I reach into my makeup bag for my favorite shade of deep-rose lipstick that begs,Kiss me.
I apply it with careful precision, letting myself indulge in the fantasy for a moment longer, picturing Reece’s hungry eyes on me. I pluck a plumeria flower from the nearby vase and tuck it behind my ear.
“Damn,” I whisper. “I could definitely pass for his girlfriend.”
My phone vibrates on the vanity, flashing a name I wish I could ignore.
Gordon(Actual Devil, Do Not Answer).
I stare and wait.Maybe he’ll move on to bullying someone else… a poor intern, an ex-wife, an unsuspecting UberEats driver who brought him the wrong-sized latte.
The phone keeps buzzing. Persistent. Loud. As if Gordon’s already yelling at me.
I sigh, accept my fate, and swipe to answer.Here it comes.
Gordon’s face explodes on the screen, his forehead smoother than a dolphin’s backside, his pulled-too-tight eyebrows permanently raised in a way that suggests either imminent rage or a fresh round of Botox. Honestly, with Gordon, it’s a toss-up.
“Where. The. Hell. Is. He?” Each word is a tiny angry fist punching through my speaker.
“Oh, you know…” I glance at the blanket burrito formerly known as Reece. “He’s… meditating?”
Technically not a lie.
“Cut the crap, camera girl. Your resignation letter sounded like a YouTube mission statement. ‘Following my dreams’ and ‘making content that matters’—very touching. Really pulled at my heartstrings. Well, it would if I had any.”
Note to self: Maybe don’t treat your two weeks’ notice like a LiveJournal entry detailing your future plans.
“I offered you this girlfriend gig because I knew you wanted to start your own channel and would jump at the chance to bankroll it.”
My stomach drops.
“Have you told him? About me quitting?”
“Fuck no. You think he needs more stress right now? Listen up, Spielberg. You need this opportunity more than it needs you, so stop. Fucking. Up.”
“I’m doing this for more than the money.” My grip tightens on the phone. “He needs someone in his corner right now, someone who—”
“Save the speech for the Oscars,” Gordon says. “You can’t bullshit a professional bullshitter. I put you on that island for one reason—to keep my golden goose laying eggs.”
I don’t need this shit.I open my mouth, ready to cuss him out in two languages, but he yammers on.
“Your job is to keep him in line. You’re the man on the ground. He can’t afford to spiral, and you sure as hell can’t afford to let him.”
“Maybe…” I try again, softer. “Maybe he needs a break? Ya know, a few days to—”
“Oh, that’s cute. And maybe you should knit him a sweater while you’re at it. Let me spell it out—no channel means no moolah. Either he performs, or the whole thing crumbles.”
I shake my head. But my skin itches at the way he talks about Reece like he’s a product. A machine to be reset and put back to work.
“Are you listening? No sponsors means no company means no paycheck for his three hundred employees, which includes you. Now, go give him the damn phone!”
My chest aches. Yes, I wanted the extra cash when I took the job. Yes, I’m trying to launch my own channel. But watching Reece break down, seeing him carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations—I want to build a fortress around him and tell the whole world to fuck off.
I step onto the balcony, the evening air warm against my skin. Gently, I place my hand on his blanketed shoulder.
“Reece?” I keep my voice tender, as if I’m approaching a wounded animal. “Sorry to bother you, but Gordon is on the—”
“DARE! PHONE! NOW!” Gordon’s voice makes several nearby birds take flight.
