The Billionaire's Trust (His Submissive, Part Eleven) by Ava Claire Read Free Book Online

backward, drenching my silk blouse
in my venti quad shot white chocolate mocha. I tried looking on the
bright side, knowing I had some spare shirts in my office and
buttoned my blazer to hide the brunt of the damage--and then I saw
the swarm of paps gathered around the entrance. Before I could get
out a, ‘What the--?’ I heard the drawl of none other than her .
    Rachel Laraby.
    I should have just turned around,
slid back into the cab, and told the driver to take me home, but I
just drew a harried breath and proceeded toward the impromptu
conference, telling myself that maybe in the span since Rachel
Laraby had last made herself known, she’d done some maturing.
Hopefully excelled at a life lesson called Acceptance: Getting Over
Jacob Whitmore and My Unhealthy Obsession With Ruining His
Fiancé.
    In fact, I was gonna scoot past all
the flashing bulbs and go straight inside. She wasn’t my client or
my concern anymore. I was two feet away from the entrance when my
name rung out over the clamor.
    “Leila, do you have a
minute?”
    If it was a pap, I would have
ignored it altogether. I was good at just going about my business
as far as their questions were concerned. If I was at a premiere,
that was one thing, but in general, their questions were along the
lines of rude things like how Jacob was in bed and my thoughts on
the subset of PR fans who had a theory that the reason I was
never on the show was because I was only there to answer phones and
look pretty because my fiancé was the CEO of the
company.
    I refused to dignify either of those
questions with a response, but since all attention was centered on
me, the lack of an answer or acknowledgement would give them
something new to talk about.
    The huddle parted like the Red Sea,
revealing Rachel at the forefront. She looked amazing per usual,
pairing a chic blood red dress with her mahogany locks. Her green
eyes were intensified by gold hoops in her ears and sweeping
strands of gold at her neck. She didn’t even finish her once over,
emerald gaze drinking in my stain before her lips spread a little
wider as a couple of cameras flashed. Great .
    “I was just talking about the new
program I’m pitching to the board,” she continued. Her feline like
features narrowed with amusement as I frowned.
    “What program?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “We talked
about this, remember? I mean, it was the product of our
conversation.”
    Heads snapped back in my direction.
Nicely played--now the company would look bad if I didn’t go along
with whatever new plot she’d cooked up.
    I hated to lie, or give Rachel
Laraby an inch, so I just shifted and cleared my throat.
    She seemed disappointed that I
didn’t embarrass myself by saying, ‘Huh?’, but she recovered,
corralling the attention back to her.
    “The program is called Reach. I was
inspired when I followed the story of one of Whitmore and
Creighton’s troubled clients, Mia Kent.”
    Confusion and wariness took the
backseat in favor of indignation. This is her play? The
saint?
    I couldn’t be the only one that saw
right through that. But as they all faced her with wide eyed
adoration, I knew that she was reaping the rewards of being
America’s Sweetheart. The beautiful, troubled figure that the world
couldn’t help but root for.
    “As an actress that has struggled
with addiction, I know all too well how in need Mia truly is.” She
flipped her hair over her shoulder, nodding in my direction. “I’m
just glad I’ll be able to help her and I’m so grateful to Leila for
offering me this opportunity.”
    She’s insane. Completely
insane.
    The company’s PR executive saved me
from literally melting down, charging through the doors and
informing the photographers that they were trespassing. Monique
Leferve rivaled Jacob in the kicking ass/taking names department
and she moved them back the appropriate amount of feet in record
time.
    Her big brown eyes were reduced to
slits when she turned her ire to Rachel. “Ms.