Shadow Billionaire

Shadow
Billionaire

by

Lucee
Lovett

Copy right
Lucee Lovett 2014

Smashwords
Edition

WARNING: This
Book Contains some Sexual Language and Situations

This book is a
work of fiction, all the Names, characters, places and incidents
presented are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons
living or dead is purely coincidental

Copyright ©
2014 by Lucee Lovett

Cover Art by
Shuttlestock Photos

All Rights
Reserved: No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in
any format, modified, redistributed, or sold without prior consent
of the author

PUBLISHED
BY

Lucee
Lovett

Publishers
Note: The book is intended for an adult audience 18+ it contains
explicit sexual situations.

Thank you for
buying my book. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please tell your
friends. If you don’t please tell me. You can contact me at:

[email protected]

[email protected]

Here’s to your
reading pleasure.

Damn. It's that
look again.

She hated that
look.

Their eyes
rolled on contact with her body, she'd never get used to their
disapproving gaze. However, Sasha suffered in silence at Rita, the
head-house keeper's tsks and her mother’s accompanying sounds of
displeasure. Rita continued to coil the tape measure around Sasha's
ample curves. This final measuring to ensure Sasha still fitted
into the dress, she’d tried on a month ago. “Dear, dear, Sasha.”
The middle-aged housekeeper reprimanded. “You've gained an inch.” A
sigh escaped pursed lips as she shook her head in defeat.

“Have you been
into the pastries again, darling?” The stylish, thin Eleanor
Trenton, always bemoaning the state of her daughter's waistline.
Her mother disliked her weakness for pastries, and wished she'd
take a more health conscious approach to life.

To Sasha, the
way her mother constantly dieted, and exercised equated to nothing
less than self-torture. Sasha didn't know what she would do if
unable to enjoy food the way she wanted to. Which consisted of her
eating whatever she liked, when she liked, consequences be
damned.

“You know how
important tonight is.” Eleanor said, her head, echoing the movement
of the housekeeper’s.

Eleanor Trenton
had her own ideas of how the perfect débutante should appear, and
behave, Sasha came nowhere close to her expectations. Eleanor
exasperated by her efforts to make her daughter proud of her
heritage. The family came from old money of noble birth, an
ancestry traced back to royalty. They were of blue blood and she
would be damned if she’d let her daughter taint her lineage in
anyway.

Each eligible
bachelor invited tonight, handpicked based on his ancestry. Eleanor
had no doubt a suitable match would be found for her daughter.
Sasha would have her pick of the finest.

Sasha exhaled
and wriggled away from Rita and her other attendants, reaching over
to trail her fingertips over the exquisitely tailored French gown,
made to bring a period theme into a modern dress. A silk emerald
low cut bodice with intricate diamond beading, with a long full
material skirt attached, straight fitted housing a discreet riven
in the side. Only visible when walking, she would wear to the party
in a few hours.

“Honestly,
mother, I don't think an inch is going to make much of a
difference.”

“Well, there's
the problem, dear.” Eleanor Swept over to her daughter in a cloud
of perfume, and righteous indignation, she stroked Sasha's cheek.
“If a garment is tailored, every micrometre makes a difference.” A
pained expression flashed through Eleanor's gaze, which shifted
between her daughter, and the sweeping gown hung on the bureau.
“With a bit of luck we'll manage to squeeze you into the dress with
the minimum fuss. No more snacks tonight.” She inserted, a slight
edge in her tone before softening the warning with a smile. “You
want to look your best for all the lovely young men we've
invited.”

A cell phone
chirped, saved by the bell Sasha thought.

She recognized
where her mother's tone led another lecture about her weight, and
the health issue associated with not being the perfect weight for
her mother.

The sound
echoed through the room, frowning, Eleanor withdrew her phone from
her tailored designer slacks; a glance at the number. An
exasperated sigh left her lips before, she said.

“I have to take
this," She waved her hand for everyone to continue doing what they
were doing. To Sasha she sighed, "The florist. God only knows what
they want at this stage of the game.” She proceeded her verbal
ream, with the person on the other line.

Sasha glared at
her mother, her brow knitted, from the invitation list she had
seen, she wondered how “lovely” her mother expected any of the men
to be. To her recollection a fair few of them weren't as young as
her mother deemed to believe. Many reported as moneyed divorcees,
creeping towards their mid-thirties. Most of the other guests,
familiar acquaintance through school, and other social functions,
in fact, none of the invitees selected impressed her much.

Enfranchised
men seemed to think the answer to everything included golf, polo
and possibly a day at the races. Should she dare add shooting to
the mix, either way none of which she found particularly
stimulating. Men with money are perfumed with expensive cologne,
stinking of arrogance. Give her soccer, football or ice hockey,
real men sports. Where men smelt the way they're supposed to smell,
musky, dripping in virility

On cue, her
stomach gave a loud gurgle, which drew the glares of both her
mother and Rita. Sasha thought better of complaining about being
hungry, despite the fact she'd last eaten hours ago, her mother
would have a fit if anything past her lips before the ball,
considering she'd already ‘gained an inch’.

The large group
of convening attendants continued to fuss over her hair and makeup,
Sasha peeked into the mirror to try and understand exactly what
disappointed them so much. Nowhere near as model-thin like her
mother or the majority of her friends, neither did she consider
herself overweight. In fact, she'd overheard many of her peers at
Berkeley mentioning (albeit lewdly), her figure had been voted the
embodiment of the song “Brick House”.

Indeed, with a
small waist, curvaceous hips, and a more than ample bosom.

Sasha was quite
fond of her figure. What she most liked, however, were her deep
blue eyes she'd inherited from her long dead grandmother. Sasha
remembered with fondness how her grandmother had been one of the
only women she'd known who hadn’t had a word to say about her
weight. Sophie Trenton thought her granddaughter the most beautiful
girl alive, Sasha still found herself missing her at times like
this.

“Angel, don't
slouch. An awful habit, and terrible for your posture.” Sasha
straightened, winced as two young maids began to take combs and
brushes to her voluminous auburn locks. In an attempt to tame them
into submission, in anticipation of the evening to come. Christ,
her mother was like some sort of entitled ninja. You never knew if
she was paying attention or not.

Sasha repressed
a groan as the reality of the night's plans hit her for what must
have been the umpteenth time. At twenty-five, her mother decided
the time had come to start looking for a suitable husband.

All because she
feared Sasha may take after her when the time came for her to
procreate.

Eleanor had
said she wanted to be of an age where she'd be able to enjoy her
grandchildren when they arrived.

Her mother
didn't want history to repeat itself.

She had been
younger than Sasha when she married Malcolm at the age of
twenty-two. Still, she didn't get pregnant until her thirties.
Eleanor had lived with the fear, Malcolm would leave her for a
younger woman, someone more capable of giving him the children he
wanted. Sasha’s conception had been a welcome distraction to a
failing marriage. Her birth a reconciliation.

This fear of
her past experience resonated in her, Eleanor's answer; to plan the
elaborate masked ball, soon to take place.

Despite being
brought up in an indulgent atmosphere, Sasha hadn't even been aware
they still had masked balls. Such an old fashion concept didn't
bode well, she thought it an unnecessary medieval way to meet
people, but didn't dare mention her opinion on this to her mother.
Once she wanted something, Eleanor Trenton could not be dissuaded
until satisfied.

Nevertheless,
an unfortunate for Sasha, her current unshakable project involved
Sasha's happiness as well, somehow Sasha didn't think her mother
invested the same level of importance to her happiness as she
did.

If it were up
to Sasha, she'd go about her life content to be single until
meeting the right man. He'd be smart, charming, funny, articulate,
and most of all, he wouldn't be moneyed. Why the hell would she
need him to be rich? She was rich enough for five husbands.

Eleanor
believed the best way to find a cultured husband with breeding,
meant seeking them out among their social circle - old money, as
far as Eleanor pertained brought, a lineage of culture, class and
prestige, a privilege new money will never achieve. Conceived as an
innate birthright in their bloodline therefore, to be protected at
all cost.

Not tainted and
diluted by the up and coming entrepreneurs who didn't have a clue
about breeding, and the responsibilities that came with wealth.

Eleanor had
been adamant the party being in a style which would appeal more to
the real elite, not the new oil barons with their flashy shindigs
and blatant grinding on the dance floor. New money, lack discipline
and poise.

She'd invited
every suitor from across the globe who she deemed appropriate. The
prospects of having so many socialite men from worthwhile stock all
in one place had Eleanor tingling. All in the hope of marrying her
daughter. She’d been excited when telling Sasha all her potential
romantic interests would be wearing masks. The wearing of masks her
idea of amative touch, to what she foresaw as a romantic
evening.

Masks.

How in the
world would Sasha get to know someone if they're wearing a mask?
What's the point of spending time with someone trying to get
acquainted without being face to face?

These were
Sasha’s feelings and yet, here she was, far too timid to go against
her overbearing mother's ideas. Still had she'd even felt the
slightest bit braver, she would have fought to try to get her
father on her side. Even when the truth of such an attempt would
prove a futile mission, in and of itself. Everyone in the estate
including herself recognized her father, Malcolm Trenton's cop-out
position lies under the thumb of his wife.

Whenever Sasha
met him with the slightest request, he told her to ask her
mother.

Two maids
yanked Sasha's hair into an elaborate updo, she withheld a yawn. In
truth, she didn't feel like staying up late tonight. She'd been up
for most of the previous night engrossed in a book downloaded on
the echolocation habits of dolphins. Her own phone buzzed in the
pocket of her silk robe, she contorted her neck just enough to
bring into view the new article she'd been anticipating, on the
mating habits of blue whales. Which had been successfully
transferred from her computer.

What she
wouldn't give to have the time to read the article tonight.

Sasha’s desire
to embark on higher education had met with skepticism, by her
mother, who felt she was wasting her time. Regardless of how high
up the academic ladder Sasha climbed she was never going to do
anything with her degree. Trenton woman don’t work, their function
to keep house, attend charities, look pretty, and produce
heirs.

Eleanor's
reasons for allowing Sasha to continue in education were two folds.
To stop the young girl from whining, and the fact Eleanor had
decided indulging her daughter's whim couldn't hurt. Equally, by
letting her daughter pursue an interest in something; Eleanor
always forward thinking would one day find a way to use this as an
opportunity for hosting as a charity event. Therefore, Sasha had
been permitted to study whatever she wanted.

Rather than
choosing something she considered vapid like music or acting, the
young woman had delved into a science degree with marked
enthusiasm. She'd always loved going to the beach. Not like her
mother to tan herself golden, but to dig through tide pools, and
prod dead jellyfish. To marvel at the way the tides ebbed flowed,
and track the many footprints of creatures that dug through and
crawled over the sand. The sea fascinated her.