Sterling’s smile is immediate, victorious.
“Simple. You and Ms. Bismark fly to Saint-Tropez tomorrow. She attends the events as your girlfriend. You both look happy and in love. Monday, you return to New York. The social media will continue for a few months while the album settles. But for the most part, she’ll be out of your life.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I'd suggest you read the terms of the contract you signed. It’s to your benefit to play by the new rules, as you’ll clearly see.”
“And what about her? What if she refuses?”
“She won’t.”
As I leave his office, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being played from all sides.
CHAPTER 18
BIX
Milo looks me up and down with sharp eyes as we wait to be summoned to Sterling’s office.
He doesn’t strike me as your average assistant. Something about him suggests he’s Sterling’s protector, confidant, and critic all wrapped into one smirking package.
“So,” I say, uncomfortable with his scrutiny, “how long have you been working for Mr. Sterling?”
“Quite a while now,” he says.
“Working your way up in the music business?”
“No, honey. No work for me in the future. I aim to marry rich. And this job? It provides VIP access to the richest, most-connected men in the world.”
Milo meets my eyes. “The best parties, best galas. And this weekend, I may find my Prince Charming in Saint-Tropez.”
“Saint-Tropez?” The name conjures images of yachts and movie stars. “Tell me about it.”
“Gorgeous place. I’ve helped plan the publicity campaign for Slayer’s launch, and it’s strictly A-list. Everyone who’s anyone in the music business will be there.”
His voice turns dreamy. “Movers, shakers, yacht parties—and this year’s boat is even bigger than last year’s.”
“I suppose you chose the crew yourself,” I say, now understanding where Milo is coming from.
“You got it, honey.” His eyes light up, his smile suggesting more than professional interest. “Pierre, our head steward, is a dream. He’ll be on our private plane, too.”
“Private plane? What’s it like?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Milo leans forward like he’s sharing state secrets.
“Picture the living room of the richest person you know, but thirty-three thousand feet in the air. White leather everywhere. Private bedrooms. En suite bathrooms.”
“Bedrooms? On a plane? I have to see that!”
Something shifts in his expression. He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he knows something I don’t. “Que sera sera,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever will be, will be,” he says cryptically.
Before I can ask anything else, his phone buzzes. He looks down at it. “Mr. S wants to see you in his office. Right away.”
“Is this good news?” My stomach tightens.
