Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Freedom. It felt damn good. I put down my convertible's top and screamed into the wind. That night, I celebrated with one of my building's valets—a twenty-one-year-old kid who only lasted five pumps, but he brought some good weed and laughed at my jokes.
It was a sad start to my new life.
Chapter 2
THREE YEARS AGO
I spent the first two decades of my life planning for the moment when I could be free. To have the chance to abandon my cardigan and manners and rush headfirst into life. Dance in the moonlight. Smoke a cigar. Ride a motorcycle and fall in love for a reason other than social standing. I had romantic notions of waiting tables, hitchhiking across America, kissing a strange boy, feeling a rush of unknown possibilities.
I had grown to hate every stitch of my privileged surroundings. I craved escape from the dinner parties, the ingrained disdain of others, and raised brows of judgment. I wanted the happily-ever-after of movies, the messiness of real life, the reckless enjoyment of impulsive decisions. And the day of my twenty-fifth birthday, I'd felt free. Filled with hope and possibilities. The first day of the rest of my life.
Yet, as I approached my thirtieth birthday, I was still stuck in the exact same life. I'd had a few wild nights. Screwed some strangers with calluses on their hands. Visited a 7-Eleven and bought a hot dog. Went to Tijuana long enough to realize I would never go back. Then ... like a migrating bird, I drifted home to this world and settled back into the nest without even realizing it.
I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. The friends who weren't friends. The parties where everyone smiled but no one had fun. The world where life was a constant race to one-up each other, and the prom queen was still the bitch no one liked, but everyone flocked to like maggots to meat. I needed to escape this life, I needed to find something different, I needed to make my own path, but I was stuck. Stuck on repeat. Stuck in hell.
The driver appeared in the doorway behind me, his cap in hand, and met my eyes in the mirror. "I'll be out front whenever you are ready to leave for the event, Ms. Fairmont."
"Thank you. I'll be out shortly."
He nodded, turning to leave, and my gaze returned to the mirror. My brown eyes were lightly outlined in a mint chocolate brown. As always, I wore enough makeup to hide flaws and gently enhance my features, but no more. Classy, not trashy. My mother had trained me well. I stared into my reflection and tried to find the person in it. The mirror showed the woman I had been raised to be. A couture gown that was dramatic yet sophisticated. A polished exterior, from my hair to my heels. I stared at my shell and wondered why I couldn't break from it.
It didn’t matter. Tonight, of all nights, wouldn’t be the start of my change. In two hours was the primary fundraising gala for the Homeless Youth of America, an organization close to my heart. An important event that shouldn't be missed.
Maybe tomorrow I could turn over a new leaf, try again to leave the nest, and live a genuine and unmoderated life.
I applied a coat of clear gloss over my lipstick and avoided my eyes in the mirror.
"Brant Sharp.” He paused in front of me and extended his hand.
"Layana Fairmont.” I shook it, intrigued. I knew who he was. Everyone in this room knew who he was, but I wondered how many would be able to point out and recognize the elusive billionaire. The billionaire with, according to rumor, a particular preference of women. Expensive, pay by the evening, women.
"I like your hair." His gaze drifted over the absolutely unexceptional French twist that was secured by a broach that once belonged to Elizabeth Taylor.
"I'm not a prostitute.” I addressed the possibility directly, in case the rumors were true.
His mouth didn't change, but his eyes warmed. "I can overlook that fact."
It was the first five lines of our meeting, uttered two hours into the fundraising gala. Talk about an unromantic start to a love story. I can only blame my crude participation on alcohol, two glasses of wine already downed, my self-loathing slightly pacified by merlot.
Now, I studied the man, someone that I had followed ever since I got involved with the Homeless Youth of America.
Brant Sharp. Genius. Bachelor. Philanthropist.
He was even better looking than I imagined. The tiny thumbnail image used in press releases barely showed his features, and certainly hadn’t done his looks any justice. But it was his intensity that really surprised me. He peered at me as if I was a problem, and he searched my soul for a solution. He also seemed inordinately pleased by my hair, his eyes frequently leaving mine to sweep over their dark strands.