CHAPTER FOUR
RILEY
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“Unfuckingbelievable.” I glare at my phone screen as I sit cross-legged on the sofa.
That guy. That same hot guy from the TV show.
What a complete moron.
Or, as the Americans say, what a jerk!
I swipe the screen so that it plays the clip again.
I’m torturing myself by watching it over and over. I just can’t with this billionaire.
Suddenly he’s not very attractive to me anymore.
Well, that’s not true. He’s still sexy as hell, and I’m ashamed of myself for knowing that if he were standing in front of me and told me to bend over, I bloody well would.
That poor girl.
Jane, the Wee-Wee girl.
Sure, the name of her product is horrible, but does Colt Winters have no compassion? I swear, if I lived in New York, I would march down to his office or whatever dungeon he lives in and give him a piece of my mind.
I know how it feels to be a female entrepreneur made fun of in this world, and she does not deserve to have been humiliated like that.
“Nobody is going pee pee in your Wee Wee.”
Ugh! His voice and that comment is on a loop inside my head.
Who is this Colt Winters?
Like who is he really? There are a lot of wealthy people in America, and unless they’re movie stars, artists or similar, it’s likely we’ve heard of them in Australia.
I don’t have a clue who he is.
I figure he’s a businessman who’s done well for himself.
Google reveals he’s a billionaire.
Fine, so he’s done really well for himself.
“Probably family money,” I mutter as I keep scrolling. “That explains his attitude. Silver spoon and all that.”
Photo after photo of his dumb, handsome face fills my screen as I angrily swipe.
“Smart move, Apple, making the screens glass.” I mumble as if they did it for me personally.
I find his Instagram account.
My finger, without permission, clicks on the link because I don’t care to know more about him.
Obviously.
“Dick.” I scroll down his feed. “Such a dick.”
He has a few clips of The Venture Vault showcasing his time on the upcoming show, and then there are photos of his life.
Most of those vague types. You know, images of his Gucci sneakers along the deck of a superyacht cruising along the Hudson. A super cropped photo of him in sunglasses as he walks along the streets of Manhattan.
Tom Ford. I know that because he uses the hashtag. What a dickhead.
Then there are sunsets and sunrises from various tropical islands—yawn—and photos of Central Park from a high-rise with a caption that simply says Life at the top. #manhattanbusiness
Total dick.
Scrolling up, I click on the video again to torture myself.
“Nobody is going pee pee in your Wee Wee.”
Does he have no idea how humiliating it would’ve been for Jane? She put her heart and soul into the product.
How does he know no one will buy it? Has he spent any time on Temu? There is literally everything one needs, and doesn’t need, on that website.
And.
People.
Buy.
It.
All.
I stand up and pace the length of my living room.
Then back again.
And again.
I know I’m triggered. I can hear my father’s voice telling me I’m wasting my time and not thinking about the long-term future.
Blah, blah, blah.
If I were a guy, would he be saying those things? Unfortunately, Cameron, my brother, followed in Dad's footsteps and went into the corporate world.
He’s a senior sales manager and climbing the ladder. He is married to Martha, and they are trying to have kids. I think they are doing IVF. I don’t ask.
It’s never wise to ask.
If I do, it directs the conversation to me, and then mom and dad start harassing me. Because, and I quote “I am two steps behind Cameron, who is at least married and starting a family.”
Which, they aren’t...are they.
I don’t say that out loud, either.
I’m not close to Cameron and don’t have anything in common with Martha, but I do hope they can conceive.
I just wish my parents would get off my back. I never told them about James and the photos, but hell, after Simon cheated, I just want to focus on my career, which makes me happy.
Mom took me out for lunch a few months ago and began this heavy conversation about me freezing my eggs.
It was exhausting, even though I understand there is some logic to it.
My phone beeps.
It’s Kylie, one of my close friends. She’s a graphic designer and works freelance.
Of all my friends, she understands where I’m coming from.
Billie is in sales and works purely on commission for a large multinational.
Mark is a web designer for a big tech company and working to start his own company.
“What do you think, Mark?” I’ve asked him a few times when I tell him about Dad giving me a hard time.
He shrugged. “It’s just his opinion; who cares. Do your thing.”
Typical guy.
How do things just roll off their shoulders so much more easily?
I open Kylie’s message.
We still going to the St Kilda Festival this weekend?
The St Kilda Festival is a free summer festival here in Melbourne with music, comedy artists, poetry, visual art, an outdoor theatre, street markets and a huge concert at night.
The backdrop is the natural beauty of the St Kilda foreshore.
It attracts over three hundred and seven five thousand people each year and is one of my favorite things in the world.
I can’t believe Kylie is even asking.
Is the sky blue?
Saturday or Sunday?
We go every year so I’m not sure why she’s asking. It’s always Saturday. I break the laws of physics and call her.
“Ew,” she answers, and I laugh.
“What’s the deal, lady?”
“I have my period. It’s super painful.” Kylie sighs. “I’m not sure if I can make it.”
“Babe. Sorry. Do you want to go Sunday instead?”
“I might have to miss it. You know how much pain I get.”
I do. It’s crippling for her some months. I can hear it in her voice too.
“I’ll check to see what Billie and Mark want to do. Sorry you’re feeling so bad. We might be able to swap to Sunday if they are free.”
“I read somewhere that lots of sex helps, so maybe I just need to get laid more regularly.”
I giggle.
“Oh yeah? So are you finally going to go out with Damian and see if he can help you with your PCOS?”
“I mean, he’s definitely not the one, but if he can heal this shit, it could be worth it.”
“Dude, stop.”
She giggles. “I wouldn’t...well, I might, this pain is off the charts today.”
I know she won’t. Damian has been after her for years. Even when he was dating someone else. Kylie is pretty clear she’s not interested. They worked together, and their friends became our friends and part of the wider social circle we all hang out in.
I message Billie and she confirms Saturday, and that Sunday doesn’t work. Mark does the same, saying he has a few work buddies joining us.
“Saturday, babe. Sorry. See if the pain is gone by then. You have a few more days.”
“Okay. I might have to miss this year. Anyway, what are you doing?” Kylie asks, and I kick my feet up on the coffee table.
“Watching this dick online.”
“What?”
“Some billionaire,” I grumble.
“Hot billionaire? Like the ones I listen to on my audiobooks.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t read those smut books. Although I’m a little intrigued, but who has the time?
Kylie apparently listens to them while working. How sexy smut can inspire you while doing graphic design, I don’t know.
“Maybe. Yeah, he’s hot, but he’s a total jerk.”
“Name. I need to look him up.”
“Colt Winters.” I say his name like he’s a criminal.
Ten seconds later, Kylie lets out a gasp. “Holy hell on a pole dancing stick!”
I throw my head back on the cushions. “Go to his IG. Total dick.”
“I’d like to see his dick. Mamma Mia. That jawline. Christ, he has green eyes. Do you know how rare green eyes are?”
“Watch the video.”
I don’t care about his stupid eyes. He could actually have a twelve-inch cock, and it would make no difference to me. The guy lives in New York and has no idea little ol’ me in Australia exists.
And would like to castrate him.
“Which one?”
“Well, clearly not the one of him cruising down the Hudson on his superyacht Kylie.” I shake my head, irrationally irritated.
“Why do we hate him?” I can tell she’s still checking out his hot side profile images and some further down where he’s at the gym.
“Watch. The. Video.”
Seconds later... “Oh, that’s a bit rude.”
“Bit rude?” I gasp. “That poor girl.” Silence. “Don’t you think?”
“Well...if you put yourself out there on a show like The Venture Vault, you’re asking for some tough feedback.”
I let out a hissing noise, which even surprises me.
“It’s cruel. She’s just doing her best, and honestly, I think she is brave for going on the show.”
“Wee Wee, though? I dunno.” Kylie sounds tentative. “It’s...babe, surely she was expecting a reaction like this.”
Sure, the concept it a little...creative. But I will not be swayed. I’ve decided the guy is a creep.
That’s jerk, dick and creep you’ve labeled him as so far.
“Hey, for all we know, it could be the next billion-dollar product.” I argue.
“Not as far as Colt Winters is concerned.” Kylie laughs.
“Yeah, well, what does he know?”
He has no heart, obviously.
“I mean, he’s a billionaire.” I hear the shrug in her voice. “Why do you hate him? Sure, his comment was a bit condescending and now that I’m looking at it again, I think I saw this meme on another platform yesterday. Dude, it was so funny...”
She tells me the story, but I’m imagining myself standing in front of Colt, him head to toe in his Armani or whatever suit. Me in my shorts, a T-shirt, and my gardening boots while giving him a piece of my mind.
Someone needs to.
My brows dip as an idea comes to mind.
I know it won’t help, but it will make me feel better.
“That’s hilarious,” I tell Kylie, even though I haven’t been paying attention. “Babe, I must get dinner started, talk later. Take more painkillers.”
“Okay, bye.”
I drop my feet and sit up.
Do it...he won’t read it anyway, and then you can stop letting this whole thing trigger you.
I head to Twitter, now X, and send a message. As a businessman, I figure he’s on there more than Instagram or Facebook.
An assumption.
Not that it matters.
He won’t reply.
He probably has someone doing his social media for him, or he will ignore it. I’ll more than likely land in his spam.
Then get blocked.
I don’t care. I’m doing this for me.
I start typing, and my fingers shake a little bit.
Do you have a complete lack of compassion for women in business, or does the idea of a woman’s anatomy bother you?
Send.
There. I did it.
My heart pounds as I stare at the message, reading it over and over, but I’m glad I spoke up.
A feeling of satisfaction comes over me as I stand, toss the phone on the kitchen bench and circle it to start making dinner.
I make a note to see when the show will air on TV here in Australia. Then avoid it.
Done.
I never have to think about him again.
My mind turns to tomorrow. We have a job in Hawthorn East, an opulent suburb in Melbourne. It will be a week-long job of pulling out their existing plants and landscaping the front yard with a new path and plants.
I tried to talk the couple into a crepe myrtle. A gorgeous, thick, trunked tree with hanging branches that has beautiful pink flowers in the summer. They come in other colors, but I had a vision of the pink one standing boldly in front of the house.
They didn’t go for it.
You can only offer ideas—
Beep.
My eyes fly open.
Message: Colt Winters.
Heart pounding, I hold the knife I was dicing vegetables with up in the air, and my lips part.
Holy fuck.
He replied.