Chapter 2
In the dark club, the strobe lights and mind-altering music make everything seem like a good idea.
Like table dancing, kissing randos, and eating bacon-wrapped hot dogs from the questionable cart around the corner.
And, okay, yes. The occasional drink is also a huge contributing factor.
But who cares? I’m living my best life. In the day, however, the harsh lighting reveals the smeared makeup, the sweat stains, and the ugly truth that none of it was a good idea.
My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like sandpaper.
I need water. And a maximum-strength ibuprofen.
I try to peel my eyes open, but my lids are glued to my eyeballs.
After several attempts, I finally pry them open, only to shield my face with a hand.
Ugh, the light. Once my vision adjusts, however, I’m still squinting as I take inventory of my surroundings.
That’s not my bathrobe. I don’t own a corded telephone.
And this bedspread? I would never choose this print for myself.
I sit up to get a proper look around. Something about it seems familiar.
It’s a hotel room in The Beverly Hilton.
I’d recognize these curtains anywhere. But whose room is this?
When I attempt to get out of bed, my feet feel someone at the other end of it.
I cover my mouth to muffle a gasp. Oh my God. This is bad. So bad.
Instinctively I pat myself down. I sigh as soon as I realize my jumpsuit is still on and still intact, with all its buttons firmly clasped. At least nothing happened between me and this mystery guy.
A quick scan of the room tells me we’re the only ones here.
Which means my friends must have abandoned me at some point last night.
How could they do this to me? How could they stand by and watch me make the series of poor decisions that led me here?
I could’ve been hurt, unconscious, abducted, or all of the above.
For all they know, this guy could be a serial killer.
I mean, a pretty young one with a Rolex and a diamond stud and… are those keys to a Ferrari?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I move the sheet to reveal the mystery guy’s face. When I get a good look at him, it all comes screaming back. Oh God. I used his belly button as a shot glass. Guess that explains the hangover.
Wait, that can’t be right. I don’t get hangovers.
Despite what Gavin thinks, I don’t drink.
Much. Okay, fine. Sometimes I have an occasional drink or two.
Maybe three if it’s an all-day event. But it never gets out of control, and I never wake up in a place I don’t want to be.
At some point I must have stopped checking what was in the drinks I was being handed, because sober me would never have let myself end up in a hotel room with… seriously, who is this guy?
I didn’t catch his name, but I’m less frantic knowing he’s a vague acquaintance of an acquaintance and not a total random stranger.
Now I feel a regular amount of panic, as one would waking up in the bed of a stranger in a hotel room.
Holding my breath, I slide off the bed in an attempt to make my escape.
But in my head, I imagined pulling it off way stealthier than I do in real life.
My toe gets caught in the sheet, pulling it out from under the guy, jolting him properly awake. Awesome.
“Hmm, what? Oh,” he says, taking note of me. “You’re up.” He smiles at me groggily. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Since last night?” I legitimately don’t know.
As he props himself up and leans back against the headboard, I get a better look at him.
Although we shared an intimate moment last night when my lips touched his belly button, his face is barely recognizable to me.
It’s also kind of cute. He’s rocking the nineties-boy-band look with his baby-blue eyes and disheveled blond hair.
I’d definitely be interested in getting to know him if I were looking for a relationship, which I most certainly am not.
When it comes to dating, it’s always the same.
As soon as I get close to anyone, it’s only a matter of time before my public lifestyle gets in the way.
I’m either going out too much, or I’m not around enough, or there’s never any privacy.
But I am so close to having my socialite status bankroll my lifestyle indefinitely, and I am not ready to give that up for anything—or anyone, for that matter.
“Did you sleep okay—”
“I have to be somewhere. So I’m going to take off,” I say, pointing to the front door.
“Yeah, sure. I understand.” He scratches the back of his messy bedhead. “Can I call you sometime?”
Call me? Speaking of…I’m looking for my phone, tossing pillows around with one hand and putting my shoe on with the other. “Yes!” I shout as soon as I spot my phone in the crevice of the couch cushions. “I mean, I’ll call you.” I go back to the bed to grab my wristlet on the nightstand.
“Cool. Do you want my numb—”
I put a finger to his lips to shush him. “Look. Don’t take it personally, but…relationships aren’t my thing.” I wave and disappear out the door before Belly-Button Shot Guy has a chance to drag out this already-too-long conversation.
On my way to the elevator, I order a car service to pick me up at the back exit of the hotel.
As an establishment frequented by many celebrities, The Beverly Hilton has a private entrance and exit for those wanting to avoid the paparazzi.
It’s a route I’m familiar with but hardly use, since being in the media spotlight is sort of the whole point of being a socialite.
Today, though, I’m glad for the escape route.
I take the service elevator down, and before I exit the building, I use the single-stall employee restroom, which is thankfully empty.
Because I have had to pee since I got up, and for some reason, using the restroom in the hotel room of a guy I hardly knew felt undignified.
Apparently consuming alcohol from the belly button of a stranger is okay, but using his bathroom is where I draw the line.
While I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink and gasp. Mascara smudged under my eyes, lipstick smeared across my cheek, and pillow creases on my forehead. This is the part of my life I don’t want the public to know about—that I can’t let the public know about.
The Vogue article was hurtful, but it taught me how the media game works.
When it comes to the wealthy, the press is always looking for a story, which means I have two choices: I can let the media find their story, or I can supply them with it.
It’s no secret I choose the latter. It’s why I hired brand manager extraordinaire Kiki Klineman.
Every article, every post, and every collaboration has been curated for me to appeal to the masses.
And it doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship with the press that isn’t mutually beneficial.
As long as I give the media what they want—a carefree party it girl—I’ll get what I want: a lucrative career as a socialite turned influencer.
But I have to be smart about it. In order to stay in the public’s good graces, I have to be seen at parties with alcohol, but I can’t be caught hungover the next day.
Which is weird when I think about it, since it’s only natural for one to lead to the other.
But that’s what it’s like for women. You can’t slip up, not in the public eye.
When I finish using the restroom, a driver in a black SUV with tinted windows is waiting for me in the alley behind the hotel.
I hop in, and he takes me to the address I sent earlier.
It’s about a thirty-minute drive home, so I lean back and close my eyes.
I’m so tired, I could sleep for days. It’s a good thing it’s summer.
With all the events Kiki has lined up for me, I have a feeling there’ll be many more days like this ahead of me.
I ignore my phone buzzing incessantly in my lap.
I’m sure it’s Gavin calling to lecture me on my poor life choices.
As much as I hate to admit it, on some level, Gavin’s not wrong.
Belly-Button Shot Guy turned out to be this cute, harmless golden-retriever type.
But I might not be so lucky next time. Going forward, I promise to make better decisions.
For now I’ll ignore Gavin’s calls, since there’s no sense in getting worked up over the PR nightmare, as Gavin will refer to it, when it can be fixed with just one, make that two, words: What’s that?
—
Thirty minutes later, when the car pulls up to my home, there’s a mass of press surrounding the gated entrance.
“Elena! How was last night?”
“Elena, who is that guy you were with?”
“Elena, Elena, Elena!”
Although I never tire of hearing my name being called over and over, this is getting out of control.
“Drive past them,” I instruct the driver, opening up the gate with the remote access on my phone.
I usually don’t let drivers beyond the front gate, especially when the press is here.
But the paparazzi haven’t been this aggressive before, and today they aren’t shouting the usual words of affirmation.
“Elena, is it true about George Bronstein?”
“What’s going to happen to you now?”
“Are you going to move?”
Move? Why would that even come up? And who the hell is George Bronstein?
Great. Is he the guy from the hotel room?
As soon as the car comes to a stop, I bolt out of it and pray that someone other than the paid staff is home.
It’s usually empty, or maybe it just feels that way when we’re on our separate sides of the house.
Although Mom has been more present than usual these past few days.
The other day she even asked me if I wanted to do a mother-daughter trip to Korea this summer, which is highly uncharacteristic of her.
We don’t do things like that. But right now I’m banking on her uncharacteristic behavior to be home so she can explain to me what the hell is going on.
I’ll even settle for Gavin at this point.
As the gate starts to close, the press gets louder and more specific.
“Elena, what do you have to say about the IRS repossessing your family’s assets? Does it have anything to do with the accusations of embezzlement and money laundering?”
The last reporter gets me to stop in my tracks. My head whips up, and I drop my hand from covering my face.
“Is it true that It’s Ok! is guilty of money mismanagement? Is it going to file for Chapter 11?” another photographer asks.
Chapter 11? In my complete and utter shock, I respond without thinking.
“What’s that?” I say, right before the gate shuts, giving the photographers exactly what they want.
The roar of camera clicks that follows startles even me.
Not since the Vogue article first came out when I was fourteen was I this clueless uttering those two words.
When the gate closes and the press is out of sight, I finally check my phone.
Breaking News
Updated 1 minute ago
Leading retailer It’s Ok! is under investigation, sparked by complaints from multiple retail management companies of months of unpaid rent.
This has caused the immediate closure of several of its international branches and a few here in the US.
Thousands of It’s Ok! employees are waking up to find themselves out of a job, and amongst them is founder and CEO Dale Ok.
The IRS has seized all of Ok’s assets while it conducts a thorough review of the management of the company’s funds.
For now, it is unclear whether money mismanagement can be linked to financier George Bronstein’s recent criminal indictment for defrauding investors in a Ponzi scheme, also known as the Madoff 2.
0 scandal, or if it points to ethical lapses at the highest levels of leadership.
We reached out to a company representative for comment, but we did not get a response.
What (and I can’t stress this enough) the fuck?
Excerpt
“I wish I could say there is some magic formula to guarantee success, but there isn’t. Everything I have was built by my own two hands.”
The American Dream Achieved: The Story of Dale Ok, Founder of It’s Ok!
Transcript
60 Minutes Interview with Gloria Ok
Interviewer: You and your husband have created one of the fastest-growing US-based clothing brands.
Your son’s appointment at the company as an executive in training was just announced, and your daughter is well-known for her status as a socialite turned influencer.
Clearly this is a family full of success stories. What would you say is the secret?
Gloria: There is no secret, just hard work. As Dale would say, he accomplished everything with his own two hands.
Interviewer: And how hands-on is he about the day-to-day running of the business?
Gloria: Very hands-on. Nothing at the company happens without Dale’s approval.
Interviewer: Really? For such a large-scale business, that’s quite impressive.
Interviewer: It’s Ok! has experienced significant expansion over the past year, including abroad.
Gloria: Yes, it’s true. Seventy-five new stores have opened in the US and twenty-five overseas.
Interviewer: But recent data indicates a steady increase in online shopping. Given the shift in consumer behavior, is there any concern regarding the potential impact on the business?
Gloria: As part of our growth strategy, Dale plans to reduce retail stores and shift our focus to expanding our e-commerce presence. We’re also entertaining investment proposals to expand the company into fragrance and skincare.
Interviewer: Speaking of investment proposals, we’ve heard rumors about It’s Ok! being involved with financier George Bronstein. Is it true the company has invested in his business scheme?