Chapter 3
ELIZABETH
An hour later, I had finally calmed down enough to make the call.
There was no way I could work with Logan Richards.
He was impossible. Arrogant. Self-destructive in an infuriating way. He was the kind of man who set fire to his career and laughed while it burned. And I was supposed to fix that? To make him likable? It wasn’t happening.
It was apparent why he was the way he was.
When you grow up as the son of Ryder Richards, doors open without you even touching the handle.
His father was the legendary frontman of Midnight Saints, a man practically canonized in rock history.
So, Logan was terrifically talented, but he had also coasted on his last name his whole life.
Fame had been his inheritance. And the consequences?
Those had never stuck to someone like him.
I was trying to make that case to Vanessa Sheehan, the PR maven famous for salvaging the reputations of people no one else would touch.
She was a legend in the industry—sharp, fearless, and always three steps ahead.
Working under her had been like earning a master class in public image and crisis management, and everything I knew, I owed to her.
And PR? It was the perfect career for someone like me, who needed control as much as she needed oxygen.
Spin, strategy, narrative. I could anticipate problems before they happened, find solutions before the client even knew they were spiraling.
While other people panicked, I planned. I took chaos and made it look polished. Controlled. Clean.
I loved the control. I loved being the one behind the curtain, pulling the strings, deciding what got said, when, and by whom.
In PR, perception was reality, and I was responsible for shaping that perception.
I wrote the statements. I crafted the talking points.
I instructed executives on what to wear, what to post, and what to avoid.
I chose which reporters got the story, how it was framed, and how much they were allowed to know.
I could steer a scandal into a comeback or bury a misstep before it had a chance to gain traction.
And I was good at it.
That may be why Vanessa had taken a chance on me in the first place. It had not always been fun working for her—heck, most days it was like trying to survive psychological warfare—but she was the best. And being chosen by the best meant something, especially to a control-freak like me.
I paced the tiny courtyard behind my hotel, my phone pressed so hard against my ear that I was surprised I hadn’t cracked the screen. Vanessa’s clipped, icy voice came through on the other end, sharp as ever.
“Excuses, excuses, excuses. You’ve had one meeting, and suddenly, he’s a lost cause?
Please. I’ve handled clients who set hotel rooms on fire, athletes who got arrested just before the big game, and movie stars who leaked their own scandals for attention.
Logan Richards is another overgrown man-child who thinks rules don’t apply to him. ”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Vanessa, listen—”
“No. You listen. I didn’t send you to New Orleans to tell me why it won’t work. I sent you to make it work. So, I don’t care if he laughed in your face, rolled his eyes, or did a tap dance on the conference table. Figure it out.”
I gritted my teeth. “He doesn’t care. He’s not interested in fixing his image.”
“Then make him interested. Find out what makes him tick, what he’s afraid of, what he wants, and use it. That’s what you do. Or have you forgotten?”
Her words hit like a slap. I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deeply before exhaling through my teeth.
“That’s what I thought,” Vanessa said. “Now, stop whining and start working.”
“My point is, he’s not going to do it. My fake relationship idea? He thinks it’s ridiculous.”
Vanessa exhaled, long and unimpressed. “And?”
“And?” I repeated, incredulous. “It’s not going to work. If he won’t even entertain the idea, how am I supposed to sell it?”
“That’s your job, Elizabeth. You make it work.”
“I can’t make someone do something they refuse to do.”
“Really?” Vanessa’s tone turned smug. “Do you remember when Jesse Carter swore he was never going to go public with anyone after his divorce? And yet, two months later, he was on a yacht in Saint-Tropez, ‘accidentally’ photographed with a stunning supermodel.”
I gritted my teeth, barely believing what I was hearing. “Logan Richards is not Jesse Carter.”
“No, he’s worse, which is why you need to be better. Find an angle. Find a reason. Make it work.”
“He doesn’t care, Vanessa,” I said, my frustration boiling over. “About his career, about his reputation, about any of it.”
Her voice was quiet, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“Was I wrong to let you keep your job after the Sparky debacle?” She went there.
My stomach clenched, but I forced my voice to stay steady. “No.”
“Good.” Her tone was razor-sharp, cutting through whatever fight I had left. “Because let’s not forget that I was the only one who took a chance on you after that mess. No one else would touch you. Do you have any idea how much damage control I had to do to keep your name off the ban list?”
I swallowed hard. Of course, I knew. I’d lived it.
She continued, “You say Logan Richards doesn’t care about his career and his reputation. Then make him care. Find the right pressure point and apply pressure. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
I let out a slow breath, my grip tightening on the phone. “And if I can’t?”
“Then don’t bother coming back to New York.”
The line went dead before I could respond. I stared at the phone, half-wishing it would burst into flames in my hand.
“Great,” I muttered, collapsing into one of the iron chairs in the courtyard. “No pressure.”
Somewhere in the distance, jazz drifted over the rooftops, the only reminder that I was still in New Orleans. Vanessa was relentless, and I had to find a way to convince Logan to participate in this fake relationship.
I didn’t have a choice.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling until I found Mick’s number.
If we were going to scrub Logan’s reputation, I needed to get his manager on board.