Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(80)

That really quiets them down, almost too effectively. You could just about hear a pin drop. But really, all I can hear is my blood rushing through my ears. It sounds weirdly squishy.

I blink and look down at my cue cards. The writing’s too small. And did I write this shit in Chinese?

I toss them to the side.

I look up, just to make sure I have everyone’s attention. Yep, they’re all still there. God, they’re so quiet and still. Is this an audience or a photograph of an audience?

“All right,” I say, trying to think of what I was going to say. “So. Why are you all here today?” I point at random people in the audience, stalling for time. They all look like deer caught in headlights. “That’s a good question.”

I can’t remember shit.

I look over at LB, hoping he’ll give me a hint, but little bitch that he is, he’s just staring at me, mute. Thank you, fucker.

Part of it comes to me. “I remember now. I’m Lissy Banks.” My name comes out all wrong, and I know that and vow to be more careful with the next thing I say. But for some reason, the next thing I say sounds like “Coshureweeksbankslaunch.”

Someone coughs. I think I’m losing them.

But I feel good. Like I can take on the world. I can turn things around.

“Sorry. Let me start over.” I grab the microphone and decide I might be better off walking the crowd. Because maybe if I move, even with this stupid too-much-fabric gown of mine, I can keep up with the room, since it’s spinning around me. A flash of inspiration hits me as I stumble out into the audience. “When my father started the company over thirfty years ago, he wanted Bangs to be symomomous with style, elegance, and sopisticashion. The face of our newest line, James Rowan . . .”

I’m supposed to say “embodies all that,” and that is when James is supposed to come out, with the spotlight on him, and do his little twirl on the runway. He does, exuding confidence and control, but I can’t get those final three words out. His eyes sweep over me, full of concern.

Some concern. He’s such a fake. Like all of them.

I wanted to make the perfect man. But I made another dime-a-dozen phony.

I stare at him. My voice falters.

And something inside me just cracks.

“The face of our newest line, James Rowan, is . . . a fucking fraud.”

His eyes fall on me, hard. I look away to avoid his gaze, but every other eye in the audience is on me.

“It’s true. Everyone thinks he’s such a sop—sop—” I can’t get the word out. “Elegant person, the epitome of style and grace. Bull fucking shit! He didn’t fucking know what a butter knife was before I met him. Three months ago, he was practically living on the street, in a bar, doing dares on YouTube for peanuts. He’s nobody, and you all think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. You’re all so stupid, falling over him like he’s the Second Coming. You put a sewer rat in a suit—he’s still a sewer rat.”

I glance around the room, at all the faces, white with shock, and I just don’t care anymore.

“Introducing the new face of Banks LTD, James Fucking Rowan, liar and asshole extraordinaire.”

Then I drop the mic to the ground and run away, as far and as fast as my high heels will carry me, leaving the ballroom in absolute silence.

James

It isn’t how I thought I’d spend my first night in New York City.

After Lizzy ran out on me, leaving me alone on stage with two thousand faces staring at me, I slowly exited the stage and went after her.

But she was gone.

Jeanine came out a few minutes later. “Well. Look at that,” she said. “You’re nobody again. I guess she fucked you both—”

I held up a hand to her and silenced her with a look. “Don’t. Don’t even talk to me or Lizzy again.”

And then I stormed outside, loosening my tie, ignoring the stares from people on the streets. I wanted to see Lizzy, but I knew she was done with me. Maybe I could’ve explained things to her, but I was tired. Tired of all the shit.

I navigated aimlessly for hours, until I found myself in the middle of Times Square. And there I am, right on the side of one of the buildings—a giant, ten-story-high billboard of me, leaning against a wall, in the same Banks Intrigue tuxedo I have on now. Though I’m surrounded by a million other ads, I’m the focal point.

Holy shit.

I pull out my phone, think about snapping a picture for Charlie, then stop myself.

Charlie doesn’t want a picture of me. He wants me.

I open my web browser and switch my flight to tomorrow morning. There is a packed week of meetings scheduled, but from the way everyone was looking at me, I get the feeling I’m done here.

Since I won’t complete all those meetings, I won’t get my second half of the money.

My contract with Quill is a no-go.

I also owe LB $200,000, and after all the purchases I made when I first cashed the check, I don’t think I’ll have enough in my account to cover it.

But none of that matters.

Not the car, or the apartment, or the nanny, or even the fancy private school. Not a single thing.

She’s what matters.

And I fucked her over, big-time.

How hard would it have been to just put her first? To say fuck you to the money, to my fake image. She knew who I was and didn’t care about any of it, and yet I had it in my head that I couldn’t be worthy of her unless I became this asshole. I trashed my people, Charlie, and everyone I cared about for this bullshit.