My Billionaire Fling by Maci Dillon
SOPHIA
Life isn’t always unicorns and fairy dust. Occasionally, it throws in a tumble weed of what-the-fuck and makes you beg for mercy. This week has consisted of the latter, and my days of begging are numbered. Not twenty-four hours after my life was upended in the most public of ways, Gabe flew home to New York and left me to navigate the shitstorm he helped create.
Last night, he forcefully indicated he was moving to London so we could be together. Obviously, his intentions are to appease the press and have us appear to be in the committed relationship he so disrespectfully lied about.
The problem is, I despise the ideology that we should make more of our recurring casual flings to suit others. People-pleasing leaves a dirty taste in my mouth as does lying about my life.
Following the media massacre on Sunday after the gala, print stands all over the city are filled with more front-page news of our engagement and why I’m not wearing a ring with a diamond that screamed owned by Gabe Lugreno.
The pages that follow highlight my hard work and dedication to the sex trafficking cause and admirably, online donations are pouring in thick and fast. That’s a unicorn I’m grateful for.
My work colleagues and long-standing clients are backing me with adoration after being served with papers from my legal team advising them to avoid making any statements or public announcements in relation to the matter.
Including Miguel Bishop. One of my elitist clients who propositioned me a few years ago.
The trouble with money-hungry media thugs?
They will scour the ends of the earth to find what they’re looking for, and if it can’t be found, they’ll manufacture what’s required to give them the byline.
After the positive story on page two of the Monday newspaper, there was a scandalous throwback to my evening with Miguel. However, the images supporting the story were from an event that took place two years after the fact. It was two colleagues discussing business over a drink, nothing more.
The worst scenario from this outrageous media blast is Miguel suing us for outing his membership to Incontro, declared to be a secret dating society for the elite. Of course, the fact Miguel used our services for prestige escorts on his visits to the Big Smoke rather than be paired with a suitor for a potential long-term committed relationship could’ve ended badly for us.
Despite our concerns, this scenario came out sprinkled with fairy dust. Miguel is openly a player in the socialite stratosphere and chose to use this media coverage of our explicitly incorrect affair for his benefit, which also benefited us. The request to decline to answer all media questions, which he blatantly ignored, turned in our favor.
“I could refuse to comment on this absurd accusation, however, let me take this opportunity to say I’m a huge fan of Sophia Evans as the personality behind Incontro and their services I highly recommend. As to the affair, I assure you, I have never been so lucky. Without a doubt, Sophia Evans doesn’t operate her business in that manner. Believe me, I tried, but she shot me down in flames.” He further directed women to reach out to him on Instagram for a code to subscribe to Incontro at a discounted rate.
All his doing, it was a positive show of support, though one which cast a shadow of doubt as to whether we set him up with his response and elaborately divulged this ‘discounted membership scam’ to hide the truth.
Which brings me to where I am today, having my hair and makeup done for an on-air interview with the British equivalent of Ellen, talk-show host, Desiree, in her celebrity hour segment.
“Who knew I’d make the celebrity hour once I hit forty,” I cheer from my chair at the cosmetic station, highlighter and contouring being brushed over my face.
The makeup artist smiles politely but offers no response.
“Remember the lines, Sophia. That’s all you need to do. This hour of fame could make or break you.” Stacy, my publicist, has coached me through many situations in the past, but none where I’m the victim of lies that threaten to tear down the empire I’ve spent my life building and nurturing.
“I’m aware. But like I’ve said, I have nothing to hide.”
“And everything to lose,” Stacy warns.
Yeah, there’s that.
I step from my throne in front of the mirror in the direction of the makeup assistant and follow the set director to backstage, where the filming is taking place.
Suddenly, the jacket I was forced to wear during the wardrobe stage of my morning begins to itch. Nerves rattle around in the pit of my stomach until a thin film of sweat covers my sweaty palms and traces back over my arms, my body heat mixing with the harsh fabric of the jacket causes a prickly feel. With moments left of the current segment, I shrug out of the jacket and make sure my girls are on full and even display in the sassy black dress Stacy insisted I wear.
“What are you doing? You’re going live in less than three minutes,” Stacy chastises.
“And I won’t be doing it in that jacket unless you want me breaking out in hives on public television,” I add, ignoring her advice from earlier to cover up and avoid sending an overtly sexy message to the audience. I promptly remind her I’m not on trial for prostitution.
Meh. I am who I am. If people are to believe what I say, they’ll have a better chance when I present true to myself.
And by that, I mean, sexy, sassy, and vivacious.
The director cuts to an ad break as the audience cheers from their seats.
With the clock ticking, I run my hands down the length of my sleeveless, low-cut dress and take a deep breath, my eyes closing momentarily as I ready myself for what’s ahead.
When they open, my gaze falls on the man set to turn my world upside down, in and out of the bedroom.
Gabe fucking Lugreno.
