The Billionaire’s Desires Vol.12-13 (13 page)

"Dear colleagues and collaborators, it is my pleasure to introduce the founder and CEO of King Productions: Mr. Vadim King. He will be joining us for the next few months to launch the French office here in Paris. Please give him the warm welcome he deserves," Wilson pronounces, inviting Vadim to speak.

King?! His name was Vadim Arcadi when I knew him...

Wilson's introduction speech was effective. The women in the room are batting their eyelashes at
Mister
King and the men are tightening the knots of their ties as applause breaks out. All eyes are on the young thirty-something. He started with nothing and is now at the head of a cinematographic empire. How did he get here? I don't know, but I should have seen it coming. Vadim is not only exceptionally physically beautiful. He is also brilliant, passionate and has enough charisma to put even the biggest personalities in the world to shame.

But why did he change his name?!

I ask myself this question a thousand times during the “summit meeting.” King Productions, production and distribution company, in the wave of a boom, has decided to launch a branch in France. Back and forth, the CEO and his right hand man explain the strategies, objectives and short, medium and long-term action plans. For more than an hour, I struggle to remain professional, take notes and speak up when it seems necessary. I take that back, I speak up when Vadim turns his back to me. I never address him directly, too intimidated by his new face and not particularly encouraged by his obvious indifference. He never allows himself to be distracted and introduces himself to his employees in perfect French, with just the slightest, and of course charming, accent. Not a glance, not a smile. No sign that we aren't perfect strangers. What a cold shower. Or stinging slap in the face. Far, far away from my fairy tale for naive young girls. Apparently, Vadim King – since that is his name – wants nothing to do with me, Alma Lancaster, the great love of his youth, is now his new, invisible employee. As for me, my heart was racing the second I saw him. Racing for him.

The torture finally ends, and I get up from my chair, almost knocking into Sophie Adam as I do. The elegant production manager, who also happens to be a friend, laughs when she sees my weary face.

"It's okay, Alma, you didn't break anything! But did you know Mr. King looked like
that
?"

"Mr. who?" I ask, scanning the room for Vadim.

I have to catch him before he escapes!

"King, the big boss! Keep this to yourself, but honestly, if he's looking for a mistress, I'm keen!"

"Sophie, you just got married three months ago..."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot! I'm out of here, I need to see Clarence!" says the pretty blonde as she walks off on her five-inch heels.

I start to head out too, but I'm stopped in my tracks by a young stranger. The skinny brown-haired man holds his hand out and addresses me with a warm, honest smile.

"Maximilian Finn. Alma Lancaster, assistant director, right?" he asks, trying to hide his strong American accent.

"Yes, nice to meet you. And you are?"

"Mr. King's personal assistant. I wanted to meet everyone. The meeting was a success, don't you think? All parties seem to be very much invested. King France has a great future ahead."

"Yes, absolutely. Do you know where Mr. King is? I would have liked to introduce myself," I say, feeling the blood rise to my cheeks.

"Oh, Mr. King never sticks around very long. He must be long gone already. Would you like me to give him a message?"

"No, thank you, I'll wait until we meet again."

I try to hide my disappointment and leave the assistant, saying I have an urgent call to make. Once I'm in the hall, I race to the elevators, pray the metal cage will accelerate, land on the ground floor and rush past reception at full throttle, exit through the turnstiles at the building entrance and stumble out onto the Champs-Elysées. Ten yards away, I see Joseph Wilson shaking hands with Vadim. Vadim gets into a black German sedan, the car starts and carries Mr. Deserter off with it. He saw me and recognized me but decided not to talk to me. I used to know him by heart: Vadim Arcadi would have never left me hanging like that. Vadim King, however, is a stranger.

I'm still trembling when Joseph Wilson comes over to me, his hands on his hips, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Alma, it's time to break out the champagne! King is very happy with how the meeting went and with the entire team. He has big plans for us. Follow me, let's go back to my office."

Unable to move, I keep staring at the parking spot where the sedan was. I can't help but wonder if Vadim is as shaken up as I am right now.

"Miss Lancaster, I'm waiting for you!" my boss yells in his energetic voice.

When Joseph Wilson asks you to do something, you don't mess around. You do it straight away. I've had several chances to test this theory since I arrived at King Productions. A little over a month ago, I took my first step through the massive door to the building on the Champs-Elysées. A headhunter contacted me and set up a meeting with the HR department at King Productions. After the interview, I was sent to Wilson's office – he's the director of the new French branch of the company. He seemed very enthusiastic during our meeting, but not really for the right reasons. My impressive résumé didn't seem to matter to him, at least not as much as my appearance did. My white blouse with the ascot tie didn't really reveal much – I had decided to be as professional and serious looking as possible, but the forty-something dandy had a bit of trouble keeping his eyes off my non-existent cleavage. He threw about a dozen clichés my way, complimenting my appearance, probably thinking it would flatter me. Not a good plan since that kind of thing usually sends me into a rage, but given the job at stake, I did my best to just smile politely. This job was a dream opportunity for me, so much so that I tucked my big mouth into a closet along with some of my principles, I must admit. At only thirty, the position of assistant director was more than I could have hoped for. Getting hired meant a huge boost to my career.

Ambition is a family affair in the Lancaster clan. My father is an unparalleled businessman, as is my brother. For them, the fear of failure is a failure in itself. Ever since I was very young, my parents taught me determination, will, the desire to learn and to succeed. Letting this type of opportunity pass me by would simply be unthinkable. A week after the interviews, I found out I got the job. For a month I've been focused on my work and determined to prove myself. My job required multiple responsibilities and I'd have to learn a lot as I went, but that didn't scare me. I was surrounded by a competent, dynamic team, and I could already count on Sophie and Clarence, the managers of production and distribution. We quickly became real friends, and they respected me as their superior, but treated me like one of the gang. The only cloud on the horizon: Wilson's frequent screaming bouts, never addressed at me directly, but which definitely darkened the general atmosphere of the office.

"Are you sure it was really him?"

"Clem, you really think I would be in this state if I had the slightest doubt?" I ask my best friend.

"Right, and it's not like there are a bunch of Vadims walking around all over the place," adds Niels, my "gay boyfriend."

"But why did he change his name?" Clémentine asks. "What led to all this? I don't want to be mean, but I have trouble believing your ex became a billionaire."

"Do you think he planned it? That he came back to find you?" Niels asks.

"I don't know, I don't have any answers. All I know is that he seemed as surprised as I was; I'm sure he didn't expect to see me there. And leaving the way he did, he certainly made it clear that he has no desire to see me again!"

"Hmm, true..." Clémentine murmurs.

"I guess you're right," Niels agrees.

I asked them to meet me on the patio of our favorite bar near Saint Lazare as soon as I got off work. Niels was free and Clémentine canceled her plans at the last minute to come. When they heard the name "Vadim" on the phone, I didn't have to insist – my two sidekicks were already on their way. They started bombarding me with questions and making comments before I even had a chance to sit down. Some were more relevant than others, and I had to struggle to get a word in edgewise!

Clémentine D'Aragon is a pretty redhead. She's thirty and married with two children. She's my oldest friend. When we were younger she was a ball of energy, a force of nature, so much so that sometimes I had trouble keeping up with her. Today the tables have turned. She's decided to devote all her time to her "adorable" three-year-old twins, Madeleine and Séraphine, to the detriment of her career. It's a decision which she often doubts, especially when her offspring decide to drive her crazy. She loves: her gorgeous two-story apartment at Opéra, inherited from her ultra-rich family, her Chili Red Mini Cooper, organic veggies, pinot noir, Jane Austen, the Bee Gees and wedge heels. She hates: supermoms who are "super happy, super talented and super stylish," people who are naturally skinny, beer, her mother-in-law, horror movies, camping and the skin on cooked tomatoes.

Niels Duval, a handsome slim-waisted blond with impeccable taste in clothing, came into my life later. He worked with me for three years in a small independent film company. We liked each other immediately. He always gives good advice, even though his personal life is, according to him, a mess. And it's sort of the same on the professional front: he's been trying to make a name for himself as an actor for ten years, but the lack of work has forced him to accept odd jobs that aren't always related to cinema. At twenty-eight, this eternal optimist still hasn't made it big, and his two commercials and appearance in a TV show are his biggest sources of pride. The role of a lifetime so far: "Victim number three," a corpse in the crime series
Investigators
. He loves: his future Oscar,
Dr. House
, classical music, Rihanna, bearded guys, cocktails with umbrellas, the TV show Skins, his hairless cat which cost him most of his savings and Sothy, the little Cambodian boy he's been sponsoring for two years. He hates:
Grey's Anatomy
, guys who want to move in with him after two dates, intolerance, Miss France speeches, fast food, cruelty to animals and mustard yellow.

What have they got in common? They are the best friends a girl could ask for, and they are also the world's biggest chatterboxes. With them it's not a matter of who will have the last word, but rather who will say the most.

"I'm eating like a pig, and you guys just let me go ahead and do it!" Clémentine complains, once she's wolfed down her salmon pasta. "So, has he changed? Has he put on weight? Is he going bald? Bad dress sense?"

"If only... He's even more gorgeous than he used to be. You should see the effect he has on women. My colleagues were all in a tizzy."

"Hot AND a billionaire? Alma, you know what you've got to do!" Niels adds, pushing his plate away. "Eat my fries – you've got room for a bit more padding."

"And I don't?" Clémentine contests.

"Honey, you've already exceeded your carb limit for the day. Alma barely ate anything. A bit of saturated fat won't hurt you, baby. If you want to win back your Mr. King, you're going to have fill out that derrière a little..."

"My derrière is doing just fine, thank you very much. And who said anything about winning back anyone. Single life suits me perfectly," I say, lying through my teeth.

"Good answer, Alma! It`s not like Vadim Arcadi was Mr. Perfect, and now this Vadim King... I'm just not feeling it!" Clémentine concludes, clearly annoyed by Niels' comment.

"She's still in love with him, it's so obvious! Just give up your lame speeches, Clem. If Alma listened to you, she'd be in a convent! Or married to an accountant who's a genealogy fanatic... What a blast!" he fires back to provoke her.

"Oh shove it, Niels, you can mock me all you want, but in the meantime I'm the one with a man waiting for me at home!"

"Okay, cool it! You should go to couples therapy, you two... Anyway, back to the real issue: Vadim Arcadi, King or whoever he is!"

I examine my reflection in the tiny mirror in my bathroom. Note to self: get a real mirror sometime soon. And stop going to bed at two in the morning. All I see is my extremely pale complexion, a kind of flat mid-length bob, my mouth swollen from fatigue and dark circles that are getting worse under my green eyes. Contemplating my reflection in the mirror is not part of my morning routine. Far from it. I don't like scrutinizing myself like this, but the idea of seeing Vadim during the day makes me a bit nervous. Very nervous. Without having any particular intentions, I would still like to look my best when he sees me, if possible. He thought I was beautiful when we were together. He wasn't the type to spout off compliments all the time, and he didn't give them away lightly: every word out of his mouth was sincere. And It made each one all the more precious. I liked to see myself through his eyes; I cherished the image of myself that he reflected back to me. Others could tell me anything they wanted: how pretty, thin, bubbly, sexy I was; his opinion was the only one that mattered. Twelve years have gone by, but I want to feel that again. Vadim King has to think I'm beautiful, it's essential. Superficial, childish, arrogant, but essential.

Makeup is not part of my vocabulary. This morning, just this once, I'll have to make an exception. Once my face has been touched up, I choose an anthracite dress that is understated but quite tight-fitting, and highlights the few assets I do have. As I get ready, I can't help but think of Joseph Wilson; he is certainly going to enjoy the spectacle more than Vadim will, but oh well, he won't be the first creepy guy to try and get me into his bed for a night. What a waste of time. Not one of them has succeeded, and that's not likely to change any time soon. New resolution for today: stop smiling stupidly at inappropriate comments. React rather than let things get worse.

My schedule for the day is booked. After contacting a director, setting up a casting call and confirming dates for some premieres, I go to the meeting room to touch base with Sophie and Clarence. I'm a bit early and they are a bit late. As usual. This leaves me just enough time to daydream about the romance that only exists in my head: when will I see Vadim again? Will he speak to me? Will I melt like before?