1
BELLA
The thingabout walking in on your boss getting his dick sucked is that there's really no graceful way to handle it.
Trust me.
I'm standing in the service hallway behind the Bellamy Gallery, iPad clutched to my chest, as I watch my boss Slava Romanov getting a very enthusiastic blowjob when he’s supposed to give a talk about the importance of funding the arts, complete with a very public photo-op with the director of the gallery.
But you know what the most infuriating part is? He looks about as interested in the performance as someone who's just finished reading his Tuesday morning calendar invites.
And it's onehellof a performance.
The woman in the dark red dress is on her hands and knees. Her stiletto heels are tucked under her ass while her ponytail bounces with the rhythmic bob of her head. She takes him all the way to the hilt and holds him there for a second before pullingback to the tip. Then, without ever letting him go to take a breath, she plunges all the way down again.
For a second, I almost wonder if she's going to choke.
But she doesn't. Not even when her eyes start watering as he starts to come down her throat.
And she doesn't spill a goddamn drop.
I'd almost be impressed if I wasn't so annoyed.
Then, as if to complete the absolute absurdity of what I'm witnessing, she lets go of his cock with apop, sits back on her haunches, and looks up at him with a smugly sweet smile.
That's when I recognize her.
Vanessa Ashford-Price.
Old money, new nose, and zero self-respect.
The holy trinity of Manhattan trust fund princesses.
She licks her lips, panting. "Still think I'm a good girl?"
He just keeps looking down at her with that uninterested expression.
Then, before any of us can react, she spits—full force—and it lands right on the dark red Hermès tie I specifically selected for tonight because it photographs well under gallery lighting.
Great. Just great.
Slowly, she gets up on her feet and saunters past me, passing close enough that I catch the sickly sweetness of her perfume and the unmistakable musk of Slava's cum.
"Fucking asshole," she huffs, and disappears into the gallery.
Theclick-clackof her stiletto heels stepping away might as well be the sound of a machine-gun blasting away any hope of a good night's sleep in my foreseeable future. Because I know that I'm about to help him bury yetanotherscandal before it blows up in his face.
Eight months.
Eight months of carefully cultivated reputation management. Eight months of press releases and strategic charity appearances and "anonymous" tips to lifestyle journalists about his philanthropic nature. Eight months of building Slava Romanov into someone that city council members want to keep shaking hands with.
And he’s seconds away from turning it into a Page Six headline about blowjobs in public places.
Could you seriously not wait just a couple of more hours?
I imagine, with perfect clarity, wrapping that ruined tie around his throat and pulling it tight until his cold gray eyes finally show something. But what do I want it to be? Surprise? Fear? The dawning realization that he's not the apex predator he thinks he is?
I imagine his hands coming up too late, scrabbling uselessly, his perfect cheekbones going from marble-pale to blue?—
