Page 40 of Black Ties and White Lies

My eyes travel over the still unopened boxes of makeup I have from the trip yesterday. I look for the perfect lipstick, wanting something that’ll pop on my lips but not seem like too much for a first day. Red might screamI want to fuck the bossa littletoomuch.

I settle on a shade that’s a perfect mix between pink and nude. It glides effortlessly onto my lips, moisturizing them to perfection. The last thing I do before leaving the bathroom is spray a few spritzes of my new Baccarat 540 perfume and call it good. Grabbing my new Prada handbag from the desk in my guest room, I deem myself ready to head into work.

As I climb down the stairs to the main level, I wonder if I’ll have to contact Ezra or how I’ll go about getting to the office. If worse comes to worse, I can take a taxi to work. I faintly remember the cross-streets of the building.

I’m not left worrying on what to do next for long. I find Ezra sitting at the huge dining table, a magazine in one hand, a disposable coffee cup in the other.

“Good morning, Miss Moretti,” he says cheerfully, looking up from the magazine.

I give him a warm smile. “You really can call me Margo. I won’t tell the boss.”

This makes me chuckle. “If you insist.” He grabs the magazine and tucks it under his arm. As he reaches to grab his coffee, I catch a glimpse of the front cover.

“Is that Beck?”

Ezra and I look closely at the magazine in his grasp. I find a scowling Beck looking straight into the camera. There’s a large headline with the name of the magazine,Corporation Insider.

“He argued about doing it,” Ezra notes, my eyes reading over the headline. Apparently he was being featured for being one of the youngest to sell a company for the price he did while still maintaining a prominent spot on the board and keeping a majority of control.

“That doesn’t shock me one bit.” Ezra hands me the magazine, allowing me a better look at it. Opening it up, I flip through the pages until I find a full-page spread about him and his business. He looks angry in all of the photos. But at least this article is one ran with his permission, unlike the one that led us to our current situation.

“I didn’t know all of this about him,” I mutter, eyes taking in every word on the pages. I loved Carter for years, but he didn’t hide his entitlement. Sometimes it was a turnoff for me, but for the most part I knew he was entitled going into dating him so it wasn’t a deal breaker for me. Him fucking half my college graduating class was the issue. I’d kind of assumed that Beck was the same way, that his rich family history is what led to him starting his own company and in return selling it for an ungodly amount of money.

Ezra whistles, low and under his breath. “Mr. Sinclair isn’t exactly the sharing type.”

If the article is correct, which I assume it is since he willingly did it, Beck didn’t use any of his family’s money to fund his start-up. In fact, he talks about working odd jobs around campus just to earn funds for the company. He eventually talked some fraternity friends into investing in his vision before building the company from the ground up. Knowing this information unnerves me for some reason. I imagined Beck having the same entitlement and silver spoon that his brother did. Carter has never worked a job that didn’t pay him above six figures. A nice modest livable wage wasbeneathhim. His words, not mine.

The article doesn’t go into any detail on why Beck didn’t just have his father invest in the company. I’ve met his dad, and he seemed like a good guy—especially for someone so rich. He treated me kindly and didn’t talk down to me; not even when he was fishing for questions on who my family were and where I came from. It never felt like he thought any less of me with his line of questioning, it just seemed he genuinely wanted to get to know me.

“Interesting.” I hand the magazine back to him, remembering the title of the article so I can search it online later tonight. Now I’m wondering what else I don’t know about Beck.

I push all my questions about who he is to the back of my mind. Plastering on a smile, I tilt my head toward the gallery, as Beck would call it. "I’m ready to head in whenever you are.”

Ezra doesn’t say anything. Like Beck, he seems to be a man of few words. I follow him into the elevator, my mind reeling with questions on Beck. I’d always imagined his dad was a big reason why he had the company, but I’ve learned that’s not the case. There’s got to be so much more I don’t know about him, but I’m dying to find out.

My mind is lost the entire ride to the building. Even my phone ringing multiple times in my purse doesn’t pull me from my thoughts. The only thing that finally breaks me free is Ezra putting the car in park and turning around to look at me.

“Beck said you’d need to stop here first.” I look out the window, finding a coffee shop with a navy blue awning.

I shake my head, grabbing my purse from the seat next to me. “Off I go to get him caffeine so he isn’t grumpier than his typical Beck grump self.”

This makes Ezra belt with laughter. He claps his palm against the steering wheel before opening the door and loping around the car. My door opens, a grin still wide on his face. “I think you’ll be good for him, Margo,” he states plainly.

I step out, careful not to twist my ankle in the process by the height of my heels. “You’re only saying that because I’m getting his caffeine for the day.”

The returning look from Ezra is one that I can’t quite read, but I don’t have the time either. He’s shutting the door and heading back to the driver’s side before I can say anything else. “See you later!” he yells, hopping into the car.

I join the line of fellow New Yorkers all waiting for a coffee. It feels refreshing, to be back in the hustle and bustle of the city. In LA, people act like they don’t give a shit about you but stare at you and judge you. In New York, people act like they don’t give a shit about you because they truly don’t. Everyone in line is so preoccupied with their own lives, they don’t have time to judge mine.

The woman in front of me looks like she is leaving a spin class, or maybe I’d peg her more as the hot yoga type. Whatever it is, she holds her head high as she stands in a mass of people who all wear business attire.

My phone vibrates again. Knowing I have a few minutes before it’s my turn to order, I pull it out. Excitement runs through my veins when I see the notification is another email from Beck. I’m liking the thrill of wondering what he responds back with a little too much for someone who shoved him away yesterday when he so clearly wanted more. More meaning me pinned underneath him as he did every single dirty thing he’d promised he’d do to me.

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

My meeting is over, yet I have no assistant here and no coffee.

---