Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 73(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 73(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
“Come with me, miss,” a deep voice says into my ear.
“H-hey—” I start to cry out, but I look back to see I’m being led away from the crowd by two enormous suited security men who look like they could probably snap me in half with one hand, and my breath completely escapes my lungs.
The second man slowly, but firmly, takes the bottle of ketchup from my hand and looks at it. “What were you going to do?” he asks. “Squirt Mr. Newhouse with this?”
I don’t even have the ability to answer as I’m walked away from the crowd. My minor trembling has turned into full shakes taking over my whole body. The first guard opens a door to a back room, and the other leads me through it.
Swallowing hard, I try desperately not to vomit up my panic as one man takes my purse and begins to rifle through it.
“Whitney Fisher,” he says. “Nineteen. What are you? Some kind of protestor?”
I just stare back at him, unsure if this is my last hour on Earth. From all the terrible things I’ve heard about Ethan Newhouse, I wouldn’t put it past him to just straight-up have me murdered for trying to disrupt his event.
They both just stare back at me for a few seconds. Each of them look like bad guys straight out of a Hollywood movie. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have both killed a few people.
Finally, the one who first grabbed me shrugs. “Okay. Be that way. You can wait here for Mr. Newhouse.”
They both head for the door, and I somehow finally find my voice again. “Wait? Wait here for Mr. Newhouse?”
But neither of them bothers to turn back or reply. The door closes behind them, leaving me standing alone in what’s basically an empty room with nothing in it but a plain black table and a single chair.
2
Whitney
I try to follow them out, but apparently, this door locks from the outside. I check my purse for my phone, but it’s gone—one of them must have taken it. I scream and pound on the door for what seems like a long time but is probably just a couple of minutes, but nobody comes. This is probably some creepy, Saw-like, kidnapping cell where “Mr. Newhouse” keeps the women he sends his bodyguards to round up for him so he can take them back to his murder-mansion to do whatever he wants with them before he has them disposed of.
God, what have I gotten myself into?
It’s either an hour later or fifteen minutes—I can’t tell—when the door opens, and Ethan Newhouse steps in with that annoyingly charming smile on his face. In his hand, he’s holding my bottle of ketchup.
“The boys tell me you were going to squirt me with this,” he chuckles. “Now why would you want to go and do that to a nice guy like me?”
If I could only put into words the insane amount of fiery rage that races through me, I would be a Pulitzer Prize winning author.
“Nice…guy?” I repeat. “You have got to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” he says.
“You billionaires,” I scoff. “You’re all the same.”
“Are we?” he asks, leaning casually against the wall. He’s no longer wearing his blazer or tie, which gives him a real business-casual kind of look that’s straight out of a men’s magazine.
“You exploit people, destroy lives, and go around acting like you’re the good guy—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he interrupts. “Who am I exploiting? Whose lives am I destroying?”
I scoff as the rage continues to build inside me. I can’t believe I’m trapped in a room with this son of a bitch with no way out, and he’s holding the only weapon I brought with me tonight.
“How about your workers in the Congo?” I ask. “Providing you with minerals generated by slave labor?”
For a moment, Ethan’s face freezes, and he simply nods. He licks the inside of his lips and crosses his arms like he’s thinking. Then his expression shifts to one of almost anger.
“They tell me your name is Whitney. Is that correct?” he asks. I simply nod. “Whitney, what if I were to tell you that what you just said is false?”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” I reply.
He nods slowly. “What if I were to tell you that those stories about slave labor in the Congo were false and were attacks on my public image by my number one competitor, Justin Hathaway? You do know who Justin Hathaway is, don’t you?”
“I do.” I nod. “He’s just as big of an asshole as you are.”
Ethan chuckles. “Bigger. And he can’t compete with me any longer, so that’s why he’s planting stories like this in the press.”
“So you’re saying it’s fake news?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Ethan says with a snap.
“And you thought you’d prove that to me by kidnapping me?” I respond, throwing my hand in the air and looking around the room.