Chapter 7 Julia

Gus Winter currently occupies a tidy corner in my brain. Annoyingly, I must have outfitted that corner with free Wi-Fi, a weighted blanket, and table-side guacamole because he has no intention of leaving. I should issue him an eviction notice, I know, but I don't. I can't.

He'll summon me eventually. With the contract unfulfilled and the clock ticking closer to the New Year's Eve deadline, he has to collect his bounty soon.

I know I shouldn't have run. At minimum, I should have held up my end of the deal. But when I awoke in Gus's bed with the wine no longer dizzying up my bloodstream, my complicated thoughts kept me up.

Gus was supposed to be disgusting. Entitled. Selfish. I was supposed to ride his lazy, boring cock and I was supposed to be glad it was finished. When the night started, I figured we were headed in that direction. The flowers and the candles and the jazz—it all screamed vanilla bullshit.

He proved me so wrong.

He touched me roughly. Hard. Like he wanted to debase me. Like he wanted to control me, but still respected the hell out of me for refusing to let him. It was filthy and frantic. I replay the night for the hundredth time, and resentment boils inside me. He just had to prop me up on his cock and wrap his hand around my neck. He just had to rip my panties off. He just had to taunt me and drive me wild with need. He was…

Well, he was perfect.

So fuck him.

Fuck him for making me want to stay until morning with the promise of a quick and dirty tumble. Fuck him for making my dumb, horny heart pound with excitement. Fuck him for being so snuggly.

Call me selfish, but I always put myself first. I know when to protect myself, and I'll never have a future with any man who can't connect with me on a deeper level. No matter how deliciously competent he is in bed, Gus will never give me a real connection. He's untouchable. He's made his penchant for misanthropy abundantly clear over his twenty-year career in the spotlight. And my dumb, horny heart needs to stay the hell away from things she can't have.

So I ran. I taxied straight to the airport and bought a ticket to Milan after telling Jay to drop whatever he was doing to join me. Then I spent the next day throwing an absurd amount of money, even for me, at various Italian fashion houses because the only thing I brought to London was a fuck-me dress that reminded me of Gus every time I looked at it.

Plus, he tore and stole my only pair of underwear.

"You look so good with my hand on your throat."

"I'll return it after we fuck for real. And we will fuck, Julia, like we agreed we would. Based on the way you moved just now, I can only imagine how much fun we'll have."

Such an asshole. Such a dominating, controlling asshole.

I breathe out, forcing myself to be rational.

There's no connection here. You were just horny.

Men don't speak to me the way he does. They never have. I should have shown myself out the minute he ordered me to make myself come with all the flippancy in the world—like he could take it or leave it.

…I'm kind of glad I didn't immediately leave though. It was the best orgasm I've had in years.

Stop. What is happening to me?

I'm splayed on crisp white sheets in the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Principe di Savoia. Jay prefers the Bulgari Hotel, but I'm paying, so I opt for old world elegance every time. Not to mention, the Presidential Suite has a private swimming pool and Turkish bath. Necessary? Of course not. Worth it? Absolutely.

I roll onto my stomach and let my cheek rest against the pillowcase, breathing in the subtle fragrance of fresh hotel linens. If I want to get my head in the right time zone, I should be asleep, I know, but my mind refuses to settle.

When I check my phone, I have thirty-seven text messages—nothing out of the ordinary. I won't acknowledge most. Over the years, I've learned to ignore the pressure of the red notification icon. Most days, I barely notice it. This morning, however, I find myself scrolling in my messages app, lingering on my sparse thread with Gus Winter.

Gus: Safe travels.

That's it. That's the only text he has ever sent me.

It came three days ago, the morning after our encounter in London, probably around the time he awoke to find his bed empty. Those two words were the epitome of a dismissal: a shrug in the form of an iMessage. I didn't respond then, but now I wish I had. It might have been my only shot to get the last word.

Maybe the deal is done. Perhaps he really was content with the frantic make out session and the orgasm I gave myself in his lap.

No—no way. After all his bravado and confidence and the way he looked at me, how could he be content with a simple make out session?

He'll text me eventually. I know he will.

I know it.

I'm not doubting this at all.

I hoist myself up and discard my eye mask on the nightstand. The mild temperatures promise a gorgeous day in Milan, but my mind is elsewhere. The only solution, it seems, is to grab my brain by her shoulders and give her a swift wake-up slap. We do not waste brain cells on men. Especially men who are virtual strangers to us.

That's all Gus is, after all—a stranger. I've read his company 10K and countless Forbes and Business Insider articles about him. I've listened to six podcasts about him. I spent at least an hour reading Tweets about him. Still, he's a mystery to me—an impenetrable wall of success and business acumen.

I can think of no better way to forget him than by starting my day with the hotel's complimentary bottle of champagne. I pop the bottle and the cork flies off, landing under one of the couches in the main room of the enormous suite. I'm pouring myself a glass when my phone lights up with a text message. I dart for it, but my optimism deflates immediately.

Jay: Why are you up so early??

Maybe the sound of the cork woke him. Jay always sleeps late, no matter where we are. He's the kind of guy who doesn't function without at least nine or ten hours, so I let the attitude slide. Instead of responding, I place my phone into my bathrobe's pocket and grab the bottle before I enter the pool room.

I've stayed in many suites with private pools in my lifetime, but none compares to the Pompeian opulence of the Hotel Principe di Savoia. Its rich murals and elaborate ceiling offer a slice of ancient life, and warm lamps make the room the epitome of cozy luxury. Sighing, I take a seat on the tiled floor and dip my legs into the shallow end of the pool. The warm water hugs my feet, contrasting with the cold, hard bottle in my hand. When I take a swig, I drink too fast and the bubbles catch in my throat.

My cough subsides after two hard pats to my chest, but it's invigorating. It's like I needed to cough out the tension in my lungs so I could pull in new, clean air.

Swishing my legs, I watch the water ripple in the soft glow of the Milanese morning radiating through the windows. The day is tranquil for now, even with the gentle hum of the air purifier. I know I should savor it. Milan buzzes when she awakens, and my day will be a blur once things get started.

Three days ago, I awoke to a rare, tranquil twilight like this in London. Gus's arm had rested comfortably across my stomach—and honestly, it wasn't the worst way to awaken. If not for the sun coming through the penthouse window, I could have made the fatal error of waking up after him.

I take another swig.

And another.

This is ridiculous. The unfinished contract grates at me; loose ends always do. Despite what everyone believes, I'm a busy woman with places to be and things to do, and I don't have time to wait around for a man to set my schedule. I deserve closure. Anything.

Fuck it. I'm tipsy, it's early, and I don't need this hanging over my head anymore.

Me: So should I delete your number, or should I expect another summons to end this shit? Are we done here?

Immediately after I send the text, my chest tightens. It's not heart attack tight, but anxious. Anticipatory. If he's still in London, it's morning there. He should be awake. He should respond.

Ten minutes pass without a message.

Another ten.

Another.

And then a text arrives from Jay, asking me about lunch because he intends to sleep through breakfast. Annoyed, I tell him to order room service whenever he wants.

The response from Gus comes after a whopping forty minutes, when I'm halfway through the bottle and have shed my robe to sit naked in the jacuzzi. I glare at my phone and blow a stray lock of hair that spills from my messy bun out of my face. At this point, I'm tipsy enough to be angry, but not tipsy enough to do anything rash.

I read it.

His response only makes my mood worse.

Gus: We're not done.

I barely know this man, but I can picture him saying it to my face. I can practically hear the words, heavy with innuendo and with a dash of assholery. Well, more than a dash—a tablespoon. We're not done, Julia.

Normally, my MO would be to make him wait at least twelve hours for my response, but something compels me to answer now: Okay…so when should I put you on my calendar?

Another message. I'm taken aback when he responds so quickly—and even more surprised when I read his response.

Gus: Today. Now.

"Entitled asshole," I murmur, thumbs now going into overdrive so I can type and delete several expletive-laced rejections.

But while I'm deleting the third iteration of an insult, I come to my senses and remember this is business. A deal. Davis is counting on me, and so are a hell of a lot of people—myself included—who stand to profit when our share price soars.

Calmly, I delete the current version of my response (Fuck your own face, Winter. I'm not a dog you can call when you want me), and type something succinct and to the point:

Me: Can't. I'm traveling.

Gus: You'll find a way.

Me: I really won't.

Gus: Then the deal is off.

Gus: More importantly, you won't get the pleasure of a night with me.

Me: Well, I'm traveling. Looks like we're at an impasse.

A minute passes.

Gus: Where are you?

I survey the pool and the Pompeian murals surrounding me. The colors are bold and discordant, and the arched ceiling bears the busy design work of a traditional villa. The sounds of Milanese traffic are everywhere: car horns and vendors and motorcycle engines. Chaos muted, but present, nonetheless.

Like hell would I leave this marvelous place for him.

"If you want me, you can prove it," I utter aloud, speaking to a man who isn't here.

After another aggressive drink straight from the bottle, I hold my phone out in front of me and snap a selfie, careful to include as much of the distinctive murals in the shot as I can—and to cut the bottom of the image right above my nipples.

Me: Come and get me, August.

Sent.

No less than fourteen hours later, I'm leaning against the metal edge of a glass barrier, looking at the ground floor of the club. Below me, bodies pulse in modern-day bacchanalia befitting Milan. Music surrounds me from all sides, making my heart thump and my ears ring.

I check my phone for the thousandth time today, and not even one of the hundreds of red notification bubbles leaves me satisfied.

Radio silence from Gus Winter.

"What are you looking for?" Jay asks, raising his chin in the direction of my phone.

He's seated on a couch nearby, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes are already bloodshot from the line he just inhaled, and his usually perfect hair is ruffled. I reach over and push his hair back for him. He winks in response.

"Nothing," I lie before I hand him my phone. "Here. Take a picture of me."

Sighing, Jay puts down his own phone and takes mine. "What for?" he inquires while he flutter-blinks three times—cocaine always makes his eyes dry.

He's lucky I love him because he asks the dumbest questions sometimes. What for? I've been paid to post pictures of myself in nightclubs for the better part of the decade and yet he still asks. "For charity, Jay," I snap.

"What charity?" he responds in all seriousness.

I breathe deeply, holding back a million insults. "I'm being sarcastic," I explain—which is a miserable thing to have to say.

"Oh, a paid post." He rises. "No shit. Why didn't you say so?"

Again—he's so lucky I care. Ignoring him, I lean back against the railing and stare off to the side, aware that my highlighter looks killer from this angle.

After all these years, it still baffles me that Jay isn't better at taking pictures of me. Of the five or so he typically takes, I usually have to reformat at least half and the lighting is always abysmal. More often than not, I have to play around with image filters or send them to a photographer friend to make sure they're good enough for my contracts.

"There," he says, tossing my phone back. "You're welcome."

"Thanks," I reply, ignoring the not-so-passive aggression.

From the pictures he took, I pick one where my tiny dress is on the verge of failing its one job—preventing a nip slip. I upload the image and tag my location at the club, as well as the singer whose vodka we're drinking tonight. The singer's team will send thirty thousand dollars my way in the morning—all in exchange for one picture of me.

Posted.

Within ten minutes, I have twenty thousand likes. Within half an hour, I'm up to fifty thousand. Even better than the likes, the comments are a stream of ego-boosting wonders. There are thousands upon thousands of people raving about everything from my dress to my high ponytail to my eye makeup.

Suck it, Gus Winter. He has no idea what he's missing. Who cares if he ignored my text? Not me. I don't need his approval. I can get plenty of approval elsewhere—from anyone.

Satisfied, I head downstairs to the club's ground floor and lose track of myself in the gyrating bodies and flashing lights.