The Billionaire Game(22)
I looked out the window into the sculpted hedges as a tear rolled down my cheek. I’d wanted to believe so much that I wasn’t just doing what I loved, but that I was doing good, too. Inspiring self-confidence wasn’t exactly world peace, but it had been something.
And now it was nothing.
Another tear rolled down my cheek, and I felt a sob catch in my throat as I hugged myself against the sudden chill of self-doubt and despair.
And then Asher, with some truly impeccable sense of timing, knocked on the door.
He didn’t actually wait for me to open the door—probably that would have violated the bylaws of Overreaching Douchebags International—but barged right on in. “Are you calmed down now? I thought we could discuss—”
“There is nothing to discuss!” I interrupted, my voice harsh as my sadness flared into rage. “You’re not even interested in discussing; you didn’t listen to a single thing I said. You just want to talk at me and talk at me until I’m buried under a huge pile of logic and cost-benefit ratios and I give up my integrity and do things your way!”
“Because my way makes sense,” he said, starting to get hot around the collar. He took a step back, pulling his phone from his pocket and waving it in the air like a light saber. “Look at these projections!”
I crossed my arms and gave him the stink eye.
Asher took a deep breath, visibly reining himself in, and then held out the phone tentatively, like peace offering. “We’re talking a 150% return rate on investment here,” in a voice so carefully neutral it could have come from Switzerland. “I don’t see what the issue is. You could be sipping martinis on a beach this time next year, not a care in a world.”
“But I want to have cares in this world!” I protested, pushing the phone back at him. How did he not get this? Had he already forgotten what it was like for the part of the world that didn’t have their own private helicopters? “Cares in the world get me out of bed in the morning. Having cares in this world is what makes life actually interesting! “
“That’s something that people say to cheer themselves up when they’re stressed out because they’re stuck running in circles in their little lives, never accomplishing anything!” Asher snapped in frustration. “Why would you choose to struggle when you don’t have to? There are so many interesting things in life that aren’t a struggle! Helicopter rides over canyons, movie premieres where you meet the stars you’ve idolized since childhood, exotic beaches where you can go swimming with dolphins and manta rays!” He ran a hand through his hair in bewilderment and aggravation. “I could shortcut you to success and I don’t understand why you won’t let me!
“Because you and I have different definitions of success,” I said, striding forward to snarl into his face. He disgusted me, with his get-rich-quick attitude and his oblivious condescension and his gorgeous lips—whoa, back up there, subconscious. Get back to the yelling. “The only part of success you care about is the money, but I actually want to make people’s lives better.”
Asher flapped his hands dismissively. “And you will, by making them feel they’re buying a high-end product—”
“No, I won’t!” He still wasn’t listening to me, so through the burning red haze of anger I decided that I would get his attention by speaking in a language I knew he understood.
I ripped off my blouse, buttons bouncing to the corners of the cabin. My skirt followed, landing on a lamp.
Asher’s eyes grew wide, and then a grin started to work its way onto his face. “Not the turn I was expecting this conversation to take, but who am I to—”
“Shut the hell up.”
I shoved him backwards towards the wall—his annoying grin still pasted on his face like it had been attached with superglue—and planted my hands on my hips. Thank God it was laundry day, or I’d have been wearing my own designs and this little lesson wouldn’t have been nearly as instructive.
“Do you see this bullshit?” I snapped, spinning to present my back. “I got these on sale at a department store, and they’re supposed to be high quality. But they use a low thread count fabric that scratches like a hobo with bedbugs, and their cheap-ass clasps dig into your skin like a scalpel if you do anything more physically active than breathing.”
I ran my finger underneath the fabric and lifted the band a little to show him the hook and eye marks that I knew would be imprinted in my back.
Asher let out a sympathetic breath. “Damn, that looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it f*cking hurts,” I snapped. “But that’s what you have to deal with when you get something mass-produced, when no one takes the time to understand your unique wants and needs.” I cupped my breasts. “Look at this sorry ass one-size-fits-all foam cup! It’s going to tear the second I put it through the washer. Thanks to that eh-good-enough mentality, I have to use an extender to even get this lingerie on in the first place! And what about these cheap straps that are already fraying?” I snapped the bra straps angrily, and he actually flinched. “And don’t get me started on this sorry excuse for panties, and the shoddy stitching on this elastic.”
As I caught my breath and took in the perplexed expression on Asher’s face, hope rose in my chest: he was finally listening. Maybe I should have been ashamed that I was standing there in my underwear, but instead all I felt was triumph. It seemed like I was actually getting through to him.