Billionaire Devil (New York Billionaires #3)

Chapter 1

1

Wednesday

Southampton, New York

“I wish I could help you, Miss Bailey, I really do,” says the woman on the phone. “But I can’t forward your information to my boss for the simple reason that she doesn’t take unsolicited phone calls. At all. You’ll have to go through the usual application process just like everyone else.”

“I have,” I tell her. “I never heard back.”

“That means you weren’t selected. They only get in touch with people they’re interested in meeting with.”

“But if she could take a quick look at my Insta?—”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” the woman interrupts sharply. “You’ll just have to wait until another position is advertised and try again. Have a nice afternoon.” She hangs up on me.

Damn it.

I sigh, putting my phone face down on the tiny kitchen table in my postage-stamp-sized studio apartment, gazing out the window at my neighbor’s rusty air conditioning unit in the back alley of what most people would consider a very beautiful town. Southampton is beautiful, of course. Once you get out of the back alleys and away from the air conditioning units that happen to whir very loudly at all hours of the day and night.

Not that I’m complaining. I chose to be here and I’m doing my best to make the most of it. I moved to the east coast from L.A. almost a year ago, leaving the only home I’ve ever known, because I desperately needed a change. The place never felt the same after my mom passed away suddenly, two and a half years ago. Once I graduated from UCLA with a degree in fashion, I figured the best thing to do was to dream big and try my luck in the fashion mecca of New York City.

I also wanted to get away from the love of my life, who—and yes, I’m aware of how pathetic this sounds—I’ve only actually spoken to a handful of times. Usually when he was being drooled over by other women. Even so, I hold onto those rare moments of charged eye contact—which are etched into my memories like they’ve been lasered there with a sadistically red-hot blowtorch—like little gems.

Troy Beckett. Star hockey player. Center for the Bruins and record-holder for the most goals scored in one season. Playboy of the highest order. Gorgeous, in a tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of way that was basically the equivalent of crack to every woman with a heartbeat during all four years of my college experience.

I never really even got close to him.

Of course I regret that the only man I’ve ever loved—from afar—might not even know my last name. It was another reason I needed to leave L.A.

You’d think in a city of almost four million people, a girl could have figured out how to avoid one ego-inflated jock.

But luck was never on my side in that regard. I ran into him everywhere. On campus, at the beach, during my part-time job at a trendy café. The one right around the corner from the Bruins’ practice rink, as it turned out.

He was always being fawned over by beautiful, scantily-clad puck bunnies. He’d catch me staring. He’d smile. He’d say things like, Hey, Lila , which caused my heart to erupt with joy because he actually did know my name. Or, with a grin, You’re not stalking me, are you, babe?

As I said: etched into my brain on a repeating loop that I had to move clear across the country to try to escape from.

It’s worked, mostly.

I’ve been too busy holding down two jobs while also trying to make inroads for myself as a designer to think much about my unrequited love. I’m grateful for that, as exhausted as I might be. At least I don’t run into him during my waitressing shifts or through the long hours at my job as a stylist in the boutique on Main Street. Both of which are slowly but surely destroying my soul.

The job in the boutique, Threads on Main, was offered to me before I left L.A. The owner was a contact of one of my design collaborators on the last of my senior projects. A girl named Solange whose mom had a couple of rich friends in Southampton.

The boutique looked amazing on paper. I accepted the job offer, rented out my old apartment in Venice, packed my bags, thanked my lucky stars I was finally getting a change of scene, and drove my mostly-trusty Toyota Corolla three thousand miles to start work the following week. It’s an exclusive store in the Hamptons with direct links to several of the major fashion houses and it sounded like a dream come true.

I fantasized it might be a launchpad to New York Fashion Week. Bryant Park, here I come , I’d thought. I pictured myself sipping coffee in one of the park’s little cafes, then rushing off—in some impossibly cute outfit of my own design—to get my very first solo show ready for the catwalk, where the front row would be full of Kardashians and Beckhams.

For a whole year now, after my other jobs’ shifts are over, I work late into the night, painstakingly sketching and sewing pieces that might catch the eye of my boss and, with her contacts, maybe even the design houses themselves.

Things haven’t worked out quite like my fantasies, to say the least. My boss, Veronica Wade, fits every stereotype of the steely, ball-breaking fashion dragon a la Miranda Priestley. She thinks of herself as the go-to know-all of Southampton. She attends parties with the likes of Christian Siriano and—once—Ralph Lauren and his wife Ricky, who, for reasons known only to herself, she considers not only equals but close friends.

Veronica won’t even look at my designs. Which means that asking her to show them to people in the industry is out of the question. She also pays me so little, I had to get a second job as a waitress four nights a week just to make ends meet. The tips from the old school billionaires—who are misogynistic dinosaurs but throw money around like it grows on trees—help pay the bills, but they’re not getting me any closer to my dream of making it as a designer.

I scour the internet looking for opportunities. I work on my Instagram profile, which is slowly gaining some traction. I spend my nights sewing my garments. But none it seems to get me any closer to making my goals a reality.

The non-stop grind is starting to make dents in my stamina. Maybe because I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in months.

My phone vibrates. Hoping it might be one of the jobs I’ve applied for calling me back, I pick it up .

Jess’s name pops up on the screen. My bestie from home, who grew up a few houses down from mine. We also went to UCLA together. I majored in fashion and she majored in film.

“Hey, Jess.”

“Hi, honey. How’s life? You haven’t called me in over a week, just saying.”

“Sorry. I’ve been so busy.” Just hearing her voice makes me pine for familiarity. I’m surprised to feel the slightest sting behind my eyes. God, I really must be strung out.

Jessie is like a sister to me. We were both only children, both raised by single moms. The difference is, hers is alive and well and thriving as a Hollywood casting director. Mine got sprinkled into the ocean, which she made me promise I would do, months before she had any idea she would drop dead of a sudden brain aneurism in the middle of a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Reading my voice like only Jess can, she comments, “You sound tired.”

“I am, a little,” I admit.

“Well, the good news is, you’re about to get a vacation.”

“Yeah, right.” I exhale a light laugh. “I can’t take a vacation.”

“You have to. I’m getting married.”

“What?” I splutter. “To who?”

“Remember the guy I was telling you about a few months ago?”

“The hot tech guy you met at that beach party? ”

“Yes. His name is Jacob.”

“But…you’re marrying him?”

“We’ve seen a lot of each other over the past three months and, well, the thing is…”

Her pause goes on just a little too long. “The thing is what, Jess?”

“I’m pregnant.”

I’m speechless for a couple of seconds. “Holy shit, Jess.” Jessie has always wanted kids. It’s been a dream of hers for as long as I’ve known her.

“I know. It’s a lot. But I’m happy. It feels like it’s meant to be.”

“It’s a little sudden .” I’m about to say, you barely even know the guy , but it’s hardly going to be helpful right now to point that out.

“Yeah. It is sudden. It just kind of happened. It was a shock. We used condoms and everything, but one of them must have broken. I like him so much and he’s been so incredibly nice about the whole thing. He’s sweet and caring—and hot and also loaded—and we both know those attributes don’t converge in one human being very often. He’s basically perfect. And then the look on his face when I told him my period was late…he was excited , Lila. Not scared or spooked or trying to worm his way out of anything. His reaction really made me want to…I don’t know, just go with it. His parents are still married and they still live in their family home in Mendocino. We went up there last month and he introduced me to his whole family. He’s got two older brothers and his parents were so welcoming and they’re all so normal , Lila. He’s stable and… real . Not like every loser I’ve ever dated—and God knows there have been plenty of them. He has a house in Malibu. An amazing house. With a view of the ocean. And then two nights ago he got down on one knee out of the blue and he asked me to marry him. With a big-ass diamond ring. So I said yes. We want to do it soon. We want to do it before I start to show and we can’t see any reason to wait.”

Maybe so you can get to know each other? I want to say. But the truth is, I’ve barely talked to Jessie for months. I’ve been too busy to make the time to chat for hours, which is what we always end up doing.

I mean, maybe it is possible to make decisions like this on the fly if it feels right. How would I know? The only man I’ve ever connected with was too busy connecting with every other female within a three-mile radius to even notice me. I’m hardly the best judge of these things. “Wow, Jess. I’m so happy for you. If you’re really sure.”

“I’m sure I want to have this baby. And so is he. We just…clicked. Before this even happened. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this excited in my entire life, Lila. For all of it. So I figure that’s a good sign.”

“Yeah. It must be a good sign. This is amazing.”

I can tell she’s crying. “I know, right? Who would have thought I’d be married and knocked up before I even turn twenty-four? Will you come? Will you be my maid of honor, Lila? I can’t do this without you. ”

“Next Saturday? Way to give a girl some advanced warning, honey.”

“I know. It’s quick. Please please please come, Lila. I need you there.”

“Of course I’ll come.” I actually do have some time off accumulated at the boutique since I haven’t taken a single day off for the whole year. I’m owed two weeks, in fact. My boss at my waitressing job is laid back enough to also give me time off, at least I hope he is. Even if he isn’t, it hardly matters. I can’t exactly say things have worked out for me here in New York. I haven’t even come close to achieving a single one of my goals. I’m still stuck in this overpriced limbo that involves styling billionaires’ wives whose faces are pumped so full of Botox they look like they’re made of plastic, and whose only fashion consideration is flaunting price tags to their equally-obscenely-loaded friends.

“I can send you a plane ticket if you want,” Jess offers. “If that’s helpful.”

“You know me.” I laugh off my fear of flying. “I prefer to remain on solid ground, rather than suspend myself thirty thousand feet in the air inside a flimsy metal tube.”

“I thought you were going to go to therapy about your phobia,” she chides me.

“I haven’t had time. It’s on the list.”

“It’s a long drive, Lila.”

In some ways I feel like this might be a sign. Maybe it’s time for me to cut my losses and accept defeat. I tried to make it in New York, I really did. I gave it a year. I’ve worked my ass off with nothing to show for it. I’ve made progress, but I still have such a long way to go. Plenty of designers base themselves in L.A., after all. It’s not like I can’t build up a following from the West Coast. “I was actually thinking of coming home.” I hate that, as I say it, a piece of me feels like I’m a failure who’s giving up too soon.

“For good?” She can’t disguise her hopefulness.

“I don’t know. I’ve made one friend and I can’t get an interview for a job I actually want to save my life.”

“Would you move back into your apartment?”

“The tenant just signed another six-month lease, so no, not right away.” I inherited the one-bedroom apartment I grew up in (and its mortgage) when my mom died. My mom was a working actor and single mother and she did the best she could. I admire her for so many reasons, but most of all because no matter how hard things got, she always stayed true to her art. It was her passion. The one lucrative role she ever got allowed us to buy a tiny apartment only one block from one of the more scenic canals, in a quaint but run-down house that was converted in the seventies into two apartments. Ours is on the top floor, with its own rickety exterior staircase and a closed-in balcony with a peek-a-boo view of the water.

My apartment is cozy and cute and still my favorite place on earth, with all its memories and its quirky little Californian personality. It needs a lot of work and there’s still a substantial mortgage to pay off, as well as the forever-ongoing expenses of taxes and insurance. The rent barely covers its costs, and even though property values have skyrocketed over the past few years, I could never sell it. That would feel like selling off a big chunk of my soul.

“Move in with us !” Jess gushes. “Jacob’s house in Malibu has five bedrooms.”

“Wow, Jess. That’s incredible. But I’m not moving in with you and your new husband—and baby, soon enough. Thanks for the offer though.”

“You could stay with us until you find somewhere else. Just think about it, at least. You’ll have plenty of time to mull it over on the 40-hour drive.”

“True.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Yes. I’ll be there by noon on Saturday. Does that work?”

“You can’t get here by Friday night?”

“I’m going to say Saturday just to be on the safe side. It’s going to take me all week to get there.”

“Okay. The ceremony starts at three. If you could get here by noon so we could get ready together, that would be perfect.”

“It’s a date.”

“Lila, I’m so excited to see you. L.A. isn’t the same without you in it.”

“I’ve missed you too, bestie.”

“Listen, my mom’s here to take me to try on wedding dresses. I would’ve asked you to make me one if it wasn’t so rushed. Call me tomorrow though. We need to talk through details.”

“Okay. I’m working two shifts but I’ll call you in between.”

“You work way too much. There’s seriously a free room for you to call your own here if you want it. You could sew all day and put your own show together.”

As tempting as that might be, it would never work. I’m far too independent to rely on other people. Just like my mother was. The mere thought of mooching off Jess’s new fiancé makes me feel uneasy. I guess it’s one of my quirks. I always need to feel like I’m fully in control of my own destiny. “I’m really happy for you, Jess. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, honey. It means the world to me that you’re coming. Oh, and Lila?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember Brittany Wells?”

“Yeah.” She lived down the street from us when we were teenagers. We used to go to the Santa Monica pier together sometimes.

“You know how she was always baking cupcakes and started that cupcake business a while ago?”

“I think I remember you mentioning it.”

“Well, she’s offered to make our wedding cake.”

“Great.”

“And since she offered to make the cake, I invited her to the wedding. She asked if she could bring…a plus one. ”

“Is that a problem?”

“She said…” Jessie pauses. “I’m just going to blurt this out because I don’t know how else to say it, but her plus one is Troy Beckett. She’s been dating him off and on and…he’s coming to the wedding. They’re not exclusive. She said they’re ‘friends with benefits’. That’s how she put it.”

I feel myself pale. “Oh.”

“I just wanted to tell you, so you weren’t caught off-guard or anything. But you’re over him now, right? That was a long time ago.”

“Of course,” I laugh breezily. “Are you kidding? As if I’d still be pining for that loser.”

“Thank God.” She sounds relieved. “I knew that. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”

“Okay. Good. I better go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Jess.”

We end the call.

Fuck.

I am over that loser. Totally. It’s ridiculous that I ever loved him in the first place. He hardly even gave me the time of day and I hate that I wasted so much of my life on him. I saved myself for him, all through college. Hoping maybe he’d notice me. Fantasizing that maybe once he got to know me, he’d fall in love with me and leave all the others behind.

Which means I’m a huge sucker and a complete idiot.

And I’m basically still saving myself for him—not intentionally, but it’s not like I’m out on the town every weekend picking up men. I’m too busy working.

I also hate that my heart is beating faster at the thought of seeing him again. They’re not exclusive? Does that mean…maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that he might finally…

Stop it.

I force myself to snap out of it. I’ve given way too much of my energy to that black hole of a not-even-close relationship. I can’t allow myself to spend another second of angst or longing on a guy who’s never treated me like anything more than a piece of furniture.

Snap out of it, girl! You’re better than that.

Of course I am. I’ve moved on. I’m a strong, independent woman, taking the world by storm.

Who’s also thinking of giving up on her dream of making it in New York because it’s lonely and nearly impossible to get ahead. And who still hasn’t met anyone else because she spends all her time striving like a madwoman but basically getting nowhere.

Anyway, I’m trying to take the world by storm, that’s got to count for something.

I sigh, without meaning to.

My phone rings again and this time it’s Sloane. The one and only true friend I’ve made since I’ve been here.

“Hey, Sloane.” She came into the restaurant one night with friends, soon after I started working at the restaurant. I just happened to be finishing my shift. We ended up having a drink together because she complimented the skirt I’d made and we talked for hours. It felt good to find a friendship that was so easy and spontaneous. She’s bubbly and outgoing and fun. She lives in Chelsea and sometimes, if my schedule allows—which has only happened twice—I’ll take the Jitney into the city and meet her for a drink somewhere.

When Sloane found out I design clothes she looked me up and bought a few of my pieces online. She told her friends about me and it’s been Sloane’s orbit of Instagram fashionistas that have given me the most exposure so far.

“Honey, what are you doing Saturday night?” she asks. “Will you come with me to a party? Technically, I’m working, but I need reinforcements. I can’t bear to talk shop all night with the finance nerd brigade.”

“Whose party is it?”

“My boss’s brother, Noah. It’s at his to-die-for house in Southampton.” Sloane has a job as the assistant for Colton Maddox, one of the four very successful Maddox brothers, famous for their good looks and their money. And for supposedly being Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors. Colton is the playboy brother, according to Sloane. She tells me wild stories about how he charms all the most beautiful women in Manhattan into bed but refuses to commit to any one of them beyond one night. “Usually I’d go alone but I need a buffer since it’ll be mainly work people. They’re celebrating the best quarter they’ve ever had at Invested Enterprises. ”

“Sounds fun. But I’m heading back to California for a friend’s wedding this weekend.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “When are you leaving?”

“Sunday morning.”

She perks up. “Then you can come.”

“I was going to have an early night on Saturday and try to leave early on Sunday. I’m driving all the way to L.A., if you can believe that.”

“You’re driving ?”

“I know, it’s a long way. But I’m scared of flying.” I don’t mention to Sloane that I’m thinking of moving back to L.A. for good. “And I thought I could see a few places along the way that I’ve always wanted to see.” I don’t love the idea of going alone, but then again maybe it’ll be a good opportunity to get some headspace and reassess my life. I haven’t had a chance to do that in a while.

“Please come?” Sloane pleads. “I need you, girlfriend. Plus I haven’t seen you in weeks and we need to catch up. You can still get an early night. Wear one of those sexy-ass designs you’re so good at. It’ll be a good opportunity to get noticed by some seriously loaded Hamptonites and it could be good for business.”

Maybe she’s right. Besides, I can admit I’ve been lonely lately, mired in my grueling work schedule. It might be nice to have some fun for a change. “Okay. I’ll come. But just for a few hours.”

“Fantastic! Thank you, sweetie. I’ll die of boredom if I have to spend the evening discussing spreadsheets and cost benefit analyses. You’re way more interesting.”

I laugh. “Sure I am.”

“Who knows, you might meet some hot billionaire who will sweep you off your feet and fall madly in love with you.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

“I’ll see you on Saturday, honey. I’ll pick you up at six.”