Last Chance for Mr Billionaire

Doors swing open.

Cold air rips through her as she exits the police station.

The world erupts.

"MURDERER!" a sharp scream hits her like a slap.

The sky hung low, thick with the threat of rain.

She's free to go. Innocent. No case. But the public doesn't care.

Cameras flash, blinding her, and reporters shove microphones toward her. Her ears ring as the shouts increase.

"Desirée, any comment on the ruling?"

"Are you guilty?"

"You were the last person Mildred called-what did you do?"

"Did you kill them? Say something!"

Desirée halts. Blood in her mouth, not hers- a doll slams against her chest, falling face down at her feet, arms twisted, smeared with blood like a body. She steps backward.

Randall's firm hand touches the small of her back- a silent support. She stiffens. Swallows. Don't flinch, don't crack. It feels reassuring and warm amidst her surroundings.

"No comment." Her voice was steady. Randall nods his head in approval.

A cold gust bites at her burning skin. Thunder rumbles in unison with the crowd. Outrage, hate, and grief are palpable.

Multiple copies of her bestselling books along with other merch float through the air, ripping against the marble stairs.

She sights a book landing open, soon to be soaked by rain. Security struggles to block and hold off the crowd as they walk through.

A woman breaks past the barricades, eyes wild, face streaked with tears, body trembling.

Security barely caught her as she lunged, her nails dug into Desirée's wrist.

"Mildred was a mother! A daughter! Her child, an angel!" her voice cracked. "They are dead because of you!"

The accusations collide, drowning her.

"You killed them both!"

"Justice for Mildred and Cecelia!"

"What kind of monster are you?"

"A family is gone and you just get to walk!?"

"You're an evil bitch. You deserve to die!"

Her legs falter. The words latch onto her bones, digging like roots.

"Mummy, did she kill them?" a small voice asks

Something sharp rips through her chest, slowing her steps.

Randall tightens his grip, his touch grounding her and wiping over the bleeding, "Keep moving"

Desirée gulps, reviving her failing lungs. She grips her blazer with trembling fingers and bites her tongue. She raises her chin, steadies her gaze, and squares her shoulders.

"Left foot, right foot, one, two.." The SUV looms ahead. Almost there.

Then, a man lunges. His odor hits her before he nearly tropled her to the ground. Three of the security tackle him.

More screams.

Randall breaks her fall and moves to her front as they walk hurriedly.

"Get in" Patra's voice rang out as the SUV door yanked open.

She climbed in. Randall followed. The door slammed shut.

Desirée let out a slow, shaky breath wiping herself with the disinfected wipes Patra handed to her. The words echoed in her head as she replayed everything.

A scream clawed up her throat, desperate, wild. But who would listen? Who would care?

How could she kill anyone, let alone her ex-client and a child. Why would they think such of her?

Loud voices drowned Desirée's thoughts, as they ripped people apart on the phone.

"No Leonard, you do not get an exclusive interview! You're full of shit, you already ran three segments today dragging her through the mud - Do I look as stupid as you?"

Patra's voice was lethal. She hung up with a curse.

"I wouldn't make that move if I were you. We've had a blissful partnership. You've surpassed your expected growth and returns, how can we be bad for business? Accusations are just that, it is under control, they'll die down and it'll be business as usual."

Jackson was going head to head with a client.

"They aren't going to break you girl," Patra assured Desirée, gripping her hands.

Desirée managed a nod.

The car accelerated, tires rolling over wet pavement as heavy downpour bid them. Just then, an unbothered voice crackles smoothly from the radio. "Breaking News."

Desirée inhales, gripping the door as her stomach knots. Everything was happening too fast.

Randall reached out, patting Desirée's shoulders "You held your ground."

"Not like it mattered." Desirée murmured.

"It always matters," he insisted.

"There you have it, Desirée Ocampo, once a beacon of ambition and empowerment, a darling of the public has found herself in the middle of a scandal that refuses to die down."

"Despite hours of questioning, Ms. Ocampo has been cleared of all criminal charges related to the tragic demise of Mildred Hart and her Daughter Cecelia Hart.

"Her innocence?" The reporter states, "Is up for debate."

"New footage of her last interactions with Mildred has surfaced, reigniting the call for justice. Critics claim her tough love strategy of coaching is deadly but the legal experts say there is no evidence linking her to the crime. Hence she is innocent."

Patra mumbles something about public view, tapping on her phone.

"Innocence holds no power in the court of public opinion as critics and protesters keep fighting to have her face the full wrath of their justice."

Desirée rests her head on her palms, grumbling.

"Protests continue at her place of work and residence, sources say sponsors have been withdrawing and clients backing out of coaching sessions."

"Will this be the end of Ocampo's career, will she be able to come out of this storm? At this point, it will take a miracle to revive her brand and reputation"

She did fantastic work with Mildred who got her life on track. Her hostile behavior and tantrums before she died were surprising.

Witnessing a client lose her light and not being able to save her was hell. Then to be blamed for her death? Too much.

"It matters" Jackson emphasizes with a fierce voice, finally done with his call.

"Fuck them. No one gets to bury you," he says, turning off the radio.

"We're gonna find that miracle" He nods at Desirée. "To hell with them."

"But we need to be realistic" He exhales, palms up in caution.

"They are relentless, charging up not down. It's not looking good, sponsorships are plummeting." Jackson says, his face pinched.

He runs his hand over his face, examining his phone while shaking his head, "...We are hitting... rock bottom."

"And we land, then climb back up" Patra shot in. "Why would you say that now?"

"Definitely," he retorts, turning to Patra,

"Why not? There's no point sugarcoating. We list our problems to find solutions."

Silence filled the SUV wrapping around Desirée like a second skin. She rolled down her window seeking relief, as cold insistent drops of rain fell on her, mirroring her unease.

The best thing to do will be to stay put and strategize. Anything can, will and has been used against her.

Randall pulls his phone out, frowning in thought.

"We have that." He speaks calmly.

"What?" Desirée's eyes flicker to him as Patra stares with a knowing look.

Randall slowly lifts his gaze from his phone to Desirée.

"An offer ...but you won't like it"

"He needs to leave, he shouldn't be here."

I exclaim at the sight of a man waltzing in my living room, rearranging my ornaments like he owns the place.

His eyes roam with intensity. Why would they bring him to my new place?

To corner me I reckon.

He lowers himself ceremoniously into my couch, golden hair and skin a contrast to the couch's deep green fabric.

His smooth appearance and unreadable eyes are a charm for dominance and power. Old money meets modernity- he was hard to miss.

Quintin Deveraux.

"No Desirée, you need to snap into reality, this is for your benefit" Patra fake whispers.

I look at Randall in protest but he signals for me to be calm.

No no no, this isn't happening.

Lazy eyes met mine, "Take it... or not." he shrugs

You've got no options. I know, the room knows...

A persistent, spoiled nepo-baby and the very person I don't want around. His infatuation with me was like an obsession, always around, offering, insisting, wanting to be involved in my life. It was a full time job shunning him.

Now he had an offer to save me. My eyes close involuntarily. Insomnia has been my night companion.

Randall sets the documents on the table, showing us the places to sign. Right to the point.

I stare at the papers, grinding my teeth. This isn't just a contract, it's a collar with Quintin's name on it.

The public has made their choice, I have to make mine.

I was a powerhouse-coaching moguls, shaping brands. Now, I'm a murderer. My name and brand dragged in every show and gossip media.

Investors, clients, endorsements? All gone.

Everything I've built now dust.

Quintin brings out his pen, smirks and signs immediately.

"Your turn, Desirée," he rolls my name on his tongue.

I make my way to the table with my heart in my mouth.

He stands, towering over me and wrapping my palm with his as he hands me the pen.

I yank my palm free from his warmth and descend into my couch.

Patra and Randall give me a wistful smile. My fingers twitch, itching for my phone.

Jackson hasn't reached out, not even his signature passive-aggressive or blunt voice notes.

I unlock my phone and read his last message.

Jackson: Don't sign anything. Call me first.

Twelve hours ago. Ten missed calls, no call backs.

What could be more important than being here when I need him. I sigh, slamming my phone on the couch.

I had been stalling doing this, I knew they were bent on this offer.

"Jackson?" I ask

"Nothing from him," Randall says flatly.

So helpful. A burning sensation fills my throat as I blink back fury.

At our last discussion on taking Quintin Deveraux's offer, Jackson was on my side rejecting the offer.

"You will be getting into more shit. Handing over your brand and control." He paced.

"At his mercy Desi. He's a Hollywood prince," Jackson protested.

"Not while I'm here" Randall had countered.

"Jeez, one would think we were fools offering Desi as a sacrifice," Patra had rolled her eyes.

"It seems like it" Jackson bit back.

"You said it. Hollywood Prince."

"This could turn out well," Patra mused.

"We're going to control the agreement from our end," Randall tells Jackson.

"Who cares?"

"If he decides to go crazy, who is stopping him?" Jackson inquired.

"Hmm? The public damn right won't save Desi"

"Pessimism changes nothing Jackson," Randall warned. "We sink or take his offer"

"Leave my job to me" Jackson's spoke in a raised voice.

"We've left it for too long, now we're down to a last resort," Patra retorted.

"This isn't helping" I had screamed at them, tired of the back and forth.

Jackson was right. Quintin's persistence with me and his dominating reputation was alarming.

"I receive death threats every minute," I lamented in a raspy voice.

"Every breath I take outside is an act of defiance. We have to come up with a better plan" I stressed.

"Girl, this is the better plan" Patra chimed.

"I'm not standing for this," Jackson announced.

"Then you stand for Desirée, both brand and person being crushed," Randall responds.

"Desi" Patra whispers, nudging me to the present.

I suck in my breath, struggling to even my heartbeat. I can't believe it has come to this. I'm not a murderer.

The irony? Quintin Deveraux being my last resort.

He's always sent me advances and grand gestures for years. It was cute and teasing, but when I expressed my disinterest, he only turned it up.

Very nepo-baby. Easy life. Golden boy. Never been told no.

Now I need the relentless man who has everything handed to him.

I should be in control, like I've always been- running my business on my terms. But now I have nothing.

I'm lost and conflicted. My ego? Shattered.

I blink back the tears that have been threatening to spill.

"I need us to go over the contract again," I demand. My hands a fist on my lap.

He watched me without a word. He knew I had no way out.

"Anything for you," He says smoothly.

Randall set his phone to record.

"Ms. Desirée Ocampo, the agreement states that you and Mr. Quint..." his lawyer starts but he stops him.

"I'm a nepo-baby, as you've always pointed out. I have power, privilege, and goodwill." he said, spreading his arms, "All that you need."

"I am here to give them to you." his voice is calm but strong.

"The public has left nothing out in canceling you. I can turn that around."

He leans in, moving his index finger between us.

"You and I, together, a couple. That's the way out"

"Give them something to latch on." He flares his hands dismissively.

"By association with me and our teams, we will dissolve this scandal," he states.

"You get the perks of being the Nepo baby's baby." He smirks, slowly leaning back.

"No one will dare harm you when you're mine." he declares in a serious tone.

"What's in it for you," I ask, "You're so focused on what I get, but what do you get?"

"I get you, Desi."

He uses my nickname. The way he says it bothers me. His green eyes darken, ocean-deep, assessing my face - slow and deliberately.

I hold his gaze. This was the problem.

The lavish gifts, sending sponsors, buying out my courses, event centers and what not. Then his catch was me, me!?

I'm not a property to be bought by his grand gestures.

Randall had assured me I was at an advantage and I trusted him.

He and Quintin's lawyer had come up with the contract. There weren't any loopholes.

But even he didn't know what the catch was besides me.

The same reason Jackson is skeptical.

"Mr. charming and ruthless..., Patra clears her throat, addressing Quintin by his public-given title.

"...we appreciate your assistance at this trying time."

She continues, slow and steady.

"But I swear to God if you play any games, I will show you ruthless."

She hisses.

"What it means to be canceled by your precious fans"

"I'm not a publicist to be tried," she says menacingly.

"You can try, but it won't be necessary," Quintin responds coolly.

"You make my job easier. I'm glad Desirée has a passionate team."

I grip the pen as memories of my glory days fleet through my mind. What next?

It slips through my numb fingers. Quintin catches it with a smirk and hands it to me.

This can either make or break me. I recall all I know about Quintin and our past interactions. This time, he's having his way and I'm on the short end.

No turning back now. I inhale, sharp and uneven. Swallowing the last of my pride.

The pen is cool, smooth and deceptive against my fingers. One stroke. One signature. And my life is no longer mine.

Oh, Goddess.

"How does it feel to be mine? Quintin asks, flashing his white teeth.

I stare at the signatures- bold and binding. Frowning at that ever present maddening confidence of Quintin.

"It's time to put you back on top," he cheers.

"Oscar, over to you," Quintin tells his lawyer, holding me with his deep eyes. I look away, listening to Oscar.

"According to the contract, Ms. Desirée and Mr. Quintin both have to meet at least twice a week,"

He looks at me.

"Spend time getting familiar. It determines public perception."

He meets Patra's gaze.

"They have to be in the public eye, at events, on dates and in time, interviews. We have designated photographers to capture these outings."

Patra nods, squinting, already plotting.

Attached to a spoiled man, that's my solution. My God.

"The photos and information will be sold to media outlets for circulation," Oscar informs us.

"Thankfully the publication team and Mr. Quintin have been feeding the media's curiosity of him having a secret partner."

I glance at Quintin. Arms crossed. Attentive.

"This strengthens the plausibility of a relationship," Oscar explains.

"We build beneficial narratives with the photographs and our stories" Patra chips in.

Oscar nods. Randall adjusts his phone.

"It is important to stick to these terms in light of ending the scandal."

Oscar concludes just as the air thickens. The pen slips from my fingers again, this time rolling off the table.

I don't hear footsteps, but I feel him. A voice, cold as steel, cuts through the room.

"And it is important you halt this facade before it gets worse. "

"And it is important you halt this facade before it gets worse"

Jackson, Desirée's manager proclaims with a self-righteous look.

"So the Damsel in Distress trope was the choice," he adds with an air of superiority.

With jaws locked and a rigid stance, he looks at her. There's a weight in his eyes.

Frustration, protectiveness, care. A bit too much care.

"Don't" Patra says dryly, not looking up at him.

"Desi?" he calls

She ignores him.

Instead, she stares ahead with a blank expression.

"You shouldn't have agreed to this Desirée," his voice is low and fierce.

I study her.

Pursed lips, piercing eyes. Palms squeezing the couch beneath her. Of course, she's uneasy coming to terms with the deal she just signed. She must feel like she's lost control.

"It's good you are here," Randall tells him, obviously trying to lighten the room.

"Both parties have just signed and gone through the contract. You can get acquainted with Mr. Deveraux and our responsi.."

"Cut me the bullshit." He hisses.

He clenches his teeth. "I am working on this."

Randall doesn't shake, his expression is sedate.

I almost laughed.

"I imagine this isn't the expected remedy nor am I your dream, Prince Charming" I cut in, observing Desirée.

"But I assure you there's nothing to worry about," my voice is deliberately smooth.

Desirée looks my way, giving me a death glare. I can't help but smile.

Feisty, I love that.

"Desirée," Jackson's voice is tight. "You've made a huge mistake."

Way to show support to your client Jackson.

She exhales, turning wearily, "Jackson," she says curtly.

"I didn't have a choice, you think I wanted to? My career is gone."

"You always have a choice. You've made it. You are gone." he says emphatically.

"I have plans. I'm working on them. This is my job" he grunts, running his hand through his cropped hair.

"This is neither the time nor the place. You were absent" she whispers.

"If you can't fix this or stand by me, then leave."

His face squeezes, turning pink like it's difficult to breathe.

"You don't trust me," he mutters.

Something flickers in his eyes. His body language is filled with shame and...jealousy.

She stays silent.

"Tsk tsk tsk." I shake my head, meeting his glare squarely. Too late.

One would think he was given a death sentence. This hit his ego I'm certain.

As Desirée's Manager, this storm is out of his control. It's not about him though. She's the one in the middle of the scandal- her name, face, reputation. All her.

She's trying to survive.

"Do as you please" he says in a low tone storming off.

The tension in the room is palpable. Desirée's shoulders tense and her expression is torn.

A victim of the public. Disagreement with your manager. What a bad mix.

"Well, that was... great?" Patra comments, brows furrowed and lips tucked in.

She rubs Desirée's hand.

Randall who's been the calmest of the group lets out a breath rubbing his temple.

He has tirelessly managed this agreement, making it advantageous for Desirée.

She has a good team, I admit. Even the pious Jackson. Unfortunately, the public thrives off cancel culture. I've seen the headlines. The vultures, circling, pouncing, till she breaks. They never think public figures are humans with feelings.

#Desiréethemurderer

#Desiréethedeathstrategist

Trending vile hashtags. Accusing her of murder.

The urge to fix this and save her runs deep. It's about power. About control. If I can rebuild her, I can reshape public perception. And then perception of me.

This is a perfect chance. Turn things around. Get her attention. Her respect. I won't let her carefully crafted brand crumble.

"That's it then," Desirée says calmly, with a hint of relief.

"Thank you, Mr. Deveraux, Oscar," she says softly, getting on her feet.

She calls Patra and Randall respectively. Nodding at them.

Our cue to leave.

Her eyes follow me as I stand and extend my palm to her.

She holds my gaze for some moments, like a silent warning, before gripping my palm.

**************************

Desirée walks into the silent luxury of the restaurant at East Atlanta Village.

The waiter shows her to the private table where I'm seated.

I get up and pull out her chair.

I get a whiff of her scent as she sits.

Vanilla and peaches.

I take my seat, smiling as she takes off her scarf and shades.

She grabs my attention. Her hair, the soft waves falling full around her. Long and dark.

Her red lips were beautiful on her brown olive skin. Long lashes frame her eyes.

Her eyes meet mine - dark slits.

"A lovely disguise you have going on."

She gives me a sly look. "You booked the entire place?" She asks, subtly taking in the restaurant.

"I want us to have privacy, Desi. No interruptions this time."

She smiles distastefully. "You're unbelievable."

She shakes her head, still taking in the place with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I've been told" I smirk.

"Why this place?" she queries coolly, betrayed by the flicker in her eyes.

"Because you've been wanting to try it since the opening"

"You enjoy it, we don't get disturbed. You're happy, we're productive. A win-win if you ask me" I explain.

She rolls her eyes snarling.

I did my homework.

She knows how to look good. She's more refreshed today.

She fits right into the Victorian decor, glowing lights, and calm Lofi music.

The floral thin-strap dress with a blend of leaf green, yellow, and pink hues she has on accentuates her shade and figure. She doesn't look like her problems. At all.

She gives me a sour look as she catches my wandering eyes, "Get a grip perv," her expression reads.

I stifle a laugh.

"Okay," I exclaimed, stretching.

I signal the waiter to take our orders.

She clears her throat, "Mr. Deveraux, what do you want?"

I lean forward, watching the staunch expression on her face. She thinks I'm playing a game.

"Control," I state upfront, letting the words settle.

"Of what?" she bites.

"My reputation." I drawl. "Yours too."

"I've enjoyed watching you bloom. I want to build you back up" I tell her sincerely.

The more she falls the more I understand the balance between power and perception.

It's one thing to have power, another thing how you're perceived. I want to control perception.

"I'm not your proj..." Before she could continue, my phone starts vibrating, then hers.

Shit. We've been sighted.

A sudden crash. Shards of glass spray across the floor.

Voices rise from afar in a deafening chant- Liar! Murderer!

A mob.

Desirée's eyes widen and she crouches instinctively. She puts on her scarf and shades.

I get up and grab her hand before she can search for her phone, my eyes narrowing at the scene.

"Get behind me," I bark. "It's a mob, some people saw you come in earlier."

Guards are outside warding them off. It won't take time before they get in.

I led us to the exit, holding Desirée behind me, her body vibrating in fear.

There are already a few mobsters out back. I place Desirée at my front as my security comes to guide our way.

A sea of hands lurch forward, chanting slurs and accusations. Cameras everywhere.

Desirée shrinks in front of me, her breath coming in panic.

"Touch her and lose your arm," I warned as I grabbed someone who tried to hit her.

I hit off as many hands as I can as we escape.

Not on my watch.