because I was there and they felt protected by their anonymity.
These comments were from my fans.
“What did we say about looking at your phone?”
I turned around—Emily Stanton, Cameron Whitbury and Daisy Carter-Kincaid stood together like the Charlie’s Angels of Friendship, holding vodka and wine.
“I know what you said. But it’s just that I’m the actual worst,” I said. Then I was actually crying, tears clawing their way up from a deep well of emotion I didn’t want to tap into. But these women could accept me for who I was, and in the blink of an eye, I was being wrapped in a tight hug.
Emily, Cameron, Daisy and I were best friends, billionaires and lived in an exclusive community we’d built six years ago called Bluewater. What had started as a way for four best friends to build houses next to each other had become a lush, tropical paradise for the wealthy and the eccentric. The enclave was filled with waterfront mansions, luxury condos, a marina, a private airfield and a tiny village of shops. Bike paths and walking trails wound through the palm trees and along the water. I could most often be found forcing Daisy to practice yoga with me in our state-of-the-art gym. She’d do it—reluctantly—but only while wearing her unicorn romper. And only with her water bottle half-filled with vodka.
From tech executives to funky artists, Bluewater had become its own neighborhood of wacky rich people. I had never lived anyplace so bizarre and beautiful, all at once.
We’d built our four houses on the same street, so it was easier to make time for each other in our jam-packed schedules. The four of us had connected easily over being young, wealthy and constantly in the public eye. Navigating a literal boys club where we’d been frequently dismissed, harassed, discriminated against; lauded constantly for our new hairstyles and never for our business acumen. Without these women, my life would have been painfully lonely.
And they understood intimately the situation I found myself in.
There was no way you could do what we did every single day and not make mistakes.
“What’s that digging into my side?” I whispered, sniffling through tears.
“Vodka,” Cameron said. “Shhh. It’s organic.”
“This might be an awkward time to introduce my idea for how you’re going to redeem yourself,” Daisy said.
“What is it?” I asked, sniffling.
“A sex tape.”
I laughed for real.
“Consider this,” she continued, tossing her long silver hair. “You accidentally release it. Bam. Your adoring public loves you again.”
“Or we take you to Bali,” Cameron said, hands on my shoulders.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this: I think your sex tape would be perfectly authentic and delightfully trendy, all at the same time,” Emily added.
“I’m not making a sex tape,” I said, popping open the bottle of wine and sinking back down by the pool. “I am going to eat every last one of these corn chips though.”
“How many bags have you had already?” Emily asked, with narrowed eyes.
“I don’t know… like thirteen?”
Daisy patted my head and sat next to me. “Good girl.”
Daisy was as wildly uninhibited as they came, dragging workaholic Emily, serious Cameron and me to dance headlong into every opportunity for fun that came our way. She was the kind of friend that called you at four in the morning, tossed a beach towel at your face and informed you that she needed a road trip buddy on her way to Tijuana. She was our resident It Girl and her family owned half of Miami, Manhattan and Atlanta. Her massive experience running the Carter-Kincaid real estate holdings was the reason why we were able to transform these 2,500 acres of swampland into Bluewater.
Emily Stanton was our cool, level-headed genius with a brain that had created a revolutionary scar treatment that was going to change lives. Although the past few months, she had been mired in scandal and corporate espionage that required the help of an extremely charming reputation-fixer named Derek—who was now her swoon-worthy boyfriend.
Cameron Whitbury ran a Fortune 500 company that literally built rockets. Her recent need for tighter personal security had brought Jude into her life: her giant—and very handsome—bodyguard. Jude was also now her giant—and very handsome—fiancé.
“How are Derek and Jude?” I asked, giving a pointed look to Emily and Cameron. The two shared a secret smile I interpreted to mean: we’re so lucky we’re having bonkers-hot sex every day.
“Yeah, give your two single besties the gory details,” Daisy chimed in, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “And when I say gory,