Page 17 of Scarred Sacrifice
Eden gives me a side glance. “Sure,” she mutters.
“They won’t be. I’m not interested in him that way, nor anyone else. He knows that, you know that, the entire fucking world knows that, so there cannot be any lines crossed,” I snap.
“I didn’t say it would be you crossing the lines. I’m just saying within what, twenty-four hours, he has admitted to wanting to be with you more than what he currently is and that he likes you more than that. Who knows? He may even love you. You shut him down, he flutters his eyelashes at you and manages to break through that impenetrable force field you have, and taa-daa, he’s back in your bed,” she rants, only pausing briefly before starting back up again. “Whether you like to admit it or not, you have a soft spot for him. And no, I know you don’t like him like that, but any affection you show him, any interest you show, he’s going to see and think there is more to it. Maybe it’s a good thing this has come up. It could give you some distance.” She sighs as she pushes the door open to Betsy’s room.
“What thing?” I ask with confusion.
Betsy turns around and smiles. Isabella is sitting on the couch, and she greets me with a shy grin. I frown, wondering why Betsy allowed her in here.
“So, Isabella has given us more information and a perfect way in,” Betsy states, her eyes sparking with excitement.
“I’m guessing it was involving something technical, or you wouldn’t be so excited right now,” I point out.
Her grin widens. “You know me so well.”
“Henry holds an annual charity retreat,” Eden states.
“Yes, we know, but we never know where it will be, as he constantly changes location due to the press, and you need one of those special invites,” I point out. Betsy practically bounces in her seat. I smirk. “Come on, then. Tell me what genius thing you’ve managed to do.”
She claps her hands excitedly. “Well, with the help of Isabella with the location details, times and travel arrangements, I havebeen able to get into the system and add you to the list of invites.”
“Wait. You didn’t use my real name, did you?” I ask worriedly.
Betsy scoffs. “Do I look like an amateur to you?”
I laugh, loving seeing her so excited. “You’re right. I’m sorry, do continue.” I nod.
“As I was saying, I’ve set you up with a fake name and a fake life. They check backgrounds of all those in attendance,” she states. Turning back to her computer, she types for a moment before she leans back and points to the screen.
“Annie Rection. Seriously? Ann-ie-rection. An erection?!” I protest. “You can’t give me that.”
Eden, Betsy, and even Isabella can’t help but laugh. “Okay, I will change your surname to Rector,” Betsy snorts.
“Annie Rector. An erector. Seriously. Come on,” I moan.
“Okay, fine. I will change it one last time, but I can’t do it again, or they will notice all the name changes.” Betsy gives in and quickly types away. “There, Valentina Fox. You are a self-made millionaire in women’s sex toys,” Betsy states.
My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious?”
She nods, smiling. “Absolutely. I discussed it with Isabella. If you were a daughter of some rich king, ruler, or businessman, Henry would know you. If you were in porn, he would know your name. However, there is one thing he doesn’t know, and that is apparently women’s pleasure. It’s a market designed for women by women. Only men that actually have an interest in their partners pleasure bother to know anything about these things, and even then, apart from buying lube or a toy, they are not going to know who owns the companies,” Betsy points out.
I rub my face. “What if there are other high-powered women there? They may know and realise I am not who I say I am,” I argue.
“There are only three other women there, aside from the wives, of course. All three are wealthy, thanks to daddies or dead husbands’ money. They won’t be interested in business or even know who you are,” Eden interjects.
“My father doesn’t believe women can run a successful business, so to see someone like you on the list will spark his interest. He will feel threatened by you but also intrigued. He will want to belittle you and put you in your place in front of his friends,” Isabella warns.
That has my jaw set tight. “Maybe it would be better if I go in. I can’t see you keeping your cool,” Eden suggests.
“Sorry, no can do. Her image is uploaded. I can’t change that. It was hard enough to get into their system as it was,” Betsy explains. She pulls open a draw and hands me a cell phone. “Now, this is your phone. You will get a text with coordinates tonight. You will be picked up from the location. You are allowed one case, and that case will be scanned. You are to bring personal items only. Your phone will be confiscated, and you will have no contact with the outside world,” Betsy explains.
“How many days is it?” I ask.
“It’s from the Friday to the Monday. You will be made to sign an NDA when you are collected,” Isabella adds.
“Why is it so secretive?” I ask.
“Because the press like to capture the rich relaxed. People slip up after a few drinks and say what they really think, and they can be themselves without the public watching and waiting for them to screw up. The press loves to get that scoop,” Isabella divulges.
