Beckett hen we boarded, Arianne was chatting up a storm while leafing through a few travel magazines. Soon after taking off, she crashed. I didn’t expect to get a lot done during the flight, but since she was out, I put my time to good use. I unfolded the seat tray from the armrest, pulled out my laptop and went to work. I was in the zone when a heavy weight landed on my arm. Arianne seems to prefer my shoulder to the pillow the flight attendant brought her. I tucked the pillow under her head, three times, but she’s now curled on her side, hugging my bic ep like a koala bear. This is the closest I’ve ever been to sle eping next to a woman. Because of her closeness and the lovely floral scent of her perfume, I’ve been sporting a raging hard-on I can’t do anything about other than curse under my breath. Now, I need to use the bathroom. Badly. I brush her hair from her cheek. She untied it earlier, letting it cascade around her beautiful face. I kiss the top of her head. She moans and clings a little harder to my arm. My eyes move to her phone still charging in the power outlet. I pull up the article that caught my attention on the flight back from Nashville last night on my laptop and re-read the over-the-top headline. I doubt this is a coincidence. Arianne startles awake. “Oh, God, my bladder is screaming at me.” I laugh. “You go first.” She frowns. “What do you mean?” “I’ve been dying to go for a while, but sle epyhead needed her sle ep.” I tap the tip of her nose. “Sorry.” “Don’t be. Go, so I can go.” She rushes to the rear of the jet. She’s back in a flash. I close my laptop, get up and run to the bathroom. I take care of business and return by her side. I slide into my seat. “Are you hungry?” “Starving,” she says. “Me too.” I call the flight attendant. In no time, she delivers our food and drinks. Arianne and I dig in. It doesn’t take long for us to polish off our delicious meal. “My phone must be charged by now,” Arianne says, grabbing it. “God, we’ve only been in the air for three hours?” “Nine more to go.” “Maybe I should follow your example and get some work done instead of being lazy.” “You needed it.” “Henceforth, I’ll avoid expensive champagne that goes down way too smoothly on a work night. Goodbye, Dom Perignon,” she says, resting the back of her hand against her forehead. It’s a little dramatic. “You were drinking Dom?” He nods. “You have great taste.” “Phoebe insisted we had a lot to celebrate. Since Oscar buys the stuff at cost, she splurged. I drank.” “Don’t sweat it.” “It feels wrong, though,” she says. “Well, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.” She furrows her eyebrows. “What do you mean? You weren’t even there.” “Thanks to Dom Perignon, I was able to see a different side of you this morning.”
“I’ll never be able to live that one down, will I?” “It’s unlikely. You looked so vulnerable. So unhinged. The only other time I’ve seen you let go of control is right before you scream out my name.” She clears her throat, her eyes shifting from left to right to see if the flight attendant is in earshot. “Okay,” she says, fanning herself. “Well...” she clears her throat again. “I’m going to pretend you never said that by losing myself in work.” “It’s our little secret.” I wink. Her cheeks redden. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Flora lately,” I say, changing the subject. “We’ve had three meetings so far and I’ve been brainstorming. I want to go over the proposal I’m putting together for an idea that’s been bouncing around in my head.” “I can’t wait to see what you come up with,” I say. “The trip to Germany will only solidify the idea or kill it altogether.” “I have no doubt we’re going to get a lot out of this business trip.” “Leave it to Easton for scoring something this monumental.” I nod. “I agree.” “Before I jump into the proposal, I want to check my messages. I’m sure Phoebe must be worried sick,” she says, connecting to Wi Fi. “Sounds good.” I open my laptop and close the article I was reading before Arianne sees it. “What’s going on?” My head whips in her direction. “What is it?” “My mom sent me like ten text messages.” Her eyes are glued to her screen. “So did Phoebe. What’s going on?” Her jaw drops. I guess she just found out. “What a publicity whore.” Arianne mutters that under her breath. “Chance and Mariah?” Her head jerks back. “What?” “I read about it last night.” I reopen the tab I just closed and angle my laptop so she can see my screen. She closes her eyes, shakes her head, and lets out a heavy sigh. “‘FAIRYTALE CASTLE WEDDING FOR CHANCE TABORAS AND MARIAH GOLIGHTLY’” She reads the headline out loud before letting out a sarcastic laugh. She doesn’t read the rest of the article that goes into details on how Chance Taboras’ fiancée, Mariah Mandoline Golightly, hints at an extravagant royal-like wedding at the Biltmore House—a French Renaissance-inspired castle in Asheville, North Carolina. They’re expecting a whopping five hundred guests. Arianne’s shoulders slump. “How did you know?” “I remembered your reaction on your second day when I asked you out for dinner. You said something along the lines of, office romances turn into disasters. Since Easton had mentioned you were instrumental in shaping Glach Tech into the industry giant it is today, and you made it clear your cousin was a backstabber, I put two and two together. I confirmed by Googling your name and Chance’s. I saw a lot of photos of you together, but none hinted at a relationship. Still, I felt strongly about my hunch.” “Chance frowns upon PDA. No public display of affection for the CEO.” “I see.” “I should say that was his motto before Mariah came along. His views on the matter changed the moment she came crashing into our lives.” The sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed. “Earlier, you mentioned you drank too much last night. At first, I thought it might’ve been because you were upset—”
“I’m glad I didn’t find out last night. It would’ve ruined my night with my best friend.” She lets out a frustrated grunt. “No matter how far I run, it seems I can’t get those two idiots out of my life.” “You didn’t want to have dinner with me because of your past relationship with Chance?” “Yes,” she says. “I’m not him.” “I know. I’m sorry if I put you in the same category.” “Was it serious between you two?” “We were dating and living together. Everyone in the company knew it, but we were discreet.” I nod my understanding. “Chance and I were good together, especially when it came to business,” she says. “What we shared was nothing like a Fourth of July firework show, but at the time, I thought those types of relationship were like a match—they ignite fast and die as fast. I always thought passion was overrated—” “You still feel that way?” She shakes her head. “My parents love each other, but it’s because they stuck it out. I wouldn’t call what they have, passion. It’s more like de ep loyalty. From what I witnessed last night, Phoebe, on the other hand, has passion. My relationship with Chance was comfortable. Steady. Predictable. Reliable—” “That sounds like the top-rated SUV of the year.” She attempts a small smile. “Maybe that’s why he chose Mariah.” Sadness pulls down the sides of her mouth. “This isn’t the first time she stole one of my boyfriends. She made it her mission. I was the brunt of the Golightly witches’ jokes—I was just a nerd. What could I offer a guy? Mariah was a stunning head-turner. Men would choose her over me, and that made me the laughing stock of the Golightly sisters. That snarky attitude changed real quick when Mariah sank her claws into her oldest sister’s husband.” “What a cunt.” “Yeah. Mariah seduced her older sister’s husband as she was struggling to get pregnant. Mirai was frustrated and d epressed she couldn’t have a baby. Her husband was getting irritated and annoyed with the regimented sex and lack of spontaneity. Mariah offered an outlet.” “Mariah has no shame.” “None whatsoever,” Arianne says. “Mirai promptly divorced Steve and ostracized her baby sister.” “What happened to her is horrible.” “Yes and no,” Arianne says. “Mirai hooked up with a high school crush not long after her divorce was final. He was also divorced. Fast forward a year and they’re expecting twins any day now. They’re planning on getting married next year when the twins turn one.” “Great news, but that doesn’t justify Mariah’s callous actions or her selfishness.” “Absolutely not,” Arianne says. “Mind you, all three Golightly sisters have always used their generous assets to get what they want, but Mariah takes it to another level. When she turned sixteen, it’s like her breast size quintupled—no joke—and the size of her tops shrunk proportionately. A lot of guys only cared about getting their hands on her breasts. She was happy to oblige. She even dated a wealthy guy in his late sixties—she was twentyone at the time—and he was too eager to pay for a long list of cosmetic enhancements, including her ass.” “Butt implants?” “Yup. She went for the reality TV star size—this monstrous bubble butt. Between her enormous breasts and giant ass, you can’t miss her when she walks into a room... especially because she wears skin-tight clothing.”
“How did Chance and Mariah meet? I thought you left Philly for New York and then Silicon Valley to es cape the Golightly sisters?” “After a few acting lessons and small parts in local productions in Philly, Mariah moved to New York. I was in California by then. Thank God. She got a few parts, but nothing noteworthy or capable of sustaining her. Discouraged, she set her sights on Hollywood. While she was working on the set as an extra on an episode of a popular TV series, another wannabe actress told her porn paid her bills and afforded her the luxuries she couldn’t get with her lackluster acting parts. Mariah jumped on the bandwagon.” “How did that work out for her?” “She never made a movie.” “That’s a shame.” My words drip with sarcasm. Arianne snickers. “What happened?” “She chickened out because her first casting was a girl-on-girl scene, followed by one with four guys.” “That’s hardcore.” “It sent her running,” Arianne says. “At the time, Mom was proud of my accomplishments, and she might’ve rubbed Aunt Moira’s face in it. My aunt must’ve been the one who tipped off her daughter that Chance and I were dating and living together. That’s how she knew where I worked. Imagine my surprise when I returned from a business trip to Japan to find Mariah in Chance’s house, lounging in a skimpy negligee on the couch, channel surfing, while eating popcorn at five in the afternoon.” “Didn’t he know how you felt about your cousin?” “He did.” “In that case, why didn’t he discuss things with you before inviting her to stay with you guys?” “Mariah is manipulative. She came knocking at his door with a sob story and crocodile tears. She had no money and nowhere else to go. Chance caved in—” “Whose side was he on?” “Mine until he met Mariah,” she says. “I get the part about Chance feeling sorry for her, but why didn’t you kick her out on her surgically enhanced ass soon after she arrived?” “I tried, but Chance fell for her act,” she says. “I didn’t want to come across like a heartless bitch, so I gave Mariah three months. That decision started the demise of my relationship. After a month of Mariah living with us, I lost it. I got into a fight with her because she would constantly walk around the house in skimpy form-fitted dresses, without any underwear on. Her protruding nipples were impossible to miss. Same for her butt crack. She was quick to tell me my insecurities clouded my judgment.” “Did you bring it up with Chance?” “Phoebe suggested a different approach. She pushed me to ask Mariah to go away for a weekend so I could spend a few romantic days rekindling things with Chance to solidify our relationship. To my surprise, my cousin agreed.” “She gave you space?” “She did... because she was planning to drop a bomb on me.” “What kind of bomb?” “A nuclear one.” She hitches a breath. “The romantic evening was perfect. Chance and I were reconnecting. I was filled with hope. So much so, I planned on telling Mariah she had to move out by the end of the upcoming week. Her presence was undesired from day one and I was unwilling to acc ept any of her lame excuses. As Chance and I were finishing dessert, she waltzed in—my boyfriend gave her an extra key—”
“Your ex is an absolute moron.” “He was under her spell.” “He was an absolute moron.” She nods, but I wonder if she’s convinced. “Mariah came strutting to the table where we were sitting, plopped her ass on a chair and a plastic bag on the table. She then waited, her eyes bouncing from mine to Chance’s. He turned as white as a ghost. All the blood drained from his face. She grinned like a hyena before an attack. When I mustered the courage to ask what was in the bag, Mariah suggested I see for myself. Chance reached for the bag first, but I also grabbed it. The bag ripped and boxes of pregnancy tests came flying out.” “Shit.” She sneers. “Mariah looked at my boyfriend and asked him if he wanted to tell me or if she should. I told them to spare me the bullshit explanation. Chance had the gall to suggest a Sister Wives living arrangement—we’d each get him for one week and we’d all be living under the same roof. It was with herculean effort I didn’t spit in his face or pour scalding boiling water over his cock.” I shake my head. “Mariah was open to the idea.” Her words are dripping with disgust. “Un-fucking-believable.” “I almost slapped her.” “I don’t know how you held back.” “I decided to walk away before things turned ugly,” she says. “As Chance and Mariah were arguing in the dining room over her little ruse, I packed as much as I could in suitcases and called a cab. Since I had shattered his Sister Wives dreams, Chance told me not to let the door hit my ass on the way out.” “He’s as disturbed as she is,” I say. “How long ago did that happen?” “Two years ago.” There’s fire in her eyes. “Going to Europe was a way of distancing myself from their venom.” “Is that why they’re getting married? Because of the baby?” Her features go from dark to thunderous. “Mariah was never pregnant. It was part of her master plan to break up our relationship. She made sure to text me to let me know.” “And Chance is still with her?” “She has a way of weaving herself into your life.” “Chance didn’t deserve you, Arianne.” “Thanks for saying that, Beckett. The betrayal stung like vinegar on an open wound, but it was nothing compared to what I was about to find out.” “There’s more?” She nods. “Chance cheated on me and then he fucked me over.” “How?” “I worked tirelessly to put his company on the map. Those crowdfunding campaigns were my doing. He couldn’t even spell the word until I put together a proposal. I came up with the ideas. I managed the campaigns. I rallied the troops within his organization. I trained them. I amassed the money. On top of that, I took care of all his marketing and oversaw the product development team. He had someone in place, but the guy was useless. Like the Apollo Project, I had my eye on the prize—make his company attractive to a potential buyer. He was generating six million dollars in sales when I started. By the time Mariah fucked everything up, his company was churning out eighty million dollars a year in sales.” I whistle, nodding my head. “That’s impressive.” “I thought so,” she says. “So did he for a long time. But then, he did a turnabout just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Chance always promised he’d take care of me once he went public or when he got bought out—” “Please don’t tell me he didn’t ke ep his word.” “I believed him.” His betrayal still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Phoebe wasn’t as trustworthy. She demanded I get his promises on paper. I
asked him numerous times, but I was afraid to push too hard.” “Why?” “If you don’t have faith in the person you’re with, you have nothing,” she says. “I see your point, but when it comes to dollars and cents, sometimes, loyalty goes out the door when there are multiple zeros behind numbers.” “Are you speaking from experience?” She arches her eyebrows. “I am. It’s a lesson my father instilled in my brother and me, but that still didn’t prevent us from getting blindsided by an unscrupulous manager. He stole millions from our band. My cousin Jagger had to st ep in after we fired his ass. Jagger also hired a team of ruthless lawyers who went after the asshole.” “Did they recoup the money?” “He’d burned through a lot of it, but lucky for us he had assets— expensive cars, houses, boats, and collectors items. We didn’t get back all the money he stole, but we got a lot back and, more importantly, his ass is rotting in jail.” “At least you got vindicated.” “I couldn’t believe someone we trusted would pull the wool over our eyes,” I say. “After that incident, I was a lot more careful of the fine print on a contract. When Rhys and I decided to go into business together and created SCORE, I made sure we had a solid contract. Even though he was walking into the partnership with little financial backing, his father created our golden ticket. A contract ensured our partnership would always be on equal footing.” “Rhys is lucky you’re so upstanding,” she says. “I wasn’t as lucky. I learned the hard way.” “You got nothing?” “Not a cent.” “Chance is a lowlife.” “I’ll never be able to know for sure, but I’m certain Mariah influenced him—” “I disagree, Arianne.” She frowns. “The guy never had the balls to put your agreement in writing. Someone pulling those annual sales has an army of lawyers working for him. How complicated can it be to draft a contract since he knew full well without you, he would never have half the success he had?” Sadness morphs her beautiful features. “How long were you together?” “I was working at Glach Tech for five years and we were together for four of those years.” “You have your answer,” I say. “He was stringing you along. Maybe Mariah was the catalyst, but he had devious intentions well before your cousin showed up at his door. He planned on screwing you over from the get-go.” “I should’ve listened to my parents and Phoebe. He made millions because of me and I have nothing to show for it. I didn’t expect he’d give me half of his profits, but you don’t go from six million to eighty million by chance. Phoebe suggested I contact a lawyer. I did. And I told Chance I would come after him. He promised he’d bury me in legal papers and it would cost me far more than I had. I backed off.” “Don’t let these photos upset you.” I point to my screen. “Those two are a match made in hell. No matter how lavish the wedding, it will never make up for their downright appalling personalities.” She looks at me funny. “What?” She tells me about Mariah’s recent trip to Philadelphia, about her new publicist and how her cousin freaked the hell out over the selfies we took with Cesar and Diana. The photos of us dancing salsa didn’t go down well either.
“Mom is certain the royal wedding news is to trump the fact I was trending so much on social media, it drowned the news of her engagement,” Arianne says. “You and I both know we were having fun that night, but to the outside world, those photos ignited a lot of interest and rumors—” “‘MISS HOLY CHIC AND THE BAD BOY CEO’ is trending.” She shakes her head. “You’re more than that, Beckett, and you know it. Mariah is marrying a multimillionaire. Whoopty ding-dong.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m hanging out with a badass rock star and the CEO of a company pulling several billion dollars in sales and poised to double, if not triple that. Furthermore, said CEO is pretty easy on the eye. Chance isn’t ugly, but it’s unlikely women will ever drop their panties when he walks into a room. And he’ll never grace multiple covers of men’s fashion, business, or music magazines. And let’s talk about those smoking hot calendars the Dennison brothers produce you’ve been featured in several times. Oof!” She fans herself. “Pigs will fly before that ever happens to my ex.” I almost blush. Almost. “Chance lacks your swagger, charisma, cocksureness and perfect white teeth.” I can’t help my smile. “Chance is a joker...” Her eyes bore into mine. “While you, Beckett, you’re a king.” Your king.