Page 7 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

I haven’t been looking too good lately. So much, the internship with Carrington, the one I’ve been hoping to start for two years, fell through.

Again.

My father said it had been a board decision, that they didn’t think my image was suitable for a toy company. My image as a party princess, an heiress to the most profitable toy company after Mattel—and that was only after the Barbie movie—and the woman who claimed to be able to tame the baddest boy of rock may not fit the family company, but I do.

I have so many ideas and no one will listen to them.

It didn’t help that my twin brother Ashton convinced Dad to sponsor a NASCAR car with Ashton driving, only to have him lose his temper and intentionally bump another car, sending them both spiralling out of the race with only one lap to go.

Dad said it embarrassed the company, which is worse than embarrassing him.

My phone chimes yet again and my twin telepathy has me picking it up.

Ashton: u ok?

Well, that’s nice. But he didn’t use the group chat so he can keep his grump status intact.

Me: of course

Ashton: you lie

Me: just a little

I can tell Ashton anything, but there’s no sense talking about this with him because he made his dislike of Tiger apparent at the very beginning. It had something to do with him dating the ex-girlfriend of Opium’s drummer. Or maybe the sister of the guitarist? I can’t remember.

I need a wider circle of friends.

I roll over onto my back. My friends ask why I haven’t gotten my own place, but when your parents own three homes—four if you count the new villa in Turks and Caicos—and your every need is taken care of when you stay in one of the houses, why would I get my own place?

And I definitely don’t want to live with my brother.

My room—a suite of rooms, if you’re being particular—was decorated in a sage green back in January because I had gone through a difficult breakup back then and it was better for my spiritual well-being to have a relaxing colour palette.

I think I should change it to hot pink because I am fired up about Tiger.

My phone chimes again before I can pull up my Pinterest décor page. There’s no twin telepathy this time, just a general unease because it’s my father’s ringtone.

Dad: join me for dinner tonight

That’s never a good sign.

I don’t know if it’s good or bad that this isn’t a family dinner. It could be about what happened, but it could be because I spoke to Dad again last week about taking a position within the company. I want to show the world I’m not just a cover girl. Plus, I was impressed with Prince Gunnar taking on more princely duties in Laandia.

Prince Gunnar is one of my ex-boyfriends, but the only one who has become one of my best friends. We spent a few weeks together back in February, and I got invited to the royal wedding of his brother Prince Odin and Lady Camille back in June.

I had a mild flirtation with his eldest brother Kalle, the crown prince of Laandia when I was there, but that’s neither here nor there.

I like Laandia. After New York and London, and Barcelona and Tokyo, Laandia is one of my favourite places to visit.

It’s only my father and me for dinner, as my mother is still at the London house, and Ashton is somewhere in Europe. We talk mainly about Ashton, and I give him the gossip because Dad enjoys that.

I think everything is fine—until it isn’t.

“My dear girl, I need you to keep a low profile for the next bit,” Dad says, swirling his second glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from our Napa vineyard.

“Has the board said anything?” I demand.

“No, and they won’t if you can remove any connection between you and that degenerate singer selling tabloids. It’s a conservative board and they will not understand.”

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