The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,9

I didn’t know and, in those early months after the lotto win, I didn’t care. I was too busy focused on the future.

“So.” Vidal paused, a chunk of salmon speared on the end of his fork, and watched as a spindly blonde in a sports bra passed. “For you, we obviously can’t work the parent angle. Not unless your parents are serial killers or being investigated for any crimes?” He looked at me with hope.

“Nope. Sorry.” An interesting world, apologizing for the fact that my father hasn’t butchered a family to death.

“So next there’s achieved celebrity. Those with a talent. Daniel Day-Lewis. Roger Federer. Jeff Bezos. We’ve already determined that you’re not that.”

“Right.” I wrote down ‘not talented’ and underlined it three times.

“Then… and this is where we start to move into Emma Blanton territory—there are the attributed celebrities.” He put down his fork and gave me his full attention. “These people create their own fame.”

“And how do they do that?”

He gave me a slow and almost evil grin. “Be patient, little bird. We’ll get there.”

9

#bojanfrost

EMMA: 3,702 FOLLOWERS

I had to have a label. No tabloids would print a photo of me until I had a label. Something for them to put after my name. A justification to their bosses and readership of why they were mentioning me. The easiest route was a girlfriend label, and it needed to be tied to the most prominent name we could find.

Sadly, our best option was Bojan Frost.

Bojan was an ascribed celebrity—the only heir to the Frost Electronics fortune and the sort of guy I hated. He was Serbian, with a thick nape of hair and a dense and close-cropped beard that surrounded pouty pink lips that were constantly affixed in a scowl. He burned fossil fuels without regard, and seemed intent on passing Dan B as the Instagram douchebag of the year. His feed was filled with topless girls in thongs, champagne and cigars, and a propensity to lift his middle finger to the camera. Vidal had proclaimed him to be perfect. I went into the date with my walls and bristles fully in place.

“You’re number eighteen, you know.” Bojan grinned at me from the other side of a leather lounge in the upper deck of the Soho house.

I sipped a cranberry and vodka and wondered what he was talking about. “Am I?” Vidal had promised me that there would be photographers here, but I hadn’t seen any. The place was eerily dark and empty, and every instinct in my body was telling me to sprint out of there.

“Yep. Eighteen of these publicist-set dates and you girls are all the same. And hey, I get it. Everyone wants a ride on the Bojan express.” He grinned at me, then tilted back a clear martini, which was a direct clash to the leather slides he had kicked off under the table. I swallowed a grimace, staunch in my opinion that male toes shouldn’t be seen in public, and certainly not in any type of place that had a valet and membership dues.

“The Bojan express?” I set down my drink before I felt the urge to throw it in his face. “What is that?”

“You know.” He lifted his thick jawline at me. “The fast track to fame. You get a nice byline in some stupid paper, and I get laid. It’s a win-win.” His gaze dropped to my legs. “Looks like it’ll be worth it this time.”

My legs, which met with a personal trainer three times a week, and held definition for the first time in their life, pinned together at the knee. I stared at a small mole on the side of his nose and swallowed the urge to vomit. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He chuckled. “Come on, Emma. You want this more than you dislike me.”

It was really interesting, the way he said that. A bit softer. Kinder. And he said my name. Back then, that was a big thing, someone knowing and remembering my name. Using it.

Ugly girls, we don’t get remembered. It’s just a fact of life, one you get so accustomed to that you don’t even notice it because you have never had anything different.

I felt myself yield. Literally felt the muscles in my legs relax and part. Just a hands width, but it was enough of a move to catch my attention and underscore his point.

I wasn’t going to sleep with him. That wasn’t even a glimmer of a possibility. But his question did still spark an interesting conundrum.