Page 4 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 4

Chapter 2

GizmoGossip - Exclusive Comment from Delaney Masterson, aka “The Intern

Nina March, editor at large

I didn’t believeit either, when I got the call. I thought Delaney Masterson would have gone so far underground at this point that she’d be surfing on the magma in the Earth’s core. But no, she’s just sitting over in her apartment in Cambridge, unemployed and wanting to set the record straight.

That’s right, GizmoGossip readers. Delaney has a story to tell, and it turns out it doesn’t quite line up with the statement Nixon Blake released. Are you ready?

During my time at Scour, as an intern with the Business Lab Program, I engaged in a relationship with Nixon Blake. As my boss, this relationship was inadvisable and against company policy. We were both aware of the risks, but entered into the relationship consensually. We hoped to keep it a secret so that it wouldn’t affect our work at Scour. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

In an effort to mitigate some of the negative press attention that I was already receiving, Nixon Blake put out a statement saying that he somehow abused his power, and that my participation in the relationship wasn’t 100% my choice. This statement was false.

Every day, women are the victims of workplace harassment. To co-opt their very real lived experiences to make my life somehow easier feels cheap, wrong, and disrespectful to them. While I appreciate what Mr. Blake was attempting to do, I cannot allow that to happen.

I also can’t ignore that his statement had unintended consequences, including the need for New England College to distance themselves from Scour. While I applaud their commitment to supporting and believing victims of harassment, I can’t allow them to take the fall for me.

I happily and enthusiastically entered a relationship with Nixon Blake. While that relationship is over, I don’t regret it. I am, however, very sorry to everyone who was hurt by the fallout.

Holy shit,you guys. HOLY. SHIT. Girlfriend fell on the sword. Well, Nixon Blake must have a helluva sword, is all I have to say—because girl keeps happily jumping on it, one way or the other. What do you think? Stockholm syndrome? Lovelorn intern? Or is she just (gasp) telling the truth? Chat it up in the comments. This is one I’m dying to parse.

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“I swear to god,if you don’t smile in these photos I’ll have you killed, and no one will ever find your body.” Miranda delivers this declaration through clenched teeth, still smiling so wide you could see her professionally whitened teeth from space.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t smiling, but that’s been happening to me a lot over the last week or so. I’ll drift off, my mind reeling as I think about the smoldering remains of my life and career. And amidst all that, I’m still wondering where Nixon is and what he’s doing. I’m still wondering if he’s thinking of me.

Goddammit.

And of course, when my mind falls down these Nixon Blake-inspired rabbit holes, I adopt what Elise calls “Resting No Fucks Face.”

“It’s like resting bitch face, except instead of being aggressive, it’s just noticeable disinterested.”

Apparently, Miranda is not super excited to have her maid of honor give Resting No Fucks Face in her wedding photos.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and arrange my face into a wide smile. I’m thinking about how happy Miranda looked walking down the aisle just an hour ago, and that helps the smile brighten up a little bit. Miranda was beaming in her off the shoulder white dress with delicate lace overlay. Her blonde hair was in loose waves and gathered into a low ponytail at the nap of her neck, from which a delicate, lace-trimmed veil flowed down to the floor and floated ethereally across the floor. She’s a knockout bride, that’s for sure.

And I can’t even hate her for her bridesmaids’ dress selection, because even if I am feeling pretty shitty, I look fucking amazing. My dress is a deep sapphire blue lace with a fifties party dress silhouette, fitted through the waist with a flared skirt that falls to just below my knees. It features a sheer top with a boat-neck and delicate sleeves that feels very Audrey Hepburn. My own blonde hair is also curled in loose waves, gathered behind my right ear and fastened with a delicate pearl hair clip.

“Good, great smiles! You look fantastic!” The photographer calls, snapping away. We’re squeezing the photos in before we have to hurry to the reception, because Miranda was adamant that Brad not see her before the wedding.

“Look, years of tradition saying that’s bad luck is not nothing. I’m not doing it,” Miranda spat when my mother tried to persuade her to do a “first look” photo shoot before the ceremony. “I’m going to be married forever, and I’m not going to let wedding photos get in the way of that.”

Yeah, my sister was a bit of a bridezilla.

But it all paid off, because the wedding was gorgeous, and the reception looks to be poised to go off without a hitch.

If only I could throw myself fully into the festivities and forget about Nixon.

I’ve gotten a little bit better, of course. I even managed to sleep last night without having wild sex dreams about him. That was a win (although, maybe also a little bit of a loss, because those dreams were hot). At this rate I’ll be done thinking about Nixon Blake in oh … about sixty-seven years.

Awesome.

“Ok, I think that’s the last shot. You guys can head on over to the limos, and I’ll snap some candids as we go, ok?” The photographer gathers up her cameras, slinging them over her shoulders and around her neck. I transfer my bouquet of white hydrangea and peonies, all gathered together in white satin ribbon with delicate pearls sewn into it, to my other hand. Who knew bouquets were so heavy? I feel like if I swung this thing hard enough, I could give someone a concussion.

Miranda shoots me one last warning look that I know means I better enjoy the reception that she worked so hard to plan or she’s going to pull out my fingernails that she had manicured just this morning. And so I spend the walk to the limo trailing behind Miranda’s sorority sisters and the guys from the fire station as we head to the limo that’s bound for the reception. Our families are already there waiting for us to arrive to cheers, to eat, drink, dance, and be merry.

Be merry, goddammit.

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