I'm A Walking PR Disaster

Her phone buzzed again. Another notification.

"Is Eva Winslow Into Men Again?"

"Spotlight on Eva: Comeback or Catastrophe?"

She didn't need to click them. The headlines alone were enough to split her open.

She poured herself a cup of coffee from the machine. The smell brought her no comfort today.

He must've seen them.

The photos. The headlines.

And he must be livid.

Eva knew men like Alex. Controlled. Powerful. Meticulous. The type who built walls of steel around their lives and didn't let anything poke a hole in it.

He would disappear now.

He would shut her out.

And really, could she blame him?

"I'm a walking PR disaster," she muttered under her breath, clutching the coffee mug. "If I were him, I'd run too. My own husband did run."

She turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down at SoHo's cobbled streets. The world moved on, unbothered by her inner chaos.

She wanted to call him. God, she really wanted to.

The phone sat on the marble countertop like a dare, its screen black, blank, silent—just like him. Eva stared at it for what felt like an hour, chewing on the inside of her cheek, pacing the floor barefoot. The memory of their night still clung to her skin, the unfinished business, the torture he had left her with.

But no matter how tempted she was to dial him, to say anything—Are you okay? Did you see the blogs? Am I poison now?—she figured it would be better when he came to her. She didn't want to apologise over the phone. She wanted to see him. To read his face. To hear the verdict from his own lips when he inevitably kicked her out of his life.

Still, she thought with a crooked grin, I'll be keeping the designer clothes.

Eva smiled.

It was sometime in the late afternoon when she heard the mechanical ding of the private elevator. Her pulse kicked up immediately. She sat up so fast the throw pillow she'd been clutching tumbled to the floor. Her heart danced. She'd spent all day alone, jumping at every sound, reading every blog headline like a war memo. But now he was finally here.

She pushed to her feet, preparing for whatever version of him would walk through that door.

Instead, the door slid open and a man in a tailored black suit walked in, flanked by two tall women in matching all-black outfits. Behind them, a trolley rolled in—stacked with makeup cases, hair dryers, hot tools, curling wands, a ring light.

"Miss Eva Winslow?" the man asked crisply.

"Yes?" she said, brows furrowing.

"I'm Curtis. Mr. Baldwin contracted me to make you look fabulous for your dinner date tonight."

"Oh Lord," she muttered. So this is what it's like to be a billionaire's mistress. Unending pampering.

One of the women started unloading blush palettes and brushes. Before she could form a proper protest, Curtis clapped his hands.

"No time to dilly-dally, love. Go take a bath. We're on a clock."

"I already had one," Eva tried to argue, lifting a hand as if that fact might buy her some breathing room.

"Sure, and I already did my taxes," Curtis said without missing a beat, already unzipping a garment bag. "You're bathing. Non-negotiable. We need a blank canvas."

Before she could reply, one of the assistants had whisked her toward the bathroom in her bedroom while the other pulled out bath salts and oils. The tub was already filling up with steaming water, and something sparkling was fizzing in the water like champagne.

Curtis looked around the room, scanning for the pieces that would complete the transformation. His eyes landed on the only item out of place in the otherwise pristine suite: a pair of nude stilettos—the same ones she had worn to the disastrous party the other night. The way his lip curled at the sight of them was nothing short of theatrical.

He tsked sharply, as if the shoes had personally offended him. "Unacceptable," he muttered, already pulling out his phone.

Eva watched him quietly.

He turned away and barked something into the phone too quickly for her to catch.

She picked up her phone with a sigh and typed out a message to Alex.

"Really? All these for a date?"

There was no response. Of course not.

The reply never came.

Curtis hung up his call and turned back to her with a brisk nod. "Shoes are on their way. Now go. In." He pointed to the bathroom.

She opened her mouth to object—about what, she wasn't sure anymore—but he was already nudging her toward the door with both hands like she was luggage.

Eva allowed herself to be ushered in again. The steam from the bath still lingered in the air like a warm sigh.

By the time she stepped out, the suite had transformed again.

The bed now held a new treasure: a mini dress in the richest shade of purple she had ever seen. It shimmered faintly in the light like dew on grass, the fabric obviously expensive, the cut designed to make someone gasp when she walked in.

Beside the bed, a meticulous line-up of designer shoes had appeared. Louboutins, Valentinos, Manolo Blahniks.

On the vanity, a jewelry set sparkled.

"Okay, now it's getting absurd."

"Absurd?" Curtis echoed, stepping behind her as his team converged. "Darling, this is the bare minimum."

Before she could argue, one woman was applying lotion to her arms, another yanked her towel away, misting a fragrance into the air. Curtis himself was dabbing oils and blending in shimmer down her collarbone.

Eva stood there like a fashion mannequin. A very confused, moisturized mannequin.

But damn—whatever they were using on her skin smelled divine. Sweet, musky, clean.

When Curtis finally finished with her make up, he stepped back, satisfied, she looked at her reflection and nearly gasped. She looked… expensive.

Curtis handed her the dress, careful not to smudge anything. "Okay. Now put this on."

Eva stared down at the dress, then raised her eyes toward the drawer beside the bed. "I think there are some new underwear in the drawer."