Chapter 22
BIX
The next afternoon, I follow Milo’s directions to meet him, Sterling, and Slayer at a lounge for private-jet customers departing from JFK.
“Hi. My name is Bix Bismark, and I’m—”
“Of course. Ms. Bismark,” says the attendant at the door with a knowing smile. “Mr. Sterling asked me to take you right over as soon as you arrived.”
The sleek airline lounge looks more like an upscale nightspot than anything you’d find at an airport.
I follow her through, acutely aware of curious glances from other travelers. A woman with perfect highlights and a designer handbag nudges her companion and whispers something.
Do they recognize me from Vanessa Sinclair’s column? That photograph taken outside the noodle shop?
“Ah, Bix! You’ve made it,” says Sterling, standing as soon as he sees me. Slayer rises a moment later, his movements graceful despite his apparent reluctance.
“You look lovely, doesn’t she, Slayer?” Sterling prompts.
I try to meet Slayer’s eyes through lowered lashes. My heart does that ridiculous flutter. For a fleeting second, I fear Slayer can hear or sense it.
But it’s impossible to gauge his reaction to anything through his shades.
“Bix,” he says, his voice low. “You clean up well.”
I can’t make out whether he’s being sarcastic or complimentary. Either way, the sound of my new nickname on his lips sends an electric current through me. Which I desperately try to ignore.
“All Antoine’s doing,” I say lightly, catching my reflection in a nearby mirror.
The blue suit, white silk camisole, and bold, gold jewelry make me look like someone who belongs in this world of private jets and record deals. Someone who isn’t me.
“Have a seat,” says Sterling.
I perch on the edge of a chair, feeling utterly out of place as Sterling asks about my life. I respond briefly but honestly, pausing only when he asks about Hilary.
“She passed last year,” I say, then quickly change the subject. “I loved seeing the pictures in the lobby at your office. Was it your great-grandfather who created Sterling Records?”
As Sterling launches into a long story about his family dynasty, I steal glances at Slayer.
He’s not on his phone and doesn’t appear to be listening to music. He’s just sitting perfectly still, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, like he’s meditating. Or plotting an escape.
“Ms. Bismark?”
I jump, finding myself face to face with a woman holding a small recorder.
“Tessa Lane, Music Pulse. May I ask a few questions? Everyone’s dying to know how you and Slayer met.”
Before I can stammer a response, Slayer’s hand lands on my shoulder, warm and steady.
“Private moment, private couple,” he says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that makes the reporter step back. “No interviews.”
“Just one question,” she persists, turning to me. “What’s it like dating the Dark Prince?”
Milo’s training kicks in. I smile, just wide enough to seem genuine. “It was unexpected. We connected over our passion for...brownies.”
I lean closer to Slayer, channeling every rom com I’ve ever seen. “He’s nothing like his public image.”
Slayer’s eyebrows rise slightly above his sunglasses, but his hand remains on my shoulder.
The reporter scribbles furiously until a lounge attendant appears and escorts her out.
“Well handled.” Sterling nods. “You’re a natural.”
“All right, everyone,” Milo announces. “Captain says it’s time to board.”
Milo waits for me to start forward, then follows. I sense eyes on my back as I move toward the plane, wondering how I’ll navigate the steps in these ridiculously high heels Antoine selected.
It’s a wobbly process, but once inside, I’m stunned by the lavish décor. Instead of rows of seats, the plane is divided into sections, starting with a clubby lounge—white-on-white, modernistic, and futuristic, with leather sofas and small tables.
“You’ll find your cabin farther down,” Milo says. “Would you like to see it now?”
“Oh yes, thank you.”
Milo skirts ahead of me, swishing slightly as he walks. “Voilà,” he says, opening the door.
I gasp in surprise. It’s small but exceptionally well organized—a narrow dresser, a vase of fresh red roses, and even my own lavatory.
“I’m afraid this room doesn’t have a shower,” he says.
“That’s okay,” I assure him.
“But you will find a sink so you can freshen up before we land.”
“Thank you. This is beautiful.” I look around a moment. “What do people do on planes?” I ask. “Is dinner served? Do I eat here or in that living area?”
“Darling, it’s a private jet. Enjoy it any way you like. Slayer usually shuts himself in his room until we land. Ditto for Mr. Sterling.” His eyes twinkle.
“Would you like to have dinner in the living area with me? Pierre will be serving us today.”
When I nod, his smile widens.
“Follow me up front and have some Champagne.”
With one last glance around “my” space, I trail Milo back to the living room. There a gorgeous man resembling Timothée Chalamet stands holding a bottle of Champagne.
Milo has excellent taste, it seems.
“Pierre, this is Ms. Bismark, Slayer’s girlfriend. Be sure to give her the VIP service.”
“Of course.” He nods. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Pierre heads to the galley, returning with two Champagne glasses and caviar.
“So,” Milo says once we’re settled with bubbles and beluga, “now that the grown-ups are locked away, dish. What’s it really like to snag the Dark Prince?”
I nearly choke. “I didn’t snag anyone. This is just business.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Milo’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “That hand on your shoulder looked awfully possessive for just business.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “He was just playing the part.”
“Right,” Milo scoffs. “I’ve been watching Slayer a few years now, and I’ve never seen him touch anyone during an interview.
I don’t know what to say to that.
“If he’s playing a part, he’s doing it well, then.” Milo’s eyes glitter. “You know, the tabloids call him the Dark Prince because of more than just his music.”
“What do you mean?”
“The parties, the scandals, those infamous orgies his soon-to-be ex-wife complained about in court.”
He leans forward conspiratorially. “Though between us, I’ve never seen any evidence of that. Slayer’s more selective than the press makes him out to be.”
My stomach tightens. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” Milo eyes me skeptically. “So when you two were photographed leaving that noodle shop—”
“I didn’t know who he was,” I assure him.
“How refreshing.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “A woman who isn’t chasing Slayer for his money or fame.”
“I’m not chasing him at all. I’m here for a paycheck.”
“Aren’t we all, darling.” Milo sips his Champagne. “Though I will say, I’ve never seen him quite this tense. Usually, he just goes along with Sterling’s publicity stunts. This time, he fought it.”
“He fought having me as his fake girlfriend?” That stings, though there’s no reason it should.
“Don’t take it personally. He’s been in a mood since the divorce proceedings started. Sterling had to threaten to get him on board.”
“Threaten him with what?”
“The album, of course.” Milo waves his hand dismissively.
“It’s all Slayer cares about these days. That experimental sound he’s been working on—Sterling hates it, thinks it’s commercial suicide. But Slayer’s obsessed with evolving his music.”
“Can you tell me more about him?”
Milo studies me. “Why so curious? You just insisted it’s only business between you two.”
My cheeks warm, and I manage what I hope is a casual shrug. “Professional curiosity. Hard to play the adoring girlfriend if I know nothing about him.”
“Fair enough,” Milo agrees. “Well, here’s a professional tip: Don’t mention his ex-wives. Don’t ask about his childhood. And whatever you do, don’t comment on his music unless it’s positive.”
“That’s a lot of conversational landmines.”
“Welcome to life with the Dark Prince. His moods are legendary. Last year at Cannes, a reporter asked about his ‘creative decline’ and Slayer almost punched him out.”
“Sounds intense.”
“You have no idea.” Milo leans closer.
“Remember, your sunny vibe is why Sterling chose you. It’s the perfect counter to Slayer’s darkness. The fans will eat it up. They’re already eating it up. Have you looked at your accounts like I told you to?”
Before I can respond, Pierre steps into the room. “Dinner is served.”
I turn around, and I’m instantly impressed.
In less than a minute, he’s transformed the sitting area into a fine dining room. In the center is a beautifully set table, like in the restaurants I sometimes see on Netflix.
We rise, and I’m flattered when Pierre holds my chair out. Life in the fast lane!
As we dine on steak and lobster, Milo fills me in on everyone we’ll meet in Saint-Tropez—music executives with wandering hands to avoid, critics whose opinions matter, photographers who can be trusted.
“But the real fun starts at the after-parties,” he says, eyes gleaming. “That’s where careers are made and broken. Last year, one of Sterling’s artists got so drunk he fell into the pool with the critic from Rolling Stone. Career over before it began.”
“No pressure, then.”
“Oh, honey, it’s all pressure.” Milo dabs his lips with a napkin. “Now, I’ll walk you back to your room. We should get some sleep before landing.”
When we reach my door, Milo pauses. “Don’t take Slayer’s moods personally. He’s been fighting for this album for years. There’s a lot at stake.”
“I know.” More than Milo realizes.
“And don’t believe everything you read about him. The real Slayer is...complicated.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
Milo leans in to kiss my cheek. “Sleep well, fake girlfriend. Tomorrow, the circus begins.”