Page 5 of Famous for a Living

“Sixth.” Bobby’s eyes gleam as clear and bright as the tower of Perrier bottles on the table beside us. “Six major companies wanting a piece of the pie. I nearly had a heart attack seeing this last one.” He leans forward and taps at a line. “You only need to sign once for this one and we’ll be set.”

I hesitate. Flip through more pages.

I hate when he does this. Hate looking like I don’t trust him. “That’s great, Bobby,” I say as calmly as possible. “I’ll drop these by my lawyers’ tomorrow—”

Bobby’s expression immediately changes. “There isn’t time. They always make things more complicated than they are and waste two months making us go back and forth over things like the exact meaning of the word advertisement. I hate them, if you must know the truth.”

I already knew the truth.

Bobby “confesses” his hatred for my lawyers every single time their names pop up.

Down below I hear the unmistakable and unexpected entrance of a woman crying out in a singsong tone to both everyone and no one in particular, “Look what I broooought!”

My eyes widen and shoot over to Serena.

Who invited Gabby Zegna?

Gabby is a sweetheart; she really is. But after she stumbled into fame a few months ago when a humorous little clip of hers went viral, the bewildered dietician found herself suddenly shoved offers from brands everywhere. It didn’t take a genius to see one ten-second post showing off dish soap would equal a month’s pay, and to commit to five such posts in a month would bring in five times her salary.

So she made a grave mistake. She quit her job.

And with each ensuing post that crashed and burned, Gabby discovered with sinking suspicion that she was a one-off.

A shooting star. Here one second, gone the next.

Which explains her new and desperate habit of trying to do anything, and everything, that works for other influencers, including bizarrely timed high kicks and unpredictable pranks, and doing both in an attempt to trademark herself in thigh-high boots and a red apron like some kind of 1950s veggie-loving pinup model.

The poor girl was desperate.

And there were far too many reporters and journalists with far too many waiting cameras for her to resist the temptation to do something drastic for the irresistible opportunity to snag the spotlight.

Not to mention, again, my new couches were white.

White.

“Serena, could you—” I start to say, but Serena is already moving for the spiral staircase.

“On it,” she says, winding down the stairs.

Bobby exhales loudly, and I turn my attention back to him. “Here’s the thing, sweetheart.” He rakes a hand through his black hair. “This is an incredible win for us. We need this.”

“And I’m excited.” I stare at the stack of papers I’ll have no means of understanding tonight. “It sounds thrilling.”

“No. Thrilling was three months ago when we opened up applications and fifty thousand people knocked one another sideways trying to get a golden ticket for release. This is extraordinary. Absolutely life changing. And we need it signed and sent tonight.”

My eyes tick to the countdown clock, the digits at 15:37 and dropping. “Bobby,” I say, leveling my voice. “We’re right about to do launch.”

“Precisely,” he retorts. “Which is why you need to sign it now.”

“Or what?” I say with deliberate calm, trying to get him to see perspective. “What could they possibly—?”

“Or we stall the launch.”

My jaw drops slightly.

No.

He can’t be serious.