Billionaire Devil
by Julie Capulet
Chapter One
~ Lila ~
“I wish I could help you, Miss Bailey, I really do,” says the woman on the phone. “But I can’t forward your information to my boss for the simple reason that she doesn’t take unsolicited phone calls. At all. You’ll have to go through the usual application process just like everyone else.”
“I have,” I tell her. “I never heard back.”
“That means you weren’t selected. They only get in touch with people they’re interested in meeting with.”
“But if she could take a quick look at my Insta—”
“There’s nothing else I can do,” the woman interrupts sharply. “You’ll just have to wait until another position is advertised and try again. Have a nice afternoon.” She hangs up on me.
Damn it.
I sigh, putting my phone face down on the tiny kitchen table in my postage-stamp-sized studio apartment, gazing out the window at my neighbor’s rusty air conditioning unit in the back alley of what most people would consider a very beautiful town. Southampton is beautiful, of course. Once you get out of the back alleys and away from the air conditioning units that happen to whir very loudly at all hours of the day and night.
Not that I’m complaining. I chose to be here and I’m doing my best to make the most of it. I moved to the east coast from L.A. almost a year ago, leaving the only home I’ve ever known, because I desperately needed a change. The place never felt the same after my mom passed away suddenly, two and a half years ago. Once I graduated from UCLA with a degree in fashion, I figured the best thing to do was to dream big and try my luck in the fashion mecca of New York City.
I also wanted to get away from the love of my life, who—and yes, I’m aware of how pathetic this sounds—I’ve only actually spoken to a handful of times. Usually when he was being drooled over by other women. Even so, I hold onto those rare moments of charged eye contact—which are etched into my memories like they’ve been lasered there with a sadistically red-hot blowtorch—like little gems.
Troy Beckett. Star hockey player. Center for the Bruins and record-holder for the most goals scored in one season. Playboy of the highest order. Gorgeous, in a tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of way that was basically the equivalent of crack to every woman with a heartbeat during all four years of my college experience.
I never really even got close to him.
Of course I regret that the only man I’ve ever loved—from afar—might not even know my last name. It was another reason I needed to leave L.A.
You’d think in a city of almost four million people, a girl could have figured out how to avoid one ego-inflated jock.
But luck was never on my side in that regard. I ran into him everywhere. On campus, at the beach, during my part-time job at a trendy café. The one right around the corner from the Bruins’ practice rink, as it turned out.
He was always being fawned over by beautiful, scantily-clad puck bunnies. He’d catch me staring. He’d smile. He’d say things like, Hey, Lila, which caused my heart to erupt with joy because he actually did know my name. Or, with a grin, You’re not stalking me, are you, babe?
As I said: etched into my brain on a repeating loop that I had to move clear across the country to try to escape from.
It’s worked, mostly.
I’ve been too busy holding down two jobs while also trying to make inroads for myself as a designer to think much about my unrequited love. I’m grateful for that, as exhausted as I might be. At least I don’t run into him during my waitressing shifts or through the long hours at my job as a stylist in the boutique on Main Street. Both of which are slowly but surely destroying my soul.
The job in the boutique, Threads on Main, was offered to me before I left L.A. The owner was a contact of one of my design collaborators on the last of my senior projects. A girl named Solange whose mom had a couple of rich friends in Southampton.
The boutique looked amazing on paper. I accepted the job offer, rented out my old apartment in Venice, packed my bags, thanked my lucky stars I was finally getting a change of scene, and drove my mostly-trusty Toyota Corolla three thousand miles to start work the following week. It’s an exclusive store in the Hamptons with direct links to several of the major fashion houses and it sounded like a dream come true.
I fantasized it might be a launchpad to New York Fashion Week. Bryant Park, here I come, I’d thought. I pictured myself sipping coffee in one of the park’s little cafes, then rushing off—in some impossibly cute outfit of my own design—to get my very first solo show ready for the catwalk, where the front row would be full of Kardashians and Beckhams.
For a whole year now, after my other jobs’ shifts are over, I work late into the night, painstakingly sketching and sewing pieces that might catch the eye of my boss and, with her contacts, maybe even the design houses themselves.
Things haven’t worked out quite like my fantasies, to say the least. My boss, Veronica Wade, fits every stereotype of the steely, ball-breaking fashion dragon a la Miranda Priestley. She thinks of herself as the go-to know-all of Southampton. She attends parties with the likes of Christian Siriano and—once—Ralph Lauren and his wife Ricky, who, for reasons known only to herself, she considers not only equals but close friends.
Veronica won’t even look at my designs. Which means that asking her to show them to people in the industry is out of the question. She also pays me so little, I had to get a second job as a waitress four nights a week just to make ends meet. The tips from the old school billionaires—who are misogynistic dinosaurs but throw money around like it grows on trees—help pay the bills, but they’re not getting me any closer to my dream of making it as a designer.
I scour the internet looking for opportunities. I work on my Instagram profile, which is slowly gaining some traction. I spend my nights sewing my garments. But none it seems to get me any closer to making my goals a reality.
The non-stop grind is starting to make dents in my stamina. Maybe because I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in months.
My phone vibrates. Hoping it might be one of the jobs I’ve applied for calling me back, I pick it up.
Jess’s name pops up on the screen. My bestie from home, who grew up a few houses down from mine. We also went to UCLA together. I majored in fashion and she majored in film.
“Hey, Jess.”
“Hi, honey. How’s life? You haven’t called me in over a week, just saying.”
“Sorry. I’ve been so busy.” Just hearing her voice makes me pine for familiarity. I’m surprised to feel the slightest sting behind my eyes. God, I really must be strung out.
Jessie is like a sister to me. We were both only children, both raised by single moms. The difference is, hers is alive and well and thriving as a Hollywood casting director. Mine got sprinkled into the ocean, which she made me promise I would do, months before she had any idea she would drop dead of a sudden brain aneurism in the middle of a regular Tuesday afternoon.
Reading my voice like only Jess can, she comments, “You sound tired.”
“I am, a little,” I admit.
“Well, the good news is, you’re about to get a vacation.”
