My Accidental Proposal to the Billionaire

Chapter Two: Don't Slip, Don't Trip, Don't Fall.

This has to be a dream. All of it.

From Jason cheating on me. From that model (Bianca Russo, @RealBianna on IG—no, I’m not a freak, yes, I memorized her socials) smirking at me on his desk.

To Jack Valentine.

Normally, if he even glanced at me the way you’d expect a billionaire CEO of a designer brand to look at someone—taking in the shoes, the blouse, maybe any tasteful jewelry—I’d be ecstatic. Just one look from under those thick lashes, and I’d be grinning like an i***t for weeks.

And I just stuffed an engagement ring on his finger.

A family heirloom. Not even worth as much as a strand of his hair. I proposed to him.

And I think he just said yes.

The air feels heavy. Jason’s office, with its giant desk, hints of brass in the tasteful decorations, and empty bookshelves—it was all so familiar before. Now it’s thick with shocked silence. Valentine is gone. It’s just us.

“BeBe,” Jason finally says. His eyes are wide, his adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. His fingers creep to the edge of his desk, tightening until they’re white. His voice is suddenly a whimper. “What did you just do?”

Think fast, BeBe.

“None of your business. Not anymore.”

Bianca grabs her oversized water bottle off the desk—the kind every model carries. No shade. I have one, too. Hers is neutral green, just like the romper I imagined her wearing in my sketches.

She moves like a ghost, still wearing that unreadable smirk. “Do you think you’re better than us?” she asks softly, her voice almost sweet. Her eyes are big, her tone like the serpent convincing Eve to bite the apple.

For a second, her lips twitch. The smirk slips into a frown, then rights itself on her perfect face.

“Well, clearly. I didn’t cheat. And I wasn’t caught in the office. If it were my affair, I wouldn’t do it near a window. Someone might push me out of it.”

She unscrews the cap of her water bottle, slowly. I’m mesmerized by her perfect French manicure. It should feel dated—maybe even a little passé—but it only highlights how natural her beauty is. Bianca looks like she fell from heaven, and it didn’t even hurt.

I proposed to Jack Valentine. My life is forever changed, but right now, all I can think about is Jason’s colorless face and the snake standing in front of me. Bianca’s cap twists off with a soft hiss.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes hardening. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”

My fists tremble. It’s not ladylike, and I know I look like hell. My reflection stares back at me in the distant window: retro, sharp, tailored pink blazer. Pinstripe pants. Stilettos with razor-sharp heels. I’m giving boss b***h.

No. I’m giving straight out of hell.

Maybe I should’ve worn something more seductive since I was proposing, but something told me I’d need to give fierce.

“I think you should go, Bianca. I don’t think either of us should do something we regret.”

There. Professional enough?

She raises the bottle to her lips. Caramel lipstick, not even smudged from what she did to my boyfriend.

“Like what, grandma?”

Five years. Five years of shitty model shoots that stretched twelve to eighteen hours. Stockings. Heels. Lipstick. Every Valentine’s product under the sun. Pictures of my face crammed into the back of catalogs. Nights spent awake, liking and commenting under hundreds of pictures, trying to “network.”

And this model just shows up out of nowhere to take my place?

“Oh, I don’t know.” Deep breath. I pull my compact out of my pocket. Mascara—perfect. Eyeliner—a little smudged. Lipstick could use a refresh. I unsheathe my lipstick (Urban Decay, ‘Shock Value’) to give my lips a fresh coat. “Maybe when I talk to Mr. Valentine about what happened today, I’ll tell him about what you and Jason were doing. Not that I think he’d need the reminder.”

I see Bianca’s eyes flicker in my compact mirror—a flutter of lashes, then the flash of her water bottle. Her tongue swipes her caramel lips.

“Oops. Don’t slip on the way down.”

It’s too late. An ice cube hits my forehead, and a lemon wedge bounces off my cheekbone. The water is freezing.

I’m drenched. The shock feels like a punch to the face. My eyes sting from the lemon, and I’m standing there like an i***t in my one pink stiletto.

A soaking wet flamingo.

Kill. Kill her. Kill them. Kill. Grab her by the hair, twist it tight, and drag her across the polished espresso-brown floor.

Jason’s mouth hangs open. Bianca screws the lid back on her water bottle, unbothered.

No more boyfriend. My ring is on Jack Valentine’s finger. Tomorrow, I turn twenty-five.

And here I am. In an accountant’s office. Soaked in water.

My heart clenches in my chest like a shriveled fist.

Because I know: she has it. Every designer, every talent scout, is looking for a girl with it. Something indescribable. The way they hold themselves, the way they speak, their playful edge, their ruthlessness.

Bianca is going to make it. She’s going to be a star.

I don’t know if I have that it. No matter how hard I’ve worked, I never seem to talk right, dress right, be right. I’m a fashion designer who wears thick reading glasses at night. I never knew how to be an it girl.

And the it girl just f*****g doused me in front of the man she stole from me.

So, what can I do?

My face is flushed. My fingers shake as I run them through my dripping hair. Keep it together. Don’t cry. BeBe Sinclair does not cry.

“I think you spilled something.”

It’s all I can muster. Jason gives a surprised little laugh. Bianca looks victorious.

Gently, I unbuckle my shoe. Some instinct realizes I can’t hop down the stairs of this hundred-story building in one heel.

“You won’t get away with this,” I say. Don’t look back. Give them your ass and nothing more.

BeBe Sinclair doesn’t cry.

I open the office door, take a deep, steadying breath, and find myself blinded by flashing camera lights.

It takes a moment to adjust. Of course. The building is crawling with professional photographers. Mr. Valentine did tell his assistant to “release a statement.”

I’m going to throw up.

At least five or six cameramen are here. I recognize some of them. Jesse, who shot me yesterday, winces at me and reaches into his hoodie—probably for the fast food napkins he always carries.

And then there’s Mr. Valentine’s assistant. She doesn’t miss a beat. She offers me a pink handkerchief with one hand and adjusts her glasses with the other.

“Mr. Valentine would like to see you,” she says.