Chapter 1

Elsa

I consider myself a zen, understanding person.

But Tanner Sharpe?

He can go eat shit and die.

“Oh, fuck you, Elsa,” Tanner sneers at me. “I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch. I mean, I come here offering peace—”

“At least you know what it feels like to come in my presence,” I counter. “Such a shame that the feeling can’t be mutual.”

A flash goes off inches from me, blinding me with its brightness. And, just like that, I'm snapped back to reality.

My ex and business rival, Tanner Sharpe, and I aren't hurling insults at each other in private this time. No, we're on the biggest stage of the last night of the New York Fucking Fashion Week.

Surrounded by TV cameras, the press, and everyone included in the list of Who’s Who in the world of fashion.

Not only are these people witnesses to my most humiliating moment, but so is the rest of the world—and it’s all being broadcast LIVE.

I notice in the corner of my eye, my board of directors are staring at us.

No, make that angrily staring at us. Like, furiously angry. Angrier than I've ever seen them.

Shit. This is not good.

Okay. So shit looks bad, right? But let's back up a little, if only for posterity’s sake. Because this show—my show—started off as the greatest moment of my life.

Except that Tanner was sitting in the audience, which is where every single problem began.

* * *

“I can't believe that jackass had the nerve to show up today,” I seethe. “He's trying to knock me off my game, Monique.”

“That’s his game, babe,” Monique agrees.

“Exactly. And I’m not let him rattle me. Not today, of all days.”

Honestly, Monique is right—and I can believe it. It's typical of Tanner to crash my fashion show, and make it all about him.

He’s God's gift to women, after all. At least, according to him.

But I, and many other strong, confident women who’ve had the misfortune of dating the pig, know the truth.

“You have to admit…you do think he’s sexy though.” Monique does her signature hair flip and I roll my eyes.

Maybe I've been working her too much with all these long nights leading up to tonight's fashion show…because she’s obviously hallucinating. Tanner Sharpe is the opposite of sexy. Tanner Sharpe is like the inside of a college dorm room Hot Pocket—hot on the outside, dead cold within. I make a mental note to book her a day spa package as soon as this is over, because she’s obviously too exhausted to function.

At the same time…as much as I hate to admit it, she’s kind of fucking right. The man knows how to carry a suit, I'll give him that.

But that's all I'll give him.

One thing became perfectly clear to me, once our disaster of a relationship ended: I can never, ever fucking trust that jackass of a man-boy again.

Not with business and, certainly, not with my heart. Not again.

I catch sight of one of the television cameras—yes, that's right, I was able to secure a television special for my spring fashion show. Tanner the Man Whore can't say that, can he?

So, I smooth my blond hair, and smile my most alluring smile. Who am I kidding? All my smiles are alluring.

Sitting on the front row surrounded by socialites, award-winning actresses, and even goddamned royalty, I'm trying to let all this sink in.

I did this. I made this happen. All the sleepless nights, the gallons and gallons of coffee to get me here are all worth it.

This just proves that I fucking rock.

I smile, assuringly, as I watch my designs practically float down the runway on my gorgeous models, and everyone is eating them up.

I can feel it. I'm a fucking hit.

It reminds me of the days when I used to rock the runway myself.

Hell, I still could if I needed to. I have the body for it.

I was one of the hottest and most in-demand lingerie models just a few years ago. Thanks to Pilates and barre classes, I could still pull it off if need be.

But I’m a different kind of woman now. Corporate. Suits and pencil skirts, strictly speaking.

Even if I do still wear my own lingerie designs beneath the business casual.

My eyes light up when I see one of my models, Katerina, working the runway in my blush lace teddy and garter set.

She knows how to get all the men in the room hard, and all the ladies wet. And hard dicks and wet pussies sell lingerie, frankly. That’s just how the industry works.

My mentor, Jackson Halo, taught me that much.

Kat and I go way back. We started modeling around the same time, and we always seemed to compete for the same jobs.

I didn't think you could become friends with your biggest rival, but that's just what Kat and I had become.

If I had a female friend, she'd probably be the closest to me. But unfortunately, even Kat and I aren’t so close now.

It's true what they say, it's lonely at the top.

Sure, the occasional one-night stand is satisfying, but companionship is not what I'm looking for.

Maybe, I should have a few female friends. I mean, Monique is a friend. Except that I pay her…to do whatever I say.

Okay, mental note to put another item on my endless to-do list: cultivate female friendships.

As Kat leaves the stage and heads back to change for the big finale, Evan makes her entrance in a daring cut-down-to-there red satin slip with matching kimono.

I love the feather boa trim on this ensemble. I think that was a 3 a.m. touch of genius. It seems like my best ideas come in the middle of the night…And this piece is proof.

Evan is a newbie, but she's handling the pressure of model life like a champ.

It's adorable how she seems to look up to me. Just this morning, she was asking me advice on who among photographers are best to work with.

That part of the job—helping young models become as successful as I was—is probably my favorite part.

Forget that crap Tanner said in his press release about empowering women.

Please. What a crock of shit.

I'm the one actually doing it.

Tanner Sharpe is all talk, and always has been. He'll say whatever he needs to to melt your defenses, and get you into bed. I learned that the hard way.

“The finale's next, boss,” Monique says, refocusing my attention back to the stage.

I turn to look just as all ten models I handpicked strut on to the stage in two perfectly in-sync rows.

They work the stage as they make their way down the narrow runway right beside me.

My heart starts beating faster in anticipation of the finale, and they begin to do their sassiest turns just as we’ve choreographed.

They head towards the widest part of the stage to pose for the finale, where I’ll join them for my big bow.

I start to stand, but pause when I see that they’ve gone off-script. Um, why are they turning their backs to the audience?

I freeze, unable to catch up with what's happening on stage when, I kid you not—they lift up their matching satin robes to show off…

I can't even fucking say.

Scratch that. I don’t want to fucking say.

All my models—my models!—are sporting a property of stamp on their left ass cheek.

Not just any stamp, either. It says, “Property of Tanner Sharpe.”

What the fuck?!?

I feel like everything slows down, accentuating the loud gasps and camera flashes coming from the stunned audience.

Bile begins creeping up my throat, and I become light-headed.

If the ground could open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly, gleefully even, go down the pits of hell to get away from this tent, this city, this moment.

I suddenly wish there weren't a million cameras and reporters all around me. It feels like every camera in the world is being shoved right in my face. Well, except for the ones pointed at my models' ass cheeks.

“What the fuck, Tanner?! What kind of immature ass pulls a prank like this?” I hate-whisper to Rebecca, as if I didn't already loathe him enough.

“I don't think the prank's over yet,” she says, pointing across the runway to Tanner's now-empty seat.

I follow her finger as it points to the stage where Tanner is jumping up in the middle of the models.

He's holding a microphone.

Who the fuck gave him a microphone?

“Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m afraid I need no introduction—but suffice to say, I have the highest sales and the hottest designs when it comes to women’s lingerie,” Tanner is announcing to the crowd.

The female reporters are practically cooing at his feet. Pathetic.

“The only thing missing was the sexiest models. And now, I have those as well. It’s my pleasure to announce the newest models for Pretty Little Vixen—straight from the Dirty Little Angel line.”

The audience is applauding his childish stunt, and he’s milking it for all it's worth.

Seriously?

He looks at me with his devastatingly gorgeous grey eyes and says, “No hard feelings, Elsa, Angel. It's nothing personal. Strictly business.”

“'Nothing personal,' you ass?!”

When did I get on stage beside him? I must have rage climbed up there in my Louboutins.

I see nothing but red—as red as the soles of my heels—and it’s only him that I’m focused on.

“You piece of shit,” I sneer. “You couldn't fight fairly in business, so you stooped to stealing my models?”

“Not at all,” he says, smugly. “I merely saw a business opportunity and took it. That's the kind of thing they teach you at Harvard. Not that you would know, cupcake.”

“Here we go,” I snort, “When in doubt, show off your Harvard pedigree. How pathetic.”

“Funny, I remember you calling me lots of things…but never pathetic, funnily enough. The best ever…Your stallion…the only one who could make you come…”

“The only one? More like ‘only once.’ You were as inept in bed as you are in the boardroom, Tanner! Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

“Then that must mean I rocked your world, 'cause Pretty Little Vixen is killin' it, Elsa. The sales speak for themselves.”

“You are infuriating,” I yell. “That's not what I mean, and you know it.”

And that's when the flash from a camera goes off directly in my face.

Fucking reporter. I'm guessing my face won't look very alluring in that picture.

You know how someone explains deafening quiet as ‘it's so quiet that you can hear a pin drop’?

I’ve always thought that was an unrealistic saying.

Well, I'm here to tell you it's right on the nose. That's exactly what it feels like right now. You can hear a pin drop, and you can cut the tension with a damn knife.

All those stupid sayings are—in this moment—infuriatingly true.

To sum it up: I'm fucked, and not in the satisfying way I like.

I glance around, and am met with either gaping, expressions of disbelief from the crowd, or people staring intently, like we're the juiciest bit of Page Six gossip come to life.

Except for my board of directors.

They're the ones who can really royally fuck me, and they look like they want to do just that.

I feel like I'm about to be called into the headmaster's office, or worse, executed.

Of course, the one who placed me in the line of fire to begin with had to be my gorgeous, heartbreaker of an ex, Tanner Sharpe.

So, at least, I won't be facing the firing squad alone.