So I Married A Rockstar - Season 3

Ch. 6: An Image To Maintain

Nola

I made it to Bond Street in a little over twenty minutes, and was heading towards the nearest car-park when I spotted Bianca Caparelli standing on the street corner, impatiently tapping her left foot. I pulled up beside her. She might only have been Darius's half-sister, but they shared the same olive skin, wavy dark hair and intense, long-lashed eyes. Clearly Darius had inherited more from his Italian mum than his English dad.

Bianca scowled when she saw me. Unfortunately that didn't make her any less gorgeous.

"Hi," I said, lowering the window. "I'm here to pick you up?" Damn it, even that came out as a question.

Bianca's scowl deepened. "Who the hell are you?"

She and Darius might share their looks, but Bianca had a lilting Italian accent, unlike Darius, who'd been born and raised in England.

"I'm Darius's new PA, Nola," I said as brightly as I could.

Bianca cast a disgusted look at my car. "You're driving this?"

I wilted. "What's wrong with my car?"

"Darius couldn't have provided something flashier?" Bianca rolled her eyes.

I decided to ignore that. "Do you need help with your bags?"

Bianca lifted a perfectly plucked eyebrow, looking at me like I was an idiot. I took that as a yes.

Scrambling out of the car, I hurried to gather up the armfuls of bags from her shopping trip, trying not to react at the sight of so many designer labels. How the hell much money had Bianca spent this morning?

Bianca climbed into the passenger seat while I loaded her bags into the car, catching glimpses of clothes and shoes and velvet jewellery boxes. If she had this kind of money, why couldn't she get a taxi?

Why did she expect Darius to drop everything for her?

"Where am I taking you?" I asked.

Bianca rattled off an address in Bethnal Green, her fingers tapping away at her phone. It looked like she'd had her nails done recently.

I pulled away from the kerb and racked my brains for what to say to this woman. What did I know about her? She was a couple of years younger than me – only recently turned nineteen – and had been born to Darius's mum – whose name I couldn't remember – when she moved back to Italy and remarried. I wasn't sure how long she'd been living in England, or how close she was with Darius, or anything that might help me spark up a conversation.

Bianca glanced sideways at me. "Where did you get that dress?"

"Oh." I looked down, pleased that she'd noticed it. "I think it was Topshop?" I didn't want to admit that I'd cut the itchy label out years ago, and I'd had it so long I could no longer be sure where I'd got it.

Bianca curled her lip. "Darius lets you walk around wearing high street clothes?"

I swallowed. The restrictions Mike had put on what I wore, and the battering he'd given my self-esteem had led me to view clothes as things to hide inside, rather than an expression of my character. Darius hadn't mentioned a dress code, but I'd still wanted to make a good impression by ditching the shapeless jeans and tees in favour of a navy-blue dress that, miraculously, Mike had never criticised.

It had never occurred to me that anyone would care where I got my clothes, but apparently Bianca Caparelli did.

"You need to invest in some decent labels. Darius has an image to maintain," Bianca informed me.