Page 32 of The Rebel Billionaire

I’ll be fine.

I yank the covers up and over my head.

Sophia isn’t going to allow me to put myself in danger.

Rolling onto my stomach, I silently scream into my pillow.

No one I met at St Clair batted an eyelid or questioned who I was. My disguise stood up to their scrutiny.

But that was only a few hours. This is going to be all day, every day!

Turning over, I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. There hadn’t been a flicker of recognition on anyone’s face, not a single “Do I know you?” or “Gosh, don’t you look like…” There had been none of that.

They have my photograph on file—and that thought alone makes me want to vomit. The one positive is that the promise about my references being genuine has held true. To have been offered the job, they must have stood up to the required scrutiny.

At seven, I give up. Leaning against the unit in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection.

Shit!

There’s no hiding the dark circles under my eyes.

I close my eyes and reopen them.

“Hi, I’m Brooke,” I say.

“Hi, I’m Brooke Feldmann…Brooke Feldmann…that’s right, Brooke,” I say again, changing the intonation in my voice, adding a smile, inclining my head.

I repeat the process over and over.

“Brooke, Brooke, Brooke,” I say, hoping that if I hear it enough times, my brain will respond when someone uses it.

At eight-thirty, I call a taxi, allowing myself plenty of time so I won’t be late on my first morning. Sophia was adamant that I use cabs instead of the subway. Less exposure and a more pleasant experience. Now, standing just inside the entrance to my apartment building, I wait for him to pull up, darting outside as soon as I see the cab’s number. There are people everywhere. A passerby tries to jump in, but I grab the door.

“I’ve booked this.”

She grunts, clearly toying with the idea of arguing with me, but the driver turns and says something, causing her to move away. I breathe a sigh of relief as another cab appears with its light on. She moves quickly, darting out, hand raised. The joys of living in a city.

I get in and hand the driver the address.

“First day?” he says, his New York accent warm and welcoming.

“Yes, that obvious?”

“Handing me the address gave it away,” he says with a wink. “British?”

I nod.

“Well, good luck,” he says, pulling out into the line of traffic.

It takes thirty minutes to get to the office. I jump out and pay with my new credit card. I need to check the credit limit and available balance. Not something I’ve ever had to think about before. The joys of being a billion-pound trust fund kid who’s grown up surrounded by wealth.

I’m suddenly thankful Mum and Dad made us money-conscious, although I’ve never had to really consider my account going to zero or below.

Is that still the case?

A problem for another time.

I thank the driver.