Brutal Billionaire

Book 1: Brutal Billionaires

by Laurelin Paige

Genres: Billionaires Romance

Synopsis

He’ll get what he wants—even if I’m already taken.

 

Holt Sebastian is royalty in our world.

 

As CEO of the Sebastian News Corp, he’s the man with all the power. The man who decides if I’ll always just be a local television anchor or if I’ll be the rising star of my own show.

 

I make it my mission to be noticed. Make him see my potential. But soon, it's clear he's the one in charge.

 

His possessiveness is brutal.

 

His eyes own everything they touch. I feel his gaze on me when he's in the room. The heat of them as they rake down my body, taking me in, marking me as his. He doesn’t just want me on the screen—he wants me in his bed. 

 

And Holt Sebastian gets what he wants.

 

No one will stop him, no one will get in his way.

 

No one can protect me from his desire.

 

Not even the man who promised nothing would come between us and his ambition—my husband.

 

Laurelin Paige delivers a twist on Indecent Proposal in this billionaire workplace standalone romance featuring elements of fake relationship, marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, and a new alphahole readers will love to hate.

Release date: March 22, 2023

Publisher: Paige Press, LLC

Print pages: 502

Sample

Chapter 1

BRYSTIN

 

Where the fuck are you? Are you trying to blow this?

I glance at the text, trying not to move too much since Zully is currently applying my eye shadow. 

“Michael?” Zully asks with typical disdain. She’s never liked Michael and has never made any attempt to hide it. She blames it on her Middle Eastern heritage, claiming that being mouthy is in her genes.

There’s no point, but I defend him anyway. “He has his producer hat on.” 

“My boss ever talked to me like that, and I’d tell him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, baby. Look up.”

Looking up means I can’t reply to the text. Anyway, I’m almost there, and I’d rather have Michael anxious than have smeared eyeliner. Thank God our Lyft driver isn’t a thrill-seeker. Still, we’ve had more than a few stops and starts as we’ve crept along 52nd Street. “How are you even doing this in a car?” 

“Very carefully.” The speed of her words matches the carefulness of her hand as she lines one eye then the other. When she’s done, she leans back, eye pencil propped in the air like it’s a cigarette or a magic wand, and admires her work. “I really am brilliant.”

My laugh is more giggle than usual. Must be nerves. “Not that you don’t deserve the praise, but cocky much?”

“Yes, please.” She waits a beat. “Oh, that wasn’t an offer. I hear the word cock and my mind goes places.” She pulls a pencil from the makeup kit spread across her lap. “Open up, sweetie.”

I can’t make any dirty comment in reply since now she’s working on my lips. My phone buzzes again, another text from Michael, most likely.

“Touch your phone and die,” Zully tells me. Just then, the driver slams on the brakes, and the pencil swerves. I can tell from Zully’s wide brown eyes that the jolt caused a lining error. She glares at the back of the driver’s head then takes a breath. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” She uses her finger to blot at the skin above my mouth.

She pulls back to look at me again, her genie-style ponytail bobbing like she’s about to grant a wish. “Actually, you look fantastic. I must be a god.”

“Zully!”

“It helps that you’re absolutely gorgeous, even without makeup, but you know that. You don’t need to hear it. I do. I’m fragile.”

She has one hell of an ego for being fragile, but I suppose those two traits often go hand-in-hand. I squeeze her hand. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

“I’d love for you to tell me, but we’re here, and you’re late.” Zully reaches over me and opens my door before the car has stopped completely. “Fly, little bird!”

Sure that I have my phone and my purse, I’m giddy as I step out of the car, bolstered as I always am from my oldest friend’s company. 

“You’re a knockout,” Zully calls after me. “Everyone will be dying to get into your Simone Pérèles. Just remember to hire me as your face designer when you make it to the big time.”

Of course the sidewalk in front of the Sebastian Center is busy as usual, and I’d be embarrassed about all the heads turning in my direction if I had the time. 

But I don’t. So I keep my chin up and ignore the looks and comments from strangers.

As I push my way toward the doors, I wonder briefly if this is how it will feel to be a celebrity. Because I will be one. Positive mindset, as Michael always says.

Inside, I skip the main elevators and hurry down the hallway toward the wing devoted to the media division of the Sebastian empire. This bank of elevators is only for employees, which technically I’m not, but since I’m an anchor at one of the Sebastian’s local news networks, I’m on the list tonight.

“Brystin Shaw,” I say to the security guard when he asks for my name.

While he enters it into his iPad for confirmation, I look around to get my bearings. There’s a trio wrapped in conversation a few feet away, dressed in cocktail attire, suggesting they might also be headed up to the ceremony. There’s also a man in a tux, his head down as he types something into his phone. I seem to be the only one trying to get on the elevator, which means I’m really late. Everyone else is probably already upstairs and seated. 

Michael’s so going to kill me.

I catch my reflection in one of the steel panels. At least, I look good. A dark lip, smoky eye, my blonde hair pulled up with a few wisps curling at my shoulders. Zully really is a magician.

“News 9 in Jersey?” The guard draws my attention back to him.

“That’s me.”

“Got you. Head on up to sixty-three.”

I scurry past him and into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the sixty-third floor. The doors begin to shut, and I let out a sigh of relief.

But then an arm shoots through the opening, and the doors part once again. It’s the man in the tuxedo. As is typical for many women when put in a small space with a man they don’t know, I scoot toward the back corner, lower my head, and try not to make eye contact.

He doesn’t even acknowledge me, which is helpful. 

When the doors are shut, and we’re on our way, though, I sneak a peek in his direction.

And the breath is knocked from my lungs.

Holy shit, holy shit. 

My phone still in my hand, I unlock the screensaver and pull up Zully’s name in the text app. 

Holy shit! It’s him! In the elevator!

I follow the message up with a covert snapshot of the man who is none other than Holt Sebastian, the CEO of Sebastian News Corp. The man I’m supposed to be charming the pants off tonight in hopes that he’ll notice me and one day give me my own show. 

I study the photo I took while I wait for the messages to go through—stupid weak elevator signal. As the youngest CEO of SNC, Holt has more than his fair share of media attention. And because I aspire to work for him—like in this very building, not for one of his lowly network stations that no one ever watches anymore—I have done plenty of internet stalking. I already knew he was wicked attractive, but damn. Even at the weird profile angle my camera caught, his jawline is a work of art. I can’t imagine looking at him straight on. My ovaries won’t be able to take it.

I zoom in on his face and realize his mouth is upturned into a smirk. Did he know I was taking his picture?

Before I can get too panicked about it, the elevator halts abruptly.

I look up at the indicator to see where we’ve stopped. Instead of saying a number, the panel is blinking a bright red ER.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I imagine the letters stand for error, but I feel like it should mean emergency, because this is truly a disaster. Michael is going to go ballistic.

Though, if he knew who I’m stuck with, he might feel differently.

Speaking of Holt, if he’s concerned, he doesn’t show it. He pulls his phone out from his inside jacket pocket and types something. “Dinner is worth missing.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. When he’s finished his message, he puts his phone back. Either he has better cell service than I do, or he’s not concerned whether or not the message goes through.

I hadn’t planned on eating anyway. No way am I messing up Zully’s makeup job. “I’m more concerned about missing the actual ceremony.” 

Holt turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his back against the steel wall. “I don’t imagine it will start without me.”

No other explanation. As if I’m supposed to know who he is, which I do, but still. It’s awfully presumptuous.

Or that’s what it’s like to be a celebrity. 

“At the very most,” he continues, “you’ll miss the local awards.”

My stomach drops. “I’m receiving one of those local awards.” I turn to mirror him, sighing as I press my back into the wall behind me. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed about potentially missing my moment in the sun or about Holt Sebastian not knowing who I am.

But why would he know who I am?

SNC has hundreds of stations across the country. Holt can’t know everyone who works for him. Even ones that are here tonight to be honored for excellence. 

He studies me a second, and I wonder if I was wrong, if he’ll recognize me now. But his gaze looks more predatory than perceptive, and all he says is, “Whoops.”

Again, what did I expect? These events are probably everyday for him. He was born at the top of the ladder. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to start from the bottom, what an achievement it is to even get up one rung.

It occurs to me that this might be a perfect opportunity to introduce myself. That was the goal for the night, after all—make him get to know me. Make him remember me. 

But what if that’s too forward? Too eager? I’ll get the chance to meet him later. 

Or I will if I don’t miss the fucking ceremony. “Should we hit the emergency button?”

“Hm?” 

“Do you think we should hit the emergency button?”

He’s staring at me intensely, so I know he heard me, but it seems to take him a second before he comprehends my words. “Oh. I was too busy thinking about how tempting the zipper is on your dress.”

Heat runs from my decolletage to my cheeks. Truthfully, it was the point of this outfit. A Dolce & Gabbana splurge that Michael picked out, the dress is a modern reinterpretation of a classic black sheath dress, with a double slider zipper that runs all the way from my cleavage to the bottom hem and another one that matches in the back. It means I can make the neckline—and the backline—as low as I’d like. Michael had suggested I go low enough to not be able to wear a bra. He said men would be thinking about unzipping me all night.

I didn’t go quite as low as Michael had wanted, but apparently the dress has still done the trick. 

I guess that’s something to be happy about.

I might be if I can get over my shock. The dress was supposed to be sensual so he’d remember me. I didn’t expect him to come on to me. I’m a stranger to him. A stranger except that he knows that I work for his company. Who would have the audacity to say something so forward?

Oh. That’s right. He’s a Sebastian.

“I suppose with your name, you don’t have to worry about Cancel Culture.” And I suppose that was probably a thought better left in my head instead of spoken aloud. 

He seems as surprised by my comment as I am. His brows raise, and his jaw flexes as though he’s considering. His shock gives me the opportunity to really look at him, and I was right—face-to-face, he’s devastating. His cheekbones are cut high, but not too sharp. A closely trimmed beard darkens his jaw, preventing him from looking too pretty, which he might otherwise. Especially since his skin is flawless. No makeup or photoshopping needed. 

And those eyes.

They’re deep set under a severe brow line, but not so deep that his forehead overtakes his features. The color is unreal—a blue-gray that I wasn’t sure existed in nature. In fact, I’m not sure they aren’t contacts, and I almost take a step toward him to see before remembering that he’s Holt fucking Sebastian, and I’m practically a no one who needs to mind herself.

“I guess I didn’t realize what I’d said was inappropriate.” By now, his expression has become more sly than mystified—most likely because I’ve been staring at him like a fangirl for the last thirty seconds—and of course he didn’t realize he was inappropriate. Privilege with a capital P. I mean, he is practically American royalty. 

With that in mind, I should probably backpedal on the accusation. “I’m sure I took—”

He cuts me off. “If I’m going to be canceled anyway, I might as well say what I was really thinking.”

I shouldn’t ask. I should not ask. “What were you really thinking?”

He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. Two strides is all it takes before he’s right in front of me, practically caging me in. So close I can smell his wood and musk and citrus scent. “I was really thinking, I wonder if we’ll be stuck in here long enough for me to unzip her and find out what’s underneath.”

His eyes flick down to my cleavage. This close, he has a good view. “Or what’s not underneath.”

Holy. Fuck.

This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Not just the kind of confidence he exudes, but also the reaction it draws from me. I should be appalled—and a little bit, I am. I should feel threatened—and that I am, for sure.

But the tremor of my pulse is not from fear—it’s from excitement. 

Ridiculous, I know. I don’t have time to examine it closely because just then, the elevator jolts into movement. 

“I guess not." Holt is still very much invading my personal space. His teeth graze his bottom lip. “Shame.”

It’s only seconds before we reach the sixty-third floor. The doors open, and Holt steps out, abandoning me without a glance back, as if we hadn’t been stuck alone in an elevator together. As if he hadn’t said what he’d said. Done what he’d done.

What even was that? 

I blink as I step out after him, trying to get my bearings. 

“Thanks for the rescue,” I hear Holt say to another sharply dressed man who seemed to be waiting for our arrival.

So he was able to text for help. Was he just messing with me to fill time?

“There you are!” Of course Michael is waiting at the elevators. He’s probably been here all night, freaking out every time a car arrived without me in it. “Was that—?” He darts his eyes in Holt’s direction. “Did you ride up together?” He can barely contain his excitement. “Did you get to talk to him?”

I’m still reeling from the him in question. My gaze follows as Holt rushes off with the other man, presumably heading to his designated spot for the occasion.

“Brystin?” 

I force my attention back to Michael. 

“Never mind.” He ushers me into the event space. “You can tell me later. You’re just in time. They’re about to start. You look stunning, by the way. Well worth the wait.”

I’m grateful he lets the subject go. I’m not sure what I’d say, or what he’d say in response. Or what he’d do to Holt in my defense. 

One thing is certain, though—I have to change my entire approach where a promotion is concerned. Because at this rate, Holt Sebastian will eat me alive.