’s toxic and pathetic. Another privileged white boy playing with real people like they’re toys. I can’t believe I fell for any of it.

I can’t believe I told Elvis that I needed space for such a waste of a human.

I reach over to gather the contract pages. What I want to do is tear them up and throw the pieces in his face.

But Hadrian is right—it’s a tough road to the top. Tougher for women. I have no doubt I’ll be blacklisted if I back out now. I might have time in my life to rebuild, but Elvis’s twenty years my senior.

So I won’t walk out.

I reach over to pull the pen out of his jacket pocket. Then I find the dotted line, and I sign my name. “I’m sure you can manage faking a witness. The world bends to you, it seems.” I toss the pen on the table over the signed pages. “And the exchange bet**en us? It’s done. I got the job. I have nothing else I need to earn. Don’t bother reaching out. I won’t come.”

I plan to push by him, making a dramatic exit, but the celebratory smirk on his face freezes in my tracks.

“Actually”—he scoops the contract into his hands—“if you recall in section four, letter D, you are required to promote the show in any way that the network sees fit.”

“Promote the show, yes. Not get off the CEO.”

“So you will show up when I say come, starting this Friday night. You’ll accompany me to the SNC opera event. And you’ll wear what I tell you to wear. And you’ll s**k my c**k in the coatroom if I tell you to s**k my c**k in the coatroom. This contract was negotiated, but believe me, it’s still in favor of the network. You have very little recourse if I decide to move your show to three a.m. on the weekend or reduce your on-screen time to only thirty minutes a month.”

No, no, no. This is not happening. I am not chained to Hadrian Seymour’s whims for the length of my contract.

“I’ll tell my story,” I say. “I’ll #metoo your ass. Harvey Weinstein went down. You think you’re safe?”

He laughs.

“You think that’s funny?”

He considers a minute, his l*ps pursed tight. “Did you know my mother died by suicide?”

Monster that he is, I’m human, and my ch*st pricks at the awful admission. “Suicide? I thought…” I wrack my brain to remember what I’d learned about Sonya from the internet. She’d died when Hadrian was young. Not even ten years old. “I read she died of a brain aneurysm.”

“I assure you it was suicide. You want to know why you didn’t know that?”

I shake my head, tentatively, already aware of where this is heading.

“Because Seymours make the news, Brystin. And this contract?” He holds it up like it’s a trophy. “This contract means I own you.”

Hadrian POV

She’s late.

I restrain myself from looking at my watch because if I know how late Brystin is exactly, I might blow a gasket. I’d feel like I had a lot more control if she’d simply accepted the ride from the driver I sent. Instead, she texted last minute that she’d be providing her own transportation. I couldn’t even insist since she said she wasn’t home and refused to tell me her location.

Honestly, I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t show up at all. I’m certain if she does show up that she won’t have followed the instructions I gave regarding her attire, or rather, her accessories. I’m already prepared to be angry about that.

It isn’t hard when I’ve been angry for the last day and a half, since I saw her at the Seymour Center in Elvis’s arms. I’d thought I’d be late, but I was so eager to see her, that I rushed my meeting and went down to the conference room right on time, only to see her clutching to that asshole husband of hers like there is still something meaningful bet**en them. As if there were ever something meaningful bet**en them, which I highly doubt.

I don’t usually care about who the women I f**k are with when they aren’t with me. I’m not looking for love, and I suit up every time, so I’m not worried about catching anything. Since I have no interest in romance, I generally choose my f**ks based on mood and who’s available, rarely seeing any one woman more than once in a month.

This thing with Brystin is supposed to be more of the same. Casual fun that doesn’t get in the way of my one and only priority—bringing SNC back to the top of the news networks.

But she’s been more of a distraction than I’d expected. Pulling my interest. Making me care about who she sees when she’s not with me. Who she’s sleeping with. I knew she was married, but considering how often Elvis steps out—which is a well-known secret among producers, it turns out—I was sure their marriage was more of a business partnership than a love match.

But then she was in his arms, and the way he looked at her when he pulled away…the way she looked at him…

I’ve never felt so capable of murder, and since Hunter is my half-brother, that’s saying something.

I’d been so irrationally heated that I’d sent André ahead to introduce Brystin to Claudia. Then I’d started down the hallway after Elvis, completely intent on firing him without cause or punching him in the face—I hadn’t quite decided.

Good thing André came after me to tell me Brystin was refusing to sign or I’d be dealing with covering up my bad behavior today. Unfortunately for Brystin, I carried that anger into that conference room. She fueled it even more with her righteousness and naiveté. I’ve already put everything on the line for her—my career, my reputation—and now she develops a conscience? Not to mention what walking out would do to her own career and reputation.

I might have been able to calm down and talk reasonably with her if she hadn’t cared more about what happened to that douche of a husband of hers than she cared about herself. I had no choice but to be the bad guy. I won’t feel guilty about it.

Except she’s mad now, and obviously testing my b**tons. On one hand, it’s for the best. We were getting too cozy, exchanging texts every night. I let my guard down. Forgot to keep my eye on the goal line. It’s better if she’s mad. Maybe even more fun.

On the other hand, tonight is a big night for Our Nation Now, and if she blows it with her obstinance, I swear to f**king God—

“Hey, handsome.”

I pause my anxious pacing outside the Irving Seymour Concert Hall and turn to see who’s addressing me. Frankly, if it’s not Brystin, I don’t care, but this is a night when I’m in the public eye—when am I not, as of late?—and so I put on a welcoming smile and greet… “Greta. Didn’t expect to see you tonight. What a surprise.”

The rail thin ex-model is one of the kinkier women I’ve had in my bed, and one of the few natural blondes. Not like Brystin whose roots give her away. I keep hoping she grows a strip on her p**sy like I asked, so I can know for sure. I fantasize about running my t***ue along the proof. I’m practically a caveman every time I think about it.

But I shouldn’t be thinking this much about Brystin. Especially when there is a more than fine substitute standing in front of me.

I lean in and plant a k**s on the side of Greta’s mouth—not so conspicuous that it will attract paparazzi attention, but appropriate for someone I get naked with on the regular.

“Mm, you smell good. As always.” She casually puts her hand on my lapel, as if she’s dusting off a speck of lint that I know is not there. “I just got back from Saint Tropez a couple of days ago. Marcus stayed in France for work, so my bed is lonely. In case that interests you.”

“I’m interested.” Interests me quite a lot. I fully expect Brystin to be difficult tonight—if she ever shows up—and she’ll likely have me hard and aching the whole time. Only because it’s been way too many days with my hand. The day at the studio was the last time anyone other than myself had touched my c**k, and I desperately need a release in a warm body.

I desperately need to stop imagining that warm body having Brystin’s face.

One night with Greta should have me back on my game, and I’ll forget all about the high maintenance diva I just signed. “I’m waiting for someone right now. Business. Late night okay for you?”

“Text when you’re on your way,” she purrs.

---