Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(19)

I force myself to think about the book. Keep pushing the illusion no matter what. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Your reality is stronger than hers. Go ahead, shoot for the stars.

“I know you’re disappointed, Max. I’m sorry you went to all this trouble to woo me—”

“This is what you’re going with, Mia? That I arranged all this?”

“And I do want you to know I’m flattered, Max. It’s not that you haven’t impressed me.”

That muscle in his neck twitches. Was impressed too much?

He turns back to his computer. Tap-tap-tap. “Yes, I’ll cry every night. I’ll rest my head into the bosoms of supermodels and just weep.”

I stiffen. Probably three supermodels at once, like in the stupid picture. Something unpleasant twists in my belly. Why did I ever think it would work? Max is winning. He always wins.

Keep pushing with the illusion. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Don’t give up.

“All this trouble you went to. I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful real-life girlfriend someday who appreciates you the way you deserve…”

“Compelling as your little lunch-cart-girl monologue is, I have work to do, so...” He circles his finger and returns his attention to his computer.

Little lunch-cart-girl monologue? Lunch-cart girl?

“It has my attention,” I continue. “Don’t get me wrong. I di-int think…”

Right there I freeze.

His gaze snaps back up to mine.

Di-int. We both heard it clear as a bell—the dropped ”d” of didn’t, so that it comes out di’int. A glottal stop, my voice coach called it. That’s a central feature of the south Jersey accent I worked so hard to erase. I di’int think. Di’int think.

My heart bangs in my chest as he watches me, sizing me up, predator that he is.

And then he goes in for the kill, which is, in this case, a smile.

Or to the world it would look like a smile. Between us, it’s him enjoying the Jerseygirl slip, softly and silently plunging me back to those years in high school when I tried so hard to erase my accent. To have a shot at the lights of Broadway. To overcome the Corelli curse.

Jerseygirl. The name hangs thick in the charged air between us, all the more hurtful for being unsaid.

My face heats. Even my ears lose a little sparkle—it’s as though I can feel them dimming on top of my head.

With as much grace as I can muster, I put my lunch things back in my cart. I enunciate my words in my best, most aristocratic-sounding version of General American English, what my voice coach calls GA, “That’s all I’m saying, Max. Sweet of you. I am flattered.”

Still he says nothing.

I turn and walk. I need to say meow now, but I don’t have it in me. I just don’t have it in me. Except then he’ll make me say it. I run the exchange in my head: Forget your line?

Please, just let me go.

You’re the lunch-cart girl.

“Mia,” he says softly.

Something about my name on his lips like that, sounding genuine, even full of feeling, it reaches deep into me and squeezes my heart.

But when Max is nice to you, that’s the time you can least trust him. He’s going to make me say meow now—I know it.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I turn, full of breezy determination, holding up a finger, smiling like I have a wonderful secret. I breathe in all of the magic that I can possibly breathe in. I am the queen of the cats, pursued and loved.

I straighten my spine against Max, against everybody who ever doubted me. I press my hands on my hips and let loose. “Meeeeow.”

He tilts his head. “Oh, I was just going to say, I’ll only need two mustards going forward.”

My pulse races. My cheeks heat.

But I don’t lose my aplomb. “We’ll see,” I say. Like I may or may not comply. With that, I leave.

This is what I’ve been reduced to, I think, heading down his faux-heaven hall. Max has everything, and my only recourse is maybe giving him the wrong number of mustards. And then he’ll just make me correct the mistake in the most demeaning way possible, so what is the point?

I’m dimly aware that I ride the elevator with other people. Some people get in. Some people get out. I barely see them. I’m too focused on myself. Or more, the naive girl I once was, trying so hard to be sophisticated. The world’s greatest fraud.

I di-int think.

I spent so many hours with that voice coach, trying to polish myself up in order to be worthy of the glittering, glamorous Broadway scene.

I thought maybe I was, finally. But then Max had to come back into my life to remind me of my station. Because it’s not enough to be king of the world—not for Max.

I burst outside onto the busy sidewalk, into the chaos of honking cars and hurried pedestrians. I pull my jacket from the cart pocket and wrap myself against the cold, wet wind and set out to the meeting point.

Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t.

A lot of really prominent teachers cycled through the Shiz. Famed director Strom Windmeyer. Choreographer Fanny Forlio. Actors like Jean Stern and Marcel Rhodes. Many of them had encouraging words for me. Some of them even singled me out for praise.

But it’s Max’s biting words I remember. Obvious. Without nuance. Not there. Not her best. He never said them directly to me—we didn’t speak except for that one summer. But other students took glee in passing our insults along to each other.