The Billionaire Game by Lila Monroe Page B

of
success you care about is the money, but I actually want to make
people’s lives better.”
    Asher flapped his hands dismissively.
“And you will, by making them feel they’re buying a
high-end product—”
    “No, I won’t!” He
still wasn’t listening to me, so through the burning red haze
of anger I decided that I would get his attention by speaking in a
language I knew he understood.
    I ripped off my blouse, buttons
bouncing to the corners of the cabin. My skirt followed, landing on a
lamp.
    Asher’s eyes grew wide, and then
a grin started to work its way onto his face. “Not the turn I
was expecting this conversation to take, but who am I to—”
    “Shut the hell up.”
    I shoved him backwards towards the
wall—his annoying grin still pasted on his face like it had
been attached with superglue—and planted my hands on my hips.
Thank God it was laundry day, or I’d have been wearing my own
designs and this little lesson wouldn’t have been nearly as
instructive.
    “Do you see this bullshit?”
I snapped, spinning to present my back. “I got these on sale at
a department store, and they’re supposed to be high quality.
But they use a low thread count fabric that scratches like a hobo
with bedbugs, and their cheap-ass clasps dig into your skin like a
scalpel if you do anything more physically active than breathing.”
    I ran my finger underneath the fabric
and lifted the band a little to show him the hook and eye marks that
I knew would be imprinted in my back.
    Asher let out a sympathetic breath.
“Damn, that looks like it hurts.”
    “Of course it fucking hurts,”
I snapped. “But that’s what you have to deal with when
you get something mass-produced, when no one takes the time to
understand your unique wants and needs.” I cupped my breasts.
“Look at this sorry ass one-size-fits-all foam cup! It’s
going to tear the second I put it through the washer. Thanks to that
eh-good-enough mentality, I have to use an extender to even get this
lingerie on in the first place! And what about these cheap straps
that are already fraying?” I snapped the bra straps angrily,
and he actually flinched. “And don’t get me started on
this sorry excuse for panties, and the shoddy stitching on this
elastic.”
    As I caught my breath and took in the
perplexed expression on Asher’s face, hope rose in my chest: he
was finally listening. Maybe I should have been ashamed that I was
standing there in my underwear, but instead all I felt was triumph.
It seemed like I was actually getting through to him.
    “And yours aren’t like
this,” he said slowly, nodding as he looked over the samples I
had spread on the bed. He ran his fingers down a triangle of
embroidered silk, his brows knitting together thoughtfully.
    “Hell no,” I shot back. “I
take my time. I get accurate measurements, and I use materials that
feel good against your skin. So my stuff costs more? Well, it damn
well should, because it’s special. It’s not some trick I
play on women—it’s a real luxury, that makes a real
impact, and the price reflects that.” I grabbed at a metaphor.
“A minivan would be more practical than that spaceship you’ve
grafted onto a Porsche. So why you do drive it?”
    “Because it’s better,”
he said, understanding dawning in his eyes as slowly and beautifully
as the rising sun. “It handles better, it’s faster, it’s
more beautiful. It makes me feel better to have it. It costs more…but
it feels worth it.”
    “Exactly!” I said.
    “Your product is high-end,
designer,” Asher went on, the words coming more rapidly now,
his eyes lighting up as the ideas began to pour in. He leapt up and
grabbed for my hands, a grin splitting his face: “You want a
smaller market, a higher price, to be exclusive!”
    Ding ding ding we have a winner,
give the boy a medal and a microwave oven and an all-expenses paid
trip to Hawaii, were the words that I had been planning to have
come out of my mouth.
    But then I