Are you ready for Blaire?
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Love is selfish...
My name is Blaire.
I'm the bad girl.
The other woman.
The one who never gets the
guy in the end.
I'm the gold digger.
The bitch.
The one no one roots for.
The one you love to hate.
I hate myself too...
Everyone has a story. Are
you ready for mine?
Excerpt
With champagne and caviar
inundating my every sense, I slither through the light wooden floors of the Lila Acheson Wallace Wing
in The Met. As I walk, I pretend to admire the expensive jewelry being
showcased tonight by a famous designer whose name I can’t remember. A
multicolored diamond butterfly sparkles to my left and a cobra made out of
black stones glistens to my right. Rows upon rows of precious gems twinkle
under the soft lights of the room, flooding the space between the walls with
the glow of a thousand stars. Furtive glances. Secrets gossiped. Beauty
criticized. Lofty music fills the atmosphere as the über rich mingle and
pretend to like each other, yet you can almost taste their conceit and derision
for one another in the air.
This is Walker’s world, and
I love it.
Standing across the room,
where the crowd is thinner and the music fainter, I spot Walker’s blond head in
the corner of the room, talking to a group of his colleagues and their wives.
He looks polished and worth every penny of his trust fund in his sleek black
tuxedo, perfectly starched white shirt and black bowtie. His long golden hair
parted to the side shines like the sun. He is truly flawless.
I smile because it’s hard
to picture that this is the same guy who likes to snort coke off my tits as he
fucks me while hardcore porn plays in the background. He looks untouchable and
so cool, but his searching eyes, scanning the crowd for me give him up. He’s
wondering where I am. He did tell me not to go too far, after all. Soon after
we arrived at the party, I gave him some space to talk to his friends and do
his thing while I did mine. I hate clingy people, so I avoid being one.
I grab a third flute of
champagne from a passing waiter, and try to decide which of the different
displays to check out first when my eyes land on a spectacular piece of
jewelry. On a bed of black silk, similar to my hair color, lies an extravagant
necklace made of diamonds and rubies—a small heaven within one’s reach as long
as you can afford the price.
I bridge the space between
the glass protecting the necklace and me until it’s within my reach, fighting
the urge to touch the cool surface. As if under a spell, I observe how the rows
of diamonds embedded in platinum form leaves and thorns. At its center is a
rose made out of red diamonds almost as big as my palm.
I feel someone walk up and
stand next to me, but I don’t give him or her a second thought as I continue to
admire the way the light hits the gems, making them shine.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
His voice is smooth and
commanding, dripping absolute power. I keep my eyes locked on the display. Call
it sixth sense, but somehow I know that under no circumstance should I make eye
contact with the stranger who speaks like the ruler of the world.
“Yes,” I say simply.
“I wonder how much it is?”
the man asks.
“I don’t think it matters …
I highly doubt anyone can afford it.”
He chuckles, and the sound
is more delicious than his voice. Lusher. “Oh, but I can.”
I smile at his
self-assurance. I love cocky assholes. “I still doubt it.”
“You shouldn’t. I only
speak the truth,” he retorts coolly. His voice is nonchalant yet his words
leave no room for disbelief—a demand and a statement all in one.
Suddenly, the noises of the
room become distant. People talking and laughing amongst friends and the
orchestra playing all fade away until all I hear is him speaking.
And at this moment, that is
all that matters.
“The truth is very subjective,
sir.”
“The truth may be
subjective but money isn’t. Money can buy anything.”
His answer is like an
electroshock, jumpstarting my brain from a champagne-induced haze. My pulse
begins to accelerate, excitement making it hard to take a deep breath. Don’t
look at him … don’t.
“Oh really,” I say, my
voice dripping with sarcasm. He’s right, though.
“Of course. I believe
everything,” he pauses, “and everyone has a price.”
Curiosity winning the
battle against curiosity, I turn to face him, and what a fucking big mistake
that is. When our eyes meet, I feel incapacitated of all sense and movement.
The sight of him takes my breath away. This man gives the term “lust at first
sight” a whole new meaning.
In my short twenty-three
years, I’ve been with extremely handsome men, perfect even, but to classify the
man standing next to me in any kind of category would be a disservice to him,
and not really fair to the others. Longish, light brown hair wildly framing his
face, vacant eyes the color of dollar bills, a slightly crooked nose, and a
mouth that begs to be buried deep within your thighs. His beauty is as harsh as
it is stunningly perfect. Dressed in a simple black tuxedo and unbuttoned white
shirt, the man exudes innate virility and grace, reminding me of a black
panther stalking his prey. And just like a panther, it’s the pure raw and
powerful energy emanating from within him that I find most attractive. Because
just by standing next to him, I get the sense that his word is always the last
spoken and his wishes the first ones to be fulfilled. He doesn’t ask, he
demands. He doesn’t hope, he expects.
He’s quiet for a moment;
his uncanny eyes hold me captive as though they are baring my soul to him and I
hate it. I tighten my hold on the crystal flute. I want to look away, but I
can’t. The way he’s staring at me makes me want to squirm.
“I wonder … do you have
one?” he asks softly before turning to examine the piece of jewelry once more.
“A what?” I ask,
momentarily stunned.
He smiles. “A price.”
“For the right amount … I
just might,” I say quietly, my heart beating so fast it feels as though it
wants out of my chest. As soon as the words leave my mouth, there’s no shock
coursing down my body, no rolling waves of shame pulling me down for having
said that to a complete stranger—nothing.
And why should there be? I
am who I am.
I’m staring at his profile,
waiting for him to acknowledge my answer, when a breeze of cool air floats past
us, making me shiver. About to chase the goose bumps on my arm with my hand, I
watch as he slowly turns to look at me, catching me staring at him. Time stands
still as I watch him raise his large tanned hand and touch my bare shoulder,
his fingertips lightly grazing the temporary small bumps covering it. Then he
smiles as if he knows that my skin is tingling from his scalding touch, and
looks away.
“I thought so.”
We remain standing next to
each other for another minute or so, the distance between us almost
nonexistent. It would be so easy to reach out and hold his hand. The sound of
an incoming call breaks the silence, bringing us back to reality.
He takes his cell phone out
of the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and ignores the call after noting the
name of the caller. He lifts his gaze to meet my own.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I should go …
I’m here with someone,” I reply, not really wanting to leave him just yet.
“Yes, that’s probably a
good idea.”
I frown. He didn’t have to
be quite so blunt. The stranger extends a hand toward me, holding something in
his fingers.
“Here … ”
I open my hand as I feel
the edges of what I assume is his business card poke the skin of my palm.
“What’s this?” I ask stupidly.
“My business card, of
course.”
“Obviously … but why?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t
reach his eyes. “Let’s just say that I’m an interested buyer.”
And then he’s gone.
He turns and walks away
from me, disappearing into a sea of colorful gowns and black suits. As the
sounds of the party infiltrate my ears once more, I lower my gaze to stare at
the simple cream-colored card in my hand. Its simplistic and elegant design
draws attention to the name printed in bold black letters on the paper.
Lawrence Rothschild.
I smile and let my
fingertips trail his name. It depends on what you’re willing to pay, Mr.
Rothschild.
Published by Mia Asher
Copyright © 2013 by Mia
Asher
About the Author:
Mia Asher
My name is Mia Asher.
I'm a writer, a hopeless
romantic, a wanderer, a dreamer, a cynic, and a believer. And, oh yes…I might
be a bit crazy - but who isn't?
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