Service Was Mediocre: Reviewing My Billionaire Lover

The Motel 6 was a sad, beige building with peeling paint that curled like dead skin. The Uber driver didn't even pull into the lot; he dropped Avery on the street corner and sped away.

Zoe Xander was waiting by the vending machine. She was smoking a cigarette, her movements jerky and nervous. She looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, but when she saw Avery, her face softened.

"You look like hell, princess," Zoe said, tossing the cigarette onto the asphalt and crushing it with her boot.

"Nice to see you too, Zoe," Avery said. She felt a lump form in her throat. In the original story, Zoe was the only one who visited Avery's grave.

They went into the room. It smelled of stale smoke and lemon cleaner. It was cramped, with two double beds that sagged in the middle.

"I used my savings to scrub some of the blogs," Zoe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But the big sites... I can't touch them."

"Thank you," Avery said. She meant it. "But we have work to do. I need to go to the studio lot. I left my portfolio in the agency locker."

Zoe's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? It's suicide. Everyone there hates you right now. Ernest probably has a sniper on the roof."

"I need it for the plan," Avery said. She started unpacking her suitcase. "And I don't care who hates me."

Thirty minutes later, they were walking fast across the Paramount Studio lot. Avery had changed into black jeans and a black t-shirt. She looked less like a socialite and more like a stagehand.

They tried to stick to the shadows of the soundstages, but luck wasn't on their side.

"Well, well. Look who it is."

The voice was nasally and arrogant. Hamlin Ward. The son of a major producer. A man who had peaked in high school and was trying to ride that wave into his thirties.

He stepped out from behind a trailer, flanked by two guys in expensive suits who laughed at everything he said.

"The trash took itself out, but it came back," Hamlin sneered. He blocked their path.

Zoe stepped forward. "Leave us alone, Hamlin. We're just getting her stuff."

Hamlin laughed. He reached out and shoved Zoe. It wasn't a hard shove, but it was dismissive. Zoe stumbled back, hitting the wall of the trailer.

Something snapped in Avery's head. Her vision went red at the edges.

"Don't," Avery said. Her voice was low.

Hamlin turned his attention to her. He stepped into her personal space. He smelled of breath mints and entitlement.

"Or what?" Hamlin smirked. He reached out to grab a lock of her hair, a move he used to do to intimidate girls in prep school. "You going to cry to your daddy? Oh wait, he's dead."

Avery didn't flinch. She watched his hand move in slow motion. A memory, not her own but sharper than any of them, flashed behind her eyes: a humid training hall, the sting of sweat, and an instructor's voice yelling about vulnerable points. It was for a role in her past life, a method actress who had spent six months learning Krav Maga. The muscle memory was still there, dormant and waiting.

She caught his wrist mid-air.

Hamlin tried to pull back, but her grip was iron. She stepped in, pivoting her hips. She drove her elbow into his solar plexus. It wasn't a flailing strike. It was precise. Controlled.

Oof.

The sound of the air leaving his lungs was audible.

Hamlin's eyes bugged out. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping like a fish on dry land, curled into a fetal position.

The two sycophants froze. They looked from Hamlin to Avery, terrified.

Avery leaned down. She brought her face close to Hamlin's ear.

"Touch her again," she whispered, "and I break the wrist next time."

She straightened up. She adjusted her jacket.

"Let's go, Zoe."

Zoe was staring at her with her mouth open. She looked like she had seen a ghost. Or a superhero.

"Since when do you know how to do that?" Zoe hissed as they power-walked toward the lockers.

"I've been taking classes," Avery lied. "Kickboxing. For cardio."

They grabbed the portfolio and exited through the side gate before security could arrive.

High up on the corner of Soundstage 4, a security camera blinked red. It had captured the entire sequence. The grab. The strike. The collapse.

Hamlin Ward lay on the ground, clutching his stomach, tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. He wheezed, vowing revenge.