Alpha Landon

“Here you are, Miss Lore,” the flight attendant said as she handed me my cup of green tea.

“Thank you, Cara,” I said with a smile. “Do you need anything else? We’ l be landing in about fifteen minutes.”

“No, thanks.” She walked away and took her seat at the front of my private jet.

I stared out the window as the jet glided across pi lowy clouds.

It was nice to be going home after a busy few months. I missed New York. I missed the sme l and the crowds.

I even missed the abrasiveness of my fe low New Yorkers. Penelope, my always nervous, very high-strung assistant, got up from her chair and moved to sit across from me.

“I’ve been working on your schedule,” she said. “It’s hectic, but I’ve made it work.” “I hope you’ve given me some downtime,” I told her.

“I’m fried. The last few weeks have left me exhausted.” “You’ve got a few more meetings,” she said without pausing.

“You’ve got the meeting with the board of the cosmetic company.

I spoke with Stephanie, and she’s sti l working on getting those end-of-year reports together. Apparently, there were some problems with accounting.

She promises she’s got it a l worked out.” I was barely listening. I was seriously hitting max overload.

I knew the phrase about money not being able to buy happiness. It bought me some happiness and a whole lot of stress.

I felt like I was on a hamster wheel and couldn’t get off. The more money I had, the more I needed to make.

“Needed” was the wrong word. I didn’t need the money, but it was like being on a conveyor belt, and I couldn’t get off.

It just kept going. “Fine,” I said without being entirely sure what she said. She’d te l me at least twenty more times.

I would listen then. “Um, there’s something else,” she said nervously, which was her default. “Don’t te l me—Brock’s fans have arranged a protest.” She worried her lower lip. “Um, we l, it’s a concern.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “They can be pissed. They didn’t have to date the asshole. Did PR put out that statement?”

“They did, but Brock isn’t exactly helping the situation,” she said. I ro led my eyes. “Do me a favor,” I said.

“Absolutely. Anything. What do you need?” “The next time you see me chasing after a man that is hot, wealthy, and famous, steer me in the opposite direction,” I told her.

“No more celebrity men. I refuse to have my name blended with another man. I refuse to be a photo op. I’m done with a l of that. Never wi l I a low myself to be in a high-profile relationship again.”

“Um, there’s more,” she murmured. I sighed and put my cup of tea down.

I knew it was going to be like this when I returned home.

Brock was from New York, a famous singer with an ego the size of Texas. I had been blinded by the lights at first.

He’d been a force. It was exciting to wait in the wings of his concerts and have him sing directly to me, and the fans ate it up.

I was too naïve to realize that was why he was singing to me. He wanted the boost to his celebrity. I was a prop.

“What else?” I asked. She looked down at her tablet. “Security has been filtering through the hundreds of death threats.” I winced.

“I can’t believe his fans want me dead. What the he l is that about? Aren’t people a lowed to break up?”

“Brock did an interview and actua ly cried,” she said dryly. “He’s using this breakup to boost his popularity.”

“My god,” I groaned and shook my head. “I should sue him. I should demand half of whatever he makes from the popularity boost he got from dating me.” “I agree.”

“What did security find?” I asked. “Are any of the threats credible?”

“No, but they are going to be meeting us at the airport,” she said.

“Only because they think between paparazzi and the haters, it can get chaotic.” “I’m used to chaos,” I said. “I can handle it.” “They think it would be better if you were safe, just in case,” she insisted.

“Am I sti l being canceled?” I asked with disgust.

“There are some so-ca led demands, but I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere,” she assured me.

“My financial advisors say I might take a hit first quarter, but it’ l be minimal,” I said with a disgusted sigh.

“I can’t believe people are actua ly boycotting my businesses because I broke up with a man that wasn’t even rea ly my boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t your boyfriend?” Penelope asked with confusion.

“You were together for six months.” “No, we were together for about a month before he went on tour and I had to go on my business tour,” I said.

“I don’t believe for a second he was faithful to me. We were only together because we didn’t have time to officia ly break up. I hate that everyone thinks they know who we are because they’ve seen our pictures on the news.”

“It’s part of being a celebrity,” she said while tapping out a text message on one of the three phones she carried. “I’m not a celebrity.”

“You are now,” she said and put the phone down.

“You’re rich, beautiful, and you were dating one of the hottest artists in the world right now. You are now a celebrity.”

“Wi l it be over soon?” I asked with a sigh. “I don’t want to be a celebrity. I just want to run my businesses, go into a bar and have a drink, and go shopping without everyone screaming at me.”

“Most people who have achieved celebrity status don’t want to lose it.” “I’m not most people,” I said.

“Definitely not,” she said with a laugh. “You win the lottery at twenty-one, which doesn’t happen.

Then instead of blowing through your money, you invest it and quadruple your net worth.” I smiled at the recap of my life. I was proud of myself.