Chapter 3 Julia

My phone vibrates next to my ear, interrupting the podcast playing. Annoyed, I place my glass of wine on the edge of the tub and check the caller. It's someone from Prada, probably offering me yet another one of their hideous bags for my travels, but I ignore it.

Because I fucking can.

A few minutes later, my phone rings again. I'm ready to tell Prada that harassing me during a morning bubble bath is a capital offense akin to homicide in my book, but it's not Prada. This time, it's Davis.

"Did you save the day? Tell me I didn't screw up your deal and won't have to sell my stock to make up for it," I say in lieu of a regular greeting.

Davis clicks his tongue. "I didn't save anything, unfortunately. That's why I'm calling. As it turns out, you're the only one who can."

My stomach flips at the idea of being the company's deus ex machina. I've never saved anything before—nor have I ever done anything to benefit Davenport-Ridgeway. The notion is weird…but surprisingly palatable.

"Me? Well, that's bizarre."

"Yeah."

Yeah.

Davis's clipped response makes me hesitate. My older brother has a tendency to stammer and say too much when he talks to me. He manages to curb the habit when he's in business-mode, but I usually don't see that side of him. For him to be succinct is a bad omen.

"Okay, what's going on, Davis?"

He tells me. Reluctantly, and with a note of actual fear in his voice, Davis launches into a long explanation about why this deal is important to him and to Davenport-Ridgeway. Then he raises the stakes: He can't afford to let the acquisition fall through because the company already botched one earlier this year during due diligence.

Oh and here's the best part: He's nervous about drawing too much attention to himself because he was apparently paying an intern to fuck him all summer.

Jesus, this family…

"So what do you want me to do?" I finally ask after I've finished grilling Davis about the intern he was paying to do a lot more than just financial analyses.

A silent moment lingers between us. He clears his throat, but remains quiet before he says, "Julia, I'm incredibly sorry, but I need you to sleep with Gus Winter."

My wine glass slides between my fingers and splashes into the tub. "Shit," I blurt out. "Shit, shit."

"Are you okay?"

The bathwater is already turning pink and it's a miracle I didn't accidentally drop my phone in as well. "What kind of idiotic question is that, Davis?" I fish out the glass. "Do I sound okay? I just spilled a cab in my bath and my older brother has informed me he's pimping me out so he can buy a tech company."

"Why are you drinking a cab at ten in the morning?" he questions, like that's the part of this conversation worth dwelling on.

"Because I wasn't going to drink a pinot noir before noon like some kind of serf," I retort, partially kidding—but only partially.

"Julia—"

"Davis, did you seriously just ask me to sleep with Gus Winter?" My voice breaks when I hiss into the phone.

"I did," he admits, sighing. "But only because he requested it. Hell, he practically demanded it."

I'm livid with my body for having a knee-jerk reaction of flattery—and lust. The idea of banging Gus Winter is more than intriguing. In fact, I might have been game if he had kept his entitled mouth shut. But he didn't. He approached me like every old pervert at the party: eager for my body and uninterested in the rest of me.

"This is fucked up, Davis." My comment goes without saying, but I want him to hear it. He needs to hear it.

He releases an extended sigh. "I was sick to my stomach before I called. What kind of older brother am I? I'm supposed to look out for you, not…" He trails off. "Look, I know I have zero credibility right now as both a brother and a VP, but if this deal falls through, it's on me. Even though you were the one who went all…Julia on a CEO, this is on me. Speculation about the sale is already out, and if it falls through we're going to see an impact on our stock price. I know you recognize the seriousness of that risk."

"I don't work at Davenport-Ridgeway." I finally climb out of my now-pink bath and slide into a robe. "That's your thing, not mine. Plus, your stock is overvalued anyway."

It's Davis's turn to hesitate. "Who told you that?" he questions after a beat, but it's not accusatory. It's more…inquisitive.

I don't tell Davis that the night of the party, once I learned Davenport-Ridgeway was trying to purchase Gus's company, I accidentally spent two hours tipsily reading articles about acquisitions on my phone. Yeah, I know—it was weird, but I had to figure out if I had royally fucked the company enough to get disowned. What I learned: an acquisition, or a takeover, is when one company buys another. Briefly, at the announcement of a takeover, the buyer's stock price dips and the seller's stock price rises—which explains Davis's caution about the stock. He knows that D-R's stock, which is overvalued due to historical reputation, is going to drop if word of an acquisition gets out. If the deal were to fall through, the stock may not rise again like it would if the sale were to go through.

Bottom line: I didn't completely fuck the company…but it's pretty close.

"Look," I level, "I know it's your job to make money for dad. If you had the time and the right printer, you would counterfeit bills for the rest of your life just to make him that much richer and that much prouder. I, on the other hand, don't give a shit about Davenport-Ridgeway."

"You don't?" he asks, surprising me.

"Not really."

"But you care about me, right? I'm not even being manipulative. You do care about me." His voice comes out small like he's unsure if he actually wants me to respond.

"You know I do," I reply, mildly annoyed that my brother could ever think I don't care about him. "But you're asking me to sleep with a man I don't even know."

Davis lets out a humming sound. "I don't really want an answer to this question, but…haven't you done that before?"

Obviously, I have. My early twenties were the stuff of legend, constantly dominating the homepage of The Carraway, a vile gossip website specializing in the niche affairs of wealthy New England and New York twenty-somethings. But things are different now. Connection and passion. I need both—no exceptions. Clearly, Gus Winter and I have no connection.

"I'm not sleeping with Gus Winter," I tell Davis flatly, evenly. "You're an asshole for asking and he's disgusting for demanding it."

"Julia—"

I hang up on Davis and send him straight to voicemail when he calls back. I repeat until I'm at the airport, boarding my flight to Ibiza, and eager to forget about the angry billionaire who would gamely trade his empire for one night with me.

What an idiot.

Jay Raymond stares at me over the rim of his glass. Loud music pulsates around us, bass lines thumping in time with the flashing lights that envelop the dancers in the middle of the club. His bright green eyes meet mine.

He's really so damn pretty.

I've only been in Ibiza for two hours. I went straight from the airport to the hotel where Jay and I are staying, and then to a club called Pacha. We're here at the request of a new brand of vodka: the brainchild of a supermodel and a DJ—or maybe a video gamer. …Or maybe a streamer. Shit, I have no clue. Either way, it's some duo who knows nothing about making vodka. But their marketing team offered me twenty thousand dollars to take a picture of myself drinking the stuff in Pacha's VIP section, so here we are.

Another night, another club, another shameless shill. Jay and I are no strangers to this song and dance.

Like Peter, Jay is a lot of things to me: old friend, best friend, travel buddy, and yes, occasional fuck buddy. We met in high school and have co-built a reputation for jet setting and posting dreamy, rich kid pictures on social media.

Over the years, our relationship has been a saga in and of itself. Clandestine and prolific. On and off. Hot and cold. These days, we're mostly platonic, and I'm perfectly fine with that arrangement.

I mean, sure, Jay gives me the emotional connection I need in spades. After thirteen years of friendship, he knows me better than anyone. The sex was another story though. The times we were together were always passionate, borderline loving…but not quite in line with my predilections.

To put it simply, sleeping with him was like the candle section of a Bath Body Works in the late nineties: all vanilla.

Jay lowers his drink and runs his hand through his brown hair. These days, he wears it too long, if you ask me, but it doesn't detract from his magnetism. His chin tips in my direction, and our unshakable bond facilitates the tacit question: What's bothering you, Jules?

I take a drink of my vodka and grimace. It's awful. Like, so awful. Like I should use the twenty thousand dollars they gave me to buy up their inventory and shoot it into outer space where nobody has to encounter it ever again. Sure, it's so horrible that if other life forms came across this vodka it would lead to an intergalactic battle royale—but at least I would never have to relive its taste.

Wrinkling my nose, I place my glass on the low table in front of me. Jay is still watching me, illuminated by the green and blue strobe lights. They dance across his skin, somehow making him look more modelesque than he already does.

My phone buzzes—a fifth message from my brother. He's so decent, he's been frantically texting apologies to me for hours and hasn't mentioned trading me for a fintech company again. I'll forgive him eventually, but for now I'm going to make him squirm. He's lucky I love him enough to not do worse.

From the other side of the couch, Jay beckons me over with a tick of his fingers, mouthing come here in a way that's entitled, yes, but also sexy. When I slide over to him, he wraps his arm around me. The gesture isn't entirely casual, but not possessive either.

"Everything okay?" he asks, even though it must be glaringly obvious that everything is not okay.

Briefly, I consider telling Jay the truth: There's a billionaire seeking revenge against me by practically extorting my brother. I imagine the truth would make him furious though. After all we've been through, some guy trying to buy me would give Jay a coronary. Plus, with perpetual drama from his estranged father, he doesn't need my shit clouding his time in Ibiza.

He leans in and a camera flashes from somewhere close. Briefly, I shoot daggers at the photographer, but swiftly realize the vodka team must have hired him. I get to work. I straighten my spine and tilt my head to accentuate my highlighter fabulously. Jay does something similar, not for the sake of his nonexistent highlighter, but to make his all-American-boy features appear a bit more cutting. Edgier.

Once the photographer is gone, my coy expression immediately disappears and I face Jay once more.

"I'm fine," I lie, refusing to let Gus Winter's name cross my tongue, even though he has fully overtaken my brain.

I know Jay can tell I'm lying because he scoffs softly. He doesn't push though. After his father cut him off when he dropped out of college, Jay has desperately avoided conflict. His days are filled with nothing more than alcohol, cocaine, women, and various other forms of hedonism—and as his oldest friend, I'm happy to respect that. No drama from me.

"There's another post about us in The Carraway today," he mentions before he reaches over and takes one of the countless shots of vodka from the table.

With an eye roll, I pick up a shot glass of my own. "What is it today?" Exhale, shoot, burn. I suppress a cough because I'll be damned if anyone ever catches me coughing through a shot. "Am I pregnant with your child? Or better yet—are you pregnant with mine?"

Jay lets out a snort. "Just pictures of us looking disgustingly attractive," he replies, holding out his phone to show me a grainy photo of the two of us standing outside the club an hour ago.

The first time I appeared on The Carraway, I was eighteen years old. The post was a picture of me in Portugal during my summer vacation, and I was making out with a member of the national football team. By the time I was twenty-two, there were salacious stories of all degrees about me, including a notable recap, with pictures, of a drunken night in a hot tub in Berlin with the son of one of my father's biggest rivals. My father was so angry with me, he sent the former KGB operative on his payroll to drag my ass back to the States, but that still didn't stop The Carraway from tracking my whereabouts weekly. Dates, hookups, sloppy make outs on street corners, and even an ecstasy-fueled nightclub fingering—nothing is beneath The Carraway.

I wave my hand. "Pathetic."

"Agreed," Jay says before lowering his lips to my ear. "Then we should dance, shouldn't we?"

The sound of his voice, that soft and sultry tone, is Pavlovian. His whispers bring me back to reckless, tipsy nights at boarding school when I would sneak into his room and ride him senseless while his roommate pretended to be asleep. Jay loved those nights because I was on top of him; I liked them because I knew his roommate was watching.

Holding my hand, he leads me to the dance floor, where we melt into the surging crowd. Music intermingles with my heartbeat. I press against Jay, who offers his familiar touch. His hips swell against mine and his hands drag along my arms, stoking simmering want.

Before long, his lips drift to my ear. "Back to the hotel?" he offers.

While Jay's proposition floats between us, I recall the last time we slept together. It was a year ago, and we did it in the jet tub in our suite in Singapore. That night, I asked Jay to choke me; his decline was so immediate, it ruined the mood entirely and neither of us came.

Different strokes—I get it—but I'm not interested in being kink shamed tonight.

"Pass," I answer, resting a reassuring hand on his cheek.

"Fair enough," he replies, forcing a smile. He's obviously hurt though.

We dance for another song, but the uneasiness doesn't dissipate. A newfound discomfort sticks between us, and the bad vodka in my stomach isn't helping.

"I'm going to take off," he announces—his MO. I turn him down and he disappears, presumably to sulk at the hotel bar for the next few hours.

I nod, trying to keep my demeanor positive for his sake. "Text me later. Stay safe, okay?"

He barely sticks around for the platitudes.

Once he's gone, I realize how little I want to be in this crowd. I weave off the dancefloor and head outside of the club. Faintly, the music pounds behind me, tangling with echoes of other DJs at the countless outdoor clubs that speckle Ibiza in the summer.

The warm air gives me some much-needed clarity. I breathe in deeply and will myself to be here, to live in the now, but respite is impossible with so many loose ends: The messages from Davis. The deal.

Gus Winter.

I'm probably the only person on this island looking up tech CEOs on her phone, but I've been to Ibiza enough that I don't savor these nights anymore. Been there, done that.

When I search for Gus's name, Google gives me over one hundred million results.

One hundred fucking million.

The fact that I didn't know anything about Gus Winter now seems ignorant. He's world famous—not to mention universally respected. Hell, he was literally on the cover of Time Magazine once. Granted, I was eleven and he was twenty-six when the cover was published, but still.

God, that's twisted…

I hastily skip over the Time cover and scroll through the countless pictures of him. The man photographs exceptionally well—I'll give him that. I study the sharp blue of his eyes, which stands out in every picture. Posed, candid—it doesn't matter. His eyes are two deep pools of icy water, borderline intimidating…

…and beautiful, honestly.

Asshole.

After I read a handful of articles and webpages, I'm no closer to understanding this man than I was an hour ago. As far as I can tell, Gus has never given a single personal interview in his life. No autobiographies or biographies. No memoirs. The only thing in his "Early Life" section on his Wikipedia page is a brief note about how he was born in Montana and went to college at MIT. The only thing in his "Personal Life" section is a note about how he owns homes in London and Montana, and there's a building named after him at MIT. That's it. Even when I specifically type "Gus Winter girlfriend" into the search, I get paparazzi pictures of him with supermodels, but he's never photographed with the same woman more than once. In fact, Gus Winter has never shown any meaningful interest in a woman throughout the entirety of his prolific, twenty-year career. And yet he's willing to pass on fifty-billion dollars.

Unless he gets me.