My Accidental Proposal to the Billionaire

Why is she in my boyfriend’s lap? This is not the only thought in my head right now—there are probably a thousand—but it’s the loudest. I can recognize her by her blonde hair, so effortless, tied back in a loose but playful bun. (It is not effortless. I can smell the product from a mile away.) A heart-shaped clip dangles in it, and her mouth is on his, her arms draped over his shoulders. I don’t know what sound I make. Is it a scream? A squeal? She’s one of the new models, just hired a week ago. I studied her photos from top to bottom and imagined her in my newest fashion line. Her emerald eyes would complement the soft natural green of the fabric. I’d thought about it often as I agonized over my sketchbook at night, trying to perfect each line. I did not imagine her body, so sweet, in Jason’s lap. It’s almost picture-perfect: the skyscrapers behind them in the wide, glass windows. His oversized desk. Their soft giggling. Funny how they hadn’t heard my heels clacking on the ground. I growl. The second loudest thought hits my brain: I hate Valentine’s Day. Want to know why? 1) I hate the cheap chocolates and the flimsy pink decorations. Very tacky. 2) Valentine Inc. owns thousands of pictures of me, and I’ve given them five years of my life. It’s just a sad coincidence that the company I work for and the holiday have the same name. But every time I see the word ‘Valentine,’ I can’t help but think of Mr. Valentine. Icy eyes, sculpted body, perfect jawline. Never spared me a glance. f**k him. 3)My birthday is on February 15th. Every Valentine’s Day, I have to think about how close I’m getting to my deadline. How I’ve been inching closer and closer to getting cut out of the will and losing my inheritance. 4) Today is Valentine’s Day. And I’m being cheated on. Jason, boring accountant Jason. Stable, simple, baked-chicken-and-oven-fries-every-night Jason. His tongue is in a new model’s throat. His glasses are on the edge of his desk. His fingers are roaming her (admittedly cute) cashmere cardigan. 5) There’s a velvet box clutched in my fist. Inside, a band my grandmother fashioned for her husband. I had to steal it out of the family vault. My birthright, like many things my family has kept from me. “You’ll have access to your inheritance when you get married, dear.” Today is the day I’m supposed to get married. 6) I hate Valentine’s Day because love isn’t real. I am a lady. I am a model. I am an heiress. So, of course, I handle the situation (my boyfriend—the one I was supposed to PROPOSE to—cheating on me. Cheating! On me!) with grace. By that, I mean, I take off one of my razor-sharp stilettos and aim it slightly above their heads. The heel hits the window, and an earsplitting CRACK slashes the air. Office damage. This isn’t good. But to say “my blood is boiling” is the understatement of the year. My hands are shaking. No one cheats on BeBe Sinclair. I’m going to kill him. The model slips out of his lap and onto the desk. She is infuriatingly beautiful: a perfect smattering of freckles, a perfect little button nose. Her sleek leather boots are perfect, too, as she taps them together. She doesn’t look scared at all, her mouth slipping into a tiny smirk as she adjusts her sweater to hide her bra strap. From here, I can see that Jason’s shirt is unbuttoned. His collarbone is bright red with love bites, and his fly is unzipped. His hair looks extra greasy, but his usually dark-circled eyes are bright. “BeBe,” he says, and he says it slowly. Gently. Like I’m an animal he’s afraid of scaring off. He was always good with animals. f**k, if I think about that too much, I’ll cry. I’ll explode. I’ll kill him. “You were supposed to be at a photoshoot. You don’t look like you were there.” "Photoshoot?" I’m trembling. I can’t restrain myself. I hop across the room and take his open collar in my fist. “That was a lie! This was supposed to be a f*****g surprise! I—we—” I squeeze the box even tighter. Tears blur my eyes, and I hiccup because he’s not supposed to know. Models don’t cry. Certainly not in front of the competition. I wipe my eyes with my fist. My jaw is clenched. “This is your fault,” Jason says. It shocks a gasp out of me. I’m about to cuss him out. I’m about to bring up that the apartment is mine. The tasteful (not tacky) decorative pillows are mine. His three monitors are mine. But he shrugs, placing his glasses on his suddenly very pointy nose. “You always chose your career over me. I was already gone, and you didn’t even notice.” All those nights I was staring at my sketchbook, designing jackets, rompers, dresses. Imagining a day when Valentine Inc. didn’t own me. Where was Jason? I guess I never noticed and never asked. I liked the quiet. But now, that quiet feels like an accusation. I’m full of heat. I’m shaking, barely containing a scream. How often had he met her, and I didn’t even notice? My knees are jelly. It’s f*****g embarrassing. How many times had he f****d her? This beautiful, fashionable, wildly popular up-and-coming model? And I hadn’t even noticed. “So? Maybe you could’ve, I dunno, talked to me about it?” “That wouldn’t have done anything, BeBe.” I hate how he says my name. So coolly. Even as I twist his collar tighter in my grip. “You just wanted to marry me to make your family happy.” “That’s not true!” A model’s worst nightmare—tears, real tears, spill out onto his desk. I’m grateful for my waterproof mascara, that’s for sure. “I loved you!” “Don’t think I didn’t know about the clause in the will about you getting married by 25.” He smirks. And I didn’t think a dork like Jason could smirk, but it’s perfect form. The little model must’ve taught him. “And aren’t you turning 25 tomorrow? It’s too late for you to get Daddy’s money. That’s why you’re mad.” It’s not about the money, I want to say, but the words catch in my throat. My mind keeps circling back to the love bites on his neck, the way his fingers were curling around her cardigan. My heart burns, and it’s not from affection anymore. When was the last time Jason and I had good, hot s*x? We’d settled into simple domestic bliss, and I’d loved it. As a model, men were always chasing my body, always making gross comments about me on social media. Jason was special—or at least, I thought so. We watched movies together, and he cooked frozen fish sticks for me every Tuesday and Thursday night. He was supposed to be different. But he was just like all the others. I let go of his collar. He’s not worth it. Hold your head up, don’t let him know he’s torn you apart. You can’t kill him. That’s illegal. I open the engagement box, the ring flashing like it’s mocking me. I have 24 hours to get married before my life falls apart. Before I’m written out of the will. All of Daddy’s girls have to be married before 25, or… I don’t even finish the thought. “I’ll just find someone else! Any man would be better than cheating scum like you.” It’s perfect timing. The door creaks open, voices thundering behind me. I turn around and see a dark suit jacket and matching tie. I don’t know what I’m thinking, or if I’m thinking at all. My eyes trail down to his long, tan fingers resting at his side. No ring. It’s like my brain has been ripped away from my body. There is no thought in my mind, even as I notice the pencil-skirted figure beside the man. It all happens in less than a second. Grandfather's wedding band is jammed on a stranger’s finger. “There! You see! I’ll just marry him.” There’s a dark chuckle, and I jerk my head up. Oh. Oh no. Perfect ink-black hair. Perfect jawline. Perfect ice-blue eyes. Jack Valentine. CEO. Media Mogul. My boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. Never spared me a glance before. “Well,” he drawls, and his voice is deep, dark. He crooks a perfect eyebrow. Is he amused? Intrigued? I can’t read him. He inspects the ring for a long moment and then looks back at me. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.” He nods at the woman beside him. “Release a statement. Let’s make it official.” My mouth tumbles open. I don’t know what to say. It was just a joke? Please don’t fire me? Somewhere behind me, Jason makes a strangled gasp. The model yelps, as if wounded. But I’m rooted in place. I can’t even put my hand down—the hand that once held the ring. Mr. Valentine doesn’t spare me another glance. “Bebe, I’ll bill the broken window to you,” he says with a nod, before exiting the room as quickly as he entered it. Like a ghost. Like a dream. What the hell have I gotten myself into?