Page 19 of One Bossy Disaster

And now, to no one’s surprise, I’m stuck here doing a bunch of publicity shoots and videos rather than anything substantive.

“Destiny?” Camera Lady calls with a frown.

I snap my smile back on my face for the rest of the session.

I definitely don’t meet Mr. Foster that day.

The next few weeks fly by in a social media haze with more mini events and publicity shots—anything and everything except real philanthropic work.

It’s uniquely exhausting.

The thought of what that money might accomplish is the only thing that keeps me going.

There are two million annoying reasons to stick with this, despite my irritation, and I spend my spare time figuring out where I’ll actually put the money.

Turns out, they let me submit a shortlist I can finalize later.

I haven’t decided on a solid charity yet, but I’ve made a list of my top five. And revised it. And swapped out top place about ten different times.

But it’ll be one of them.

They’re all fine conservation organizations with good track records of preserving habitats for endangered species.

Not an easy list to narrow down. Since announcing I’ve joined Young Influencers, I’ve had so many charities reaching out to ask me to consider them. Not just in Seattle, or even the US, but organizations from all over the world.

As a side perk, since my announcement with all the promotion floating around, I’ve gained five thousand new followers.

So maybe it’s not all a waste of time.

I hope so, anyway.

That’s why I’m here.

To get the word out and make a real difference.

Finally, after the exhausting press junket dies down, my first day of real work in the office arrives.

The Home Shepherd offices are at the top of a high-rise stabbing up into the grey canopy of clouds over the city. When we reach the top floor, I try not to wince.

Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle in its busy midmorning glory, something about this place makes me feel like sunlight itself has suddenly ceased to exist.

Not to be dramatic, but it looks like the antithesis of environmentally friendly.

They could have at least dropped a few plants around to break up the clinical vibe. Some accent color. Even justgreen. We don’t need flowers rioting everywhere, justsomethingto offset the drabness.

“Miss Lancaster?” A slim Asian woman steps out from behind the desk and murmurs something to the other receptionist, who offers me a curious glance. “Hi, I’m Hannah Cho, Mr. Foster’s executive assistant.”

I’m no stranger to high fashion and class, but everything about Miss Cho is pinned so perfectly in place she makes me feel small. She’s dressed in royal navy-blue and cream, her blouse fastened around her neck and her sleek bob flawlessly styled.

When she looks at me, I know she’s making a mental note of every hair that’s out of place, how bright my skin looks, and how hard I’m forcing this smile.

For a billionaire’s daughter with a very important day, I’m sure I look like a mess.

It’s a little scary how accurately she takes it all in without even breathing a snide remark.

Jesus.

Believe it or not, Ididmake an effort today. But against her militantly professional, picture-perfect attire, I’m convinced I spit toothpaste down my blouse. Or maybe, in the quick walk from the taxi to the front doors, the wind tossed my hair into a bird’s nest.

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