Page 2 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

“Yeah,” I say. “I just graduated with a degree in journalism and—”

“Do you read the news? Because shit is going down here. Last one hired, first one fired. I’m surprised they didn’t cancel your appointment.”

I sit back on my heels as my stomach drops. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

She takes the papers from my hand and stands up. “Our parent company has been bought out effective immediately.”

“Someone bought out Prerogative Media?” I ask, feeling like my whole world is spinning now. Blush Magazine, as well as a whole host of other companies, fall under the umbrella of Prerogative Media, but if someone bought the parent company, then everyone at Blush is at risk.

The entire magazine could be shut down, in theory.

“Not just someone,” she replies darkly. “Weston Bridges. And if you don’t know who he is I suggested you stand up and walk out the door right now. And if you still have your interview,” she says, hardly even looking at me, “then good luck. You’re going to need it.”

“Rachel, hurry!” Jen snaps. “He’s waiting!”

Rachel, who now has all the pages she came out for, clicks quickly across the shiny floors and into the back. I slowly stand up and make my way back to the couch.

I wish I’d had a second to tell that Rachel girl that of course I know who Weston Bridges is. He’s a self-made billionaire who hasn’t even cracked the age of thirty yet.

He’s also a notorious playboy who happens to be super sexy too. I bet he’s a total asshole—and by the way everyone is racing around the office, I’m sure I’m right.

I just have to hope that I impress whatever HR person I’m interviewing with, and get in before there are any layoffs. People who buy companies love to lay off a quarter of the staff to help reboot the energy and start somewhat fresh. In a company this big, I’ll probably never even have to see him.

If I get the job, of course, which would be a miracle.

I feel like I’ve been sitting waiting to be called for hours. The sweat on my back has finally dried but my shirt is still sticky and I really hope I don’t smell. I wonder if I have time to go to the bathroom and maybe dab myself with a cool paper towel when a young man calls my name.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say, standing up.

“He’s ready for you. You can follow me.”

I pick up my bag, stand on my sore feet, and put on my best, most confident face, despite the turmoil that is happening in my mind and body. I desperately need and want this job. I just hope that whoever this HR guy is, he’s forgiving for my lack or real-world journalism experience.

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