“Nonsense. You’re perfect.” Milo adjusts his oversized sunglasses, then whispers in my ear.
“Remember, you’re with Slayer. That automatically makes you the most interesting woman here.”
I nod as the chauffeur opens the car door. Then, as we rehearsed, Slayer and I make our limo exit together, holding hands.
This is a sandy driveway on a Saint-Tropez beach, not a glitzy club on Sunset Boulevard.
But a small posse of paparazzi who’ve been waiting at the valet stand approach, eager to grab their money shot.
I enjoy the way Slayer slips his arm around my waist as they snap our pictures. Then he surprises me by pulling me in for a juicy kiss, driving the paparazzi into a frenzy.
Once they finish with their couple shots, they call out in broken English for Slayer to pose alone. I step aside and watch as he indulges them.
He’s wearing dark linen pants and an open white shirt that reveals his tattooed chest. His ubiquitous sunglasses shield his eyes from the world—and the world from his thoughts.
One day, I assure myself,I’ll be getting out of a limousine with the boy toy of my choice.Or one my music producer has chosen for me.
When the paparazzi have had their fill of photographs, Sterling walks up to them, handing each a card. I know it contains a media kit and a ticket to Slayer’s concert on Sunday.
Then Sterling turns to lead the way to the hostess stand, his elfin frame looking quite dapper in a lightweight white jacket and white jeans.
A drop-dead gorgeous hostess materializes immediately. “Mr. Sterling, we have your table ready. The best view in the house.”
We follow her through a sea of beautiful people, their conversations quieting as we pass. I remember to keep the smile Milo stressed was so important.
Slayer does his part by resting his hand casually at the small of my back, guiding me forward. The touch feels possessive, performative.Is this the act, or him?Either way, my skin warms beneath his fingers.
Our table sits on a raised platform, overlooking the beach and allowing us to be seen. White linens flutter in the gentle breeze, crystal glasses catching the sunlight.
“Champagne to start?” The host snaps his fingers, and a waiter appears with an ice bucket.
“Dom Pérignon Rosé,” Sterling confirms.
“Of course, sir.”
As we settle into our seats, I take in the spectacle around us.
A DJ announces that the daily fashion show is about to begin.
At once, two models shoot out of nowhere, strutting between the tables. They stop every so often to twirl and pose.
But there’s not much to model—because each girl wears only a tiny string bikini bottom, an oversized statement necklace, and carries a designer handbag.
“So this is Saint-Tropez,” I say under my breath, sneaking a quick look at Slayer to gauge his reaction to the near-nude women.
But his face is unreadable as always.
My attention is caught by the closest model, a beauty with long black hair and regal bearing who draws appreciative murmurs from the crowd.
She wears an intricate gold bikini bottom, her perfect breasts adorned only with delicate body chains that catch the light as she moves.
I’m mesmerized by her confidence. Here’s a woman who owns every inch of her body and commands the space around her.
“I’m so happy you agreed to our campaign,” Sterling says to me, perusing the menu.
“The media already loves you, just like we planned when we created your persona’s prototype. You and Slayer project good chemistry together.”
“You think so?” I ask. I needed to hear those words so badly.
