The Billionaire's One

Ten Minutes Before Knowing

Glaring at my phone doesn't incinerate it, so, I reply. "The fact that you would even ask me that after having been brought up by Audric Lexington, who would put iron bars on the balcony doors of hotel rooms if he could, is absolutely disappointing."

My sister, who is rarely satisfied, grunts again.

"What's wrong?" she asks me, gently. "I know you're upset about something."

I exhale deeply.

She waits.

"The people here, at this conference – they're all so ... smart. They seem to know all the cutting-edge tech that's going on in the world and the answers to all the questions and I don't know – I just feel like such a faker." I sigh. "I feel like I'm always moments away from getting exposed as the dumbest person here."

There's a momentary silence, which I chalk up to the fact that my sister is listening to me from thousands of miles away in my home country.

"You know that you should read that Tech magazine you get every month, right? It might help."

My palms pressed flat against the table in my room, I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head. There's immeasurable truth to what she says.

It's probably not what I want to hear.

This is probably my fault for wanting someone to talk me up to my own self.

"Look," Aubrey continues, "You're good at what you do, which is probably why you are able to run a company at twenty-four. You will always have things to learn and you won't learn them if you don't even try. But that doesn't stop you from being capable of doing big things, exactly like you're doing now. Only one person from the whole of Andrusia was sent for this conference and that's you. It counts for a lot."

The lump in my throat tightens and I hold my breath to keep the tears from coming.

A silence passes between the two of us.

"Are the elevator users in the hotel polite?" she asks me, changing the subject, knowing my hatred towards people who don't showcase elevator etiquette.

"For now," I tell her, dismally.

On most days, I want to stab people who speak to me early in the morning with a blunt spork. Today, however, when Aubrey's name flashed across my screen, I just had to hear her voice.

The main reason I answered the call, however, is because, if I hadn't, the Eastport Marriott Hotel would have been paid an unwelcome visit by the local police department, summoned by one Aubrey Lexington of Andrusia, in search of her sister, who would have almost definitely died during the night due to an acute lack of a piece of furniture pushed against her door.

So, here, I stand, in silence, biting my tongue and suppressing the undying urge to cry, and because I don't want to talk, counting the seconds until I can return to my early morning vow of silence.

"Mmm," I hear.

It's a musical foretelling of the end of our sunrise conversation.

Aubrey tells me, "Show everyone at that conference what a real graphic designer can do," and I immediately feel like the scum of the earth for not wanting to talk to my sister, who is my biggest cheerleader.

I laugh. "I'll try."

"Aren't you going to be a little late?" she asks me.

I tap my phone and look at the time.

"Shit, yes. I'll call you later."

"Alright. Bye."

Picking my phone off the table, I shoulder my laptop bag and run to the door, only to be stopped by an obstacle of my own making.