Seductive Mr.Billionaire

I stared at her as she left home that day, I've been doing this long enough to know not to immediately follow as she walked to the bus stop. Ginger colored hair, with the morning sun bouncing off each curl. She was beautiful, he'd give her that Amir Alec sure had good taste. Her skin shone like a freshly polished porcelain doll, and anytime the light hit it at just the right angle the dark skin turned gold. Beautiful was an understatement he decided, she was stunning, the kind of attractive that took your breath away and no matter how many times you looked, it was more interesting.

You wouldn't be able to take your eyes off of her, I knew that first hand. That had been the case for me all the weeks I'd spent memorizing every facial feature of hers. It was a sin to want whatever Amir had his eyes on. She was his, I knew that.

I watched her get on the bus and immediately turned on my engine to follow. What life decision had been the altering factor in the butterfly effect to lead me here, I wondered. Doing this. As my job...

The man who had paid me to have her followed was a powerful man, I knew that much but that was just about the only thing I knew of my employer. Being a seasoned detective taught me there were some questions that didn't need to be asked, I got into the private investigator job five years ago after a misdemeanor and tampering with evidence had forced me to resign from the police force, but I knew I had to put my skills to good use. Hence, opening a private detective practice had been the next best thing and I was a darned good one.

I chuckled to myself realizing that my train of thoughts had distracted me from a very important observation. Goddamnnit, I wasn't the only one following this woman. I guess the stories are true, Amir Alec definitely had some enemies.

•••

I rushed out of the door quickly knowing that I was already late, coffee in one hand and the other struggling to put on my black faux leather ankle length coat from Zara. I had a lot of problems and combating cold along with an insane amount of lack of sleep was not one I needed to have on this day. Today was very important, so much so that after getting home from work last night I kept working till three am, I finally fell asleep after much badgering from my husband and had to wake up 5am and be out the door at 6. This was a very important week and every planning we had done all these months was riding on this week, fashion week, especially on today.

Working as creative director on a fashion line for an influencer we turned socialite was definitely not what I'd thought I would do with her life when I was a little girl but, life gives lemons or something of that sorts.

I stared down at my black work pumps, loose corporate but chic charcoal work pants and asymmetrical top from also Zara and thought this should suffice. I had a lot to deal with and listening to insults on the outdated state of my clothes or shoes might just be the thing to drive me off the edge. Everything needed to go smoothly and perfectly to show my husband why I was keeping all those late nights.

I rushed to the bus barely looking at where I was going, thanking heavens I kept my apartment instead of moving into my new husbands house like he suggested, the proximity to the bus was much easier for me as is not waking up with fifty other empty rooms and let's face it a cult like staff waiting on me hand and foot. At least not yet, moving there will make it all feel real and I can admit I'm not ready to face what accepting it reality would mean for me.

The bus finally stopped opposite the large skyscraper as I rushed in and straight into the elevator 6:24, my time read. The bus ride had taken almost thirty minutes and as though the work gods had notified the overbearing social media which I currently work for, my phone begins to ring.

Ugh, this woman can't let me even set my coffee down I think as I walk into the office, it's not even official work hours yet she can't keep-doing this...

The chair in my office spun to face me, and I swear, I nearly launched my coffee across the room. There she was-the Instagram queen herself, reigning tyrant of all things trending and tasteless, Leah Eastwood, my boss, in all her platinum blonde, Versace-drenched glory.

"Sabrina," she purred, eyes boring into me like I was a less-than-interesting pet hamster she'd rather not be dealing with.

"Yes, Leah," I replied automatically, bracing myself for the barrage of last-minute demands, each more ridiculous than the last. I could practically feel the day's to-do list expanding by the second.

Leah Eastwood was the sort of person who wore her superiority complex like a favorite coat. She was all "I breathe rarified air; you breathe whatever the masses inhale." It was her universe, and the rest of us were just biding our time in her orbit. Call it inferiority complex, abandonment issues, or a craving for praise that made a dog with a treat obsession look moderate.

"So," she began, her fingers tapping an unholy rhythm on my desk, "we're rebranding my upcoming fashion line."

I managed to hold back a sigh. Of course we were. The line wasn't even out yet, and it was already on its second rebrand. "Absolutely, Leah. What direction are you thinking?"

She tilted her head as if she were making a monumental decision. "Think...ethereal meets streetwear. Like, urban angels. But also sustainable," she added as if she'd just invented the concept.

"Ethereal and sustainable angels. Got it," I said, doing my best to translate whatever that actually meant.

"Oh, and make sure we emphasize that it's different from, you know, my earlier... ventures." She waved a hand dismissively, the diamond the size of a grape flashing. Leah had spent the better part of the early 2000s building her name in the adult entertainment industry. Classy, right? But of course, she's trying to ditch that reputation now, several husbands and one humanitarian marriage later.

"Definitely," I replied, making a mental note to dodge the tabloids and promo shots that would inevitably reference her past.

"Just because people love a comeback story doesn't mean I want mine on the cover of People. I mean, we all know Lawal married me for charity points," she sniffed, as if even her exes should thank her for the privilege.

I kept my mouth in a neutral smile. Lawal Fraser, the "humanitarian" she'd been married to for a grand total of six months, had done more good PR-wise than any of her other husbands combined. Now she was on number three-Blaine Ashwood, some tech billionaire who thought the whole "artsy fashion influencer" thing was an investment worth backing. Four months in, and he was already dropping six figures into her design empire.

"Well, Blaine wants me to have, like, depth. Think high fashion. Artisanal. He says it's all about legacy, Sabrina," she announced, using air quotes for "legacy," as if she were discussing extraterrestrial life instead of another cash-in on her latest husband's credit.

"Absolutely, Leah. High fashion, urban angels, sustainable." I repeated, making a note and silently wondering how long Blaine would last before finding his replacement in the wings.

I guess it would be much easier to feel a bit more sympathy for her if she didn't use it as an avenue to make my life a living hell, coming out of university it hasn't been easy finding a job to put my art and design degree to good use, it has been from one freelance position to another so when this opportunity came on especially with Leah Eastwood asking for me specifically... Sabrina Lowry in particular, I had jumped on it thinking it was an amazing opportunity to finally put my degree to good use.

Unbeknownst to me that a venture like this would only lead to my pain and suffering. But it would all be worth it after today if this show was a massive success, to finally be able to put this on my resume would open me up to so many other opportunities, one without the influence of my husband and a much far off industry than where his family name could reach.

"Sabrina, Sabrina," Leah shrills, in her high pitched tone. She immediately catches herself and mellows it to the fake airy voice that's a trademark to most influencers online persona.

"Yes, Leah, you want the models arrival time pushed up so they can start practicing the new set list you came up with last night," I say referring to the email I received at 12am yesterday,

" you're not a fan of the Swarovski bracelets as a party favor anymore and you want me to personally contact Cartier to have them send those instead and swap the Tiffany key chains for guccis. The guest lists will updated to include 20 more people and you would like to swap the flower arrangements for the ones we first agreed on... the designers should..."

She nods as I continue the long list of orders and last minute changes she requested this morning six hours to the show. This was going to be a long day.

•••

I shouldn't be here. The idea of Amir Alec, self-proclaimed power broker, lurking at a fashion show is almost laughable. This morning, I'd been explicitly banned from even thinking about coming within ten miles of this place. Yet here I was, willing to risk her wrath for a glimpse. Call it obsession, call it stupid-hell, maybe both. My guys had discreetly tailed her all morning, and I got the heads-up as soon as she was inside the venue. No paparazzi yet, which was the only reason I even considered this stunt.

But now that I was here, there was the issue of actually seeing her. Walking in was out of the question; I'm a powerful man, but not stupid enough to think I could just stroll up and demand an audience. No, that would be a surefire way to set her off, and I didn't come here to make her angrier than she already was. Yeah, I know-borderline stalking. But if we're ranking crimes, this has to be the mildest one on my list.

Still, I'm weighing my options-sneaking into the building like some kind of suit-clad Bond knockoff or staying put and trying not to look out of place. My six-foot-four frame isn't exactly inconspicuous, one of the many reasons I didn't exactly pursue a career in covert ops. A chuckle escaped as I remembered her teasing me once about how I'd make the world's worst spy.

This was insane. Maybe I'd just go in, show my face briefly, make it clear I'd come to support her, and then get out before the show even started. A quick appearance, no drama-she might even appreciate that, right? But then, there she was. God had, apparently, chosen to take pity on me. She stepped out of the building, her red hair catching the light, dressed all in black, and looking like she'd swallowed every spotlight in the place.

I'd dated models, actresses, politicians-the works. But none of them had ever struck me like she did. Sabrina, with her quiet confidence and that damn smile, could stop my heart cold. The first time I saw her, it was like my chest forgot its job entirely. Here we were again, the same instant reaction, and she didn't even know the effect she had on me.

And then she paused, scanning the scene as if looking for something, her eyes roaming until they zeroed in on my car. Could she have recognized it? Because, to my complete shock, she was moving toward me. There was no mistaking it-she'd seen me. Her expression was... not exactly angry, but maybe annoyed, definitely stressed.

I was about to tell Mark, my driver, to get us the hell out of here when-

A man steps out as though from the shadows like he has been hiding, waiting for the perfect moment. This seems to play out in slow motion, the man grabs Sabrina and in seconds hitting her on the side of her head she is knocked out immediately. The man surveys the surroundings quickly he puts her into the back of the black Peugeot he just came out of.

He put her into his car. My brain can't seem to comprehend fast enough that Sabrina has just been put into a car. A man has just knocked Sabrina out and kidnapped her. My wife has just been kidnapped.