The Rich Life

9

The days were melting away from clamminess and more towards crisp, biting cold. I didn't have a car. I could get one, but I just simply can't be asked. I pulled my fur coat tighter around me. The tip of my nose was going to be rosy red by the time I get inside.

"What the hell are you doing out here? Get in the car," A familiar voice ordered. I whipped around, eyes blazing. It was just Adam.

"I'd rather die before I get in that car with you,"

I carried on walking furiously, noticing that the black sports car was slowing down to match my pace, "I don't care about your opinion sweetheart. Get in the damn car,"

I paused, turning back to Adam, "You can't make me. Do me a favour and fuck off,"

Uh oh. Okay, I majorly screwed up with that. Adam parked his car and got out. I stood frozen to my spot, highly afraid about what was going to happen. He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight that I cried out in shock of the pain.

"Last chance sweetheart. Get in the car or I'll make you," He snarled.

I hated the patronising way he called me darling and sweetheart. It just felt more demeaning. I'm not his "sweetheart", I'm his goddamn lawyer. And I'll be damned in hell before I step into a car with that prick.

"Do your best honey," I matched his equally vicious tone.

He swept me up into his arms, princess-style, whilst I kicked and yelled to be let go. I tried not to think about how hot my skin was getting, and not in a good way. I tried not to think about how the scent of his deep perfume-

He leaned down and kissed my lips softly to shut up my screaming. I felt my body stiffen, confused at what was going on. He placed me gently down on the front seat, putting the seatbelt on me.

"I'm not a baby," I snapped, "I can do it myself,"

I fumbled with the seatbelt, clicking it into place whilst Adam got back into the driver's seat, "I'm not having you walk an hour every day in this weather. It's unsafe, what if you get attacked?"

"A brisk walk is good for me, your royal highness," I replied back sarcastically.

"Does it physically hurt to talk like that?"

"Talk like what,"

"I'm Amara Mughal, a pain in the ass lawyer who gives a hell of a mouthful," He imitated my British accent.

"What are you on about? It's my voice, how on earth could it possibly hurt?" I answered back, huffing, "Why did I have to be dragged into your stupid car. God knows what you have done in here,"

"You're right. I've had supermodels give me head from where you are sitting. And don't you dare call my car stupid" He warned, "It's worth more than your savings-"

"So you are saying your car is worth 50 million pounds?" I said crisply. "What an awful investment,"

"We use dollars in America, sweetheart" He replied back dryly. But he couldn't hide his impressed look, "And it's rude to-"

"I'll tell you when I care for inferior American etiquette, honey. Which will most likely be never," I interrupted brightly.

"You never let anyone say anything. You're my lawyer. Can we at least be nice to each other. You're not worth a headache this early,"

"Fine,"

I muttered something darkly under my breath in Urdu.

"50 million?"

"Something around that. But money is probably worthless for you. You're a billionaire," I pointed out.

"Why do you work then? You never have to work a day in your life? I do it because I have companies and corporations to run globally,"