Taken By The Billionaire
1
When she first walked into my office I was pissed off for two reasons. Number one, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place; I’d left specific instructions with Alexandra, my assistant, that nobody, nobody was to disturb me. I had work to do now that casting for the next film was due, thousands of details to manage, and the last thing I wanted during the time I needed to concentrate were pushy, whiny agents trying to get into my face. With my name attached to it the film had the potential to become a huge pie, and of course everyone wanted a slice. Number two, the other reason for my frustration was, that at first glance I thought it was Jenny Clark standing there.
That woman was most definitely persona-non-grata, which is why I was more than a little brusque when I said, “What the hell do you want?”
But a second later, I realized that I mistook that poor woman for Jenny.
The girl did look a lot like Jenny Clark however. Jenny, an undeniably talented and attractive pop star who also managed to be one of the most obnoxious, difficult people I’ve ever worked with. So demanding and intractable that years before I broke contract and walked out on producing one of her music videos.
“Who are you?” I asked, still none too politely, I was busy as hell but also a little curious.
“I’m Kylie,” the girl replied. She took a tentative step further into my domain. “Kylie Clark,” she added.
What piqued my interest in the girl further was her reaction when I mentioned Jenny’s name. “You’re Jenny Clark’s little sister?” I asked.
“I’m her sister,” Kylie confirmed with a nod of her head and ice in her tone. She crossed her arms as her forehead creased in a frown. “Or at least I was; I hate that bitch for what she’s done to me. She’s not any sister of mine now.” The fire in her eyes cooled as Kylie blinked and looked around my office. Her whole demeanor changed in an instant and I figured that she’d remembered whose office she was in, that she’d clocked the Oscar and been reminded that I was The Man. Kylie gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and, almost diffidently said, “Which is kinda why I’m here, Mister Taylor.”
My normal reaction to an unexpected visitor, especially when I’d told Alexandra not to let anyone get past her, would have been to turn the trespasser around and, figuratively speaking, kick their backside out of my office, out of the studio and back onto the streets of LA. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was about her that drew me, something in her looks and the potential for a passionate temperament beneath that ordinary girl first impression maybe? Or did she remind me of a certain Welsh actress?
Either way it didn’t matter too much, the bad blood between Kylie and Jenny piqued my curiosity and I wondered what that demanding egomaniac had done to cause such anger in her sister.
Indicating that Kylie should take a seat I masked my thoughts and feelings with a sarcastic façade. “You don’t get on with Jenny, eh?”
Kylie shook her head. “I hate her,” she replied, eyes sparking again while the words dripped with venom. “She slept with my fiancé.”
The girl’s brimming eyes tugged at me in such a way that I experienced a strong urge to stand up, walk around to the opposite side of the desk and take her in my arms. I knew that pain from my time with Marianne, my ex-wife who cheated on me with my production partner. Obviously he’s now no longer a friend, and due to my influence he’s been struggling to find work lately. Not my proudest moment, and I do feel guilty about giving in to such a petty act of revenge, but a part of me will always believe that he got just what he deserved.
Contempt curdled in my own guts when I thought about how poisonous Jenny Clark could be.
The immoral piece of shit. How could she do that to her own sister?
I don’t intend to come across as all holier than though. In my early days in Hollywood, after the Jenny Clark music video debacle, after I hit the big time, which ironically was partly due to the notorious Jenny, I made my fair share of fuck-ups.
At the time I got rid off Jenny I’d been twenty-six, and so to publically walk away from the job with her might have been a stupid thing to do, and people had been quick to tell me I was crazy. Maybe it wasn’t the best move I could have made, but at that age I wasn’t the kind of bloke to swallow my own knob for the likes of Jenny-fucking-Clark. I’m still the same nine years on.
I was just making a name as a dynamic, hard-hitting director in the business, teetering on the brink of needing a big break to establish myself as a name in the US or I’d be forced to head back to England with my tail between my legs. At twenty-four I’d left the London scene behind and followed the dream to LA, to Hollywood, where I hoped I could carve a niche for myself. It had been early days, but I thrived on the challenge and hard work, driven to do the best job anyone could do. I wanted to be the best. It isn’t just work that I apply that ethos to, it’s anything I undertake. At the time it was the financial outlook that appeared so bleak. To be forced to slink home to the UK wouldn’t have sat well with me. I didn’t like the F-word – Failure.
When she first walked into my office I was pissed off for two reasons. Number one, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place; I’d left specific instructions with Alexandra, my assistant, that nobody, nobody was to disturb me. I had work to do now that casting for the next film was due, thousands of details to manage, and the last thing I wanted during the time I needed to concentrate were pushy, whiny agents trying to get into my face. With my name attached to it the film had the potential to become a huge pie, and of course everyone wanted a slice. Number two, the other reason for my frustration was, that at first glance I thought it was Jenny Clark standing there.
That woman was most definitely persona-non-grata, which is why I was more than a little brusque when I said, “What the hell do you want?”
But a second later, I realized that I mistook that poor woman for Jenny.
The girl did look a lot like Jenny Clark however. Jenny, an undeniably talented and attractive pop star who also managed to be one of the most obnoxious, difficult people I’ve ever worked with. So demanding and intractable that years before I broke contract and walked out on producing one of her music videos.
“Who are you?” I asked, still none too politely, I was busy as hell but also a little curious.
“I’m Kylie,” the girl replied. She took a tentative step further into my domain. “Kylie Clark,” she added.
What piqued my interest in the girl further was her reaction when I mentioned Jenny’s name. “You’re Jenny Clark’s little sister?” I asked.
“I’m her sister,” Kylie confirmed with a nod of her head and ice in her tone. She crossed her arms as her forehead creased in a frown. “Or at least I was; I hate that bitch for what she’s done to me. She’s not any sister of mine now.” The fire in her eyes cooled as Kylie blinked and looked around my office. Her whole demeanor changed in an instant and I figured that she’d remembered whose office she was in, that she’d clocked the Oscar and been reminded that I was The Man. Kylie gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and, almost diffidently said, “Which is kinda why I’m here, Mister Taylor.”
My normal reaction to an unexpected visitor, especially when I’d told Alexandra not to let anyone get past her, would have been to turn the trespasser around and, figuratively speaking, kick their backside out of my office, out of the studio and back onto the streets of LA. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was about her that drew me, something in her looks and the potential for a passionate temperament beneath that ordinary girl first impression maybe? Or did she remind me of a certain Welsh actress?
Either way it didn’t matter too much, the bad blood between Kylie and Jenny piqued my curiosity and I wondered what that demanding egomaniac had done to cause such anger in her sister.
Indicating that Kylie should take a seat I masked my thoughts and feelings with a sarcastic façade. “You don’t get on with Jenny, eh?”
Kylie shook her head. “I hate her,” she replied, eyes sparking again while the words dripped with venom. “She slept with my fiancé.”
The girl’s brimming eyes tugged at me in such a way that I experienced a strong urge to stand up, walk around to the opposite side of the desk and take her in my arms. I knew that pain from my time with Marianne, my ex-wife who cheated on me with my production partner. Obviously he’s now no longer a friend, and due to my influence he’s been struggling to find work lately. Not my proudest moment, and I do feel guilty about giving in to such a petty act of revenge, but a part of me will always believe that he got just what he deserved.
Contempt curdled in my own guts when I thought about how poisonous Jenny Clark could be.
The immoral piece of shit. How could she do that to her own sister?
I don’t intend to come across as all holier than though. In my early days in Hollywood, after the Jenny Clark music video debacle, after I hit the big time, which ironically was partly due to the notorious Jenny, I made my fair share of fuck-ups.
At the time I got rid off Jenny I’d been twenty-six, and so to publically walk away from the job with her might have been a stupid thing to do, and people had been quick to tell me I was crazy. Maybe it wasn’t the best move I could have made, but at that age I wasn’t the kind of bloke to swallow my own knob for the likes of Jenny-fucking-Clark. I’m still the same nine years on.
I was just making a name as a dynamic, hard-hitting director in the business, teetering on the brink of needing a big break to establish myself as a name in the US or I’d be forced to head back to England with my tail between my legs. At twenty-four I’d left the London scene behind and followed the dream to LA, to Hollywood, where I hoped I could carve a niche for myself. It had been early days, but I thrived on the challenge and hard work, driven to do the best job anyone could do. I wanted to be the best. It isn’t just work that I apply that ethos to, it’s anything I undertake. At the time it was the financial outlook that appeared so bleak. To be forced to slink home to the UK wouldn’t have sat well with me. I didn’t like the F-word – Failure.