Ruthless Mogul (The Billionaire Moguls #3)

1. Michaela

Michaela

I ’m in blissful communion with my first steaming hot latte of the day when my friend breaks the silence with an ear-shattering screech.

“You’re getting married?”

I lower my cup. “What?”

Keira’s eyes lift up to mine. “You’re getting married.”

My gaze drops to her cup. “Did you spike your latte with a copious amount of cognac? And if so, how come I didn’t get any?”

“I can’t believe you’ve been in LA for two days and you haven’t even told me.

” She ignores my dig and keeps talking, still not making a shred of sense.

“Sheesh, I thought we were friends, Mikki.” She rolls her eyes.

“I was wrong. I guess I can kiss my dreams of being your maid of honor goodbye since I didn’t even get an invitation. ”

I’m hanging out with Keira Weatherly during the tail end of her convalescence. After a morning swim—I swam while she played referee on the side of the pool—we’re sitting in her boyfriend’s kitchen, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Well, it was leisurely until she started talking crazy.

I knit my eyebrows in confusion. “Is this a joke?”

“It says so right here.” She points a frantic finger at her iPad.

“Where?”

“On JustSpotted.com’s website,” she says. “According to them–– Wait a minute.” She grips the device with both hands, brings it close to her face, widens her eyes, and then pulls it away. She does that a few times. “Holy deliciousness, Mikki. You’re getting married to an Adonis god.”

I drop my cup on the saucer. “Keira, how can I be getting married when I’m not even dating?

” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Celebrity sightings in La La Land must be at an all-time low if a leading gossip site like JustSpotted.com is making up stories about me.” I shake my head at the absurdity of it all.

I’m no stranger to being featured on celebrity sites or magazines.

The press has dubbed me, the goody-two-shoes hotel heiress , because until recently, my life was devoid of drama.

In the past, when the spotlight was on me, it was because of my social outings in New York or to dissect my fashion selections.

I haven’t crossed over to the dark side or anything like that, but thanks to my emancipation trip to Nepal, I’ve kicked the goody-two-shoes and Pollyanna image to the curb.

These days, the press doesn’t know what to make of me. Good.

“I must have a celebrity-doppelganger running around LA, fooling everybody.” I run my hand over my super short hair. “That’s the only logical explanation.”

“Speaking of hair, JustSpotted.com posted old photos of you?—”

“See. They got it wrong. They have photos of my identical-twin-from-another-mother, her long, dark locks flowing in the wind, passing as me.”

Keira’s lips turn up in an unimpressed frown.

Okay, so I’m not a poet.

“Mikki, even if you had a celebrity-doppelganger, the chance of the two of you having the same name is practically impossible,” Keira says. “This article is about you and your husband-to-be––”

“For crying out loud, Keira, I’m not getting married.”

“Here.” She drops the iPad on the kitchen table. “You tell me you’re not getting married.”

I snatch it, ready to laugh my ass off, except I don’t.

My jaw drops.

My mouth is agape and I’m certain my eyes are bulging out of their sockets.

What in God’s name?

‘MICHAELA KNIGHT SOON TO BECOME MRS. K?NIG’

I read the headline in shock.

Because I’m certain this is a joke at my expense, I click open another tab and type my name in the search bar.

I’m unprepared for the deluge.

‘MICHAELA KNIGHT SPOTTED IN LA GETTING READY FOR UPCOMING WEDDING’

‘PHOENIX K?NIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT. LONG LIVE THE KING AND THE QUEEN’

‘WHO’S WHO FROM COAST-TO-COAST EXPECTED AT PHOENIX K?NIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT’S WEDDING’

‘PHOENIX K?NIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT TOPPING THE CHART OF THE MOST GORGEOUS COUPLE EVER’

‘PHOENIX AND MICHAELA. IS THIS FOREVER?’

‘KING K?NIG TO TAKE A QUEEN’

King Konig?

Phoenix Konig?

Who the hell is that?

I read page after page of results, utterly stunned.

As my eyes scan the headlines, my rage boils.

My stepmonster did it again. “What a manipulative bitch,” I say.

Keira tilts her head to the side. “So, you’re not getting married?”

My eyes shoot up to hers.

“No, I’m not. I don’t even know this Phoenix Konig guy.”

“Well, if you’re going to get hitched to a stranger, he’s a great one to pick. He’s totally fitness-model material. And did you see his eyes? Rhys has?—”

“Keira, I don’t care about his eyes. I’m not getting married to a person I’ve never met before.

” I’m too perturbed to pay attention to the hotness level of a stranger I’ll never meet.

I have bigger fish to fry. My life is front and center of the gossip rags and someone is responsible for this travesty.

“I bet my stepmother decided to use fake news to drum up business,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is a new low.”

“You think she’s behind this?”

“I’m sure of it.” I hand over the iPad. “Who else loves to meddle in my love life and can’t resist the urge of pawning me as bait? Remember how well things turned out with pervy Freddy III?”

Keira grimaces. “Gross.”

“Yup, the man is disgusting.”

Halfway into our first coffee date, Frederick William Pliskin III asked me if I was okay being blindfolded with my arms tied behind my back and gagged with his jizz-filled underwear while he fucked me from behind.

He also wanted to watch as his three cousins took turns fucking me—another of his kinks. Let me think… Hell no, fucking pervert.

My stepmother is incapable of picking a decent man.

Given her taste in the men she selects for me, I have no clue how she ended up with my father.

No matter how many times I ask her to mind her own business, telling her to back off is like waving a T-bone steak in front of a famished dog and expecting it to behave. Pointless.

“At least she’s stepping up her game.” Keira’s words drip with sarcasm. “Unlike her multiple previous laughable attempts, this time your stepmonster picked a winner. Maybe marrying Phoenix Konig isn’t a bad idea.” She keeps scrolling through the iPad. “He’s a local businessman— Scratch that.”

“What?”

“He’s a tycoon.” Her hazel-green eyes are huge when they meet mine. “According to this article, he owns a shit load of real estate and?—”

“Good for him.” I dismiss her commentary with a shrug.

“No, seriously, Mikki, think about it. You’d get to move to the west coast, and we’d hang out more often. Who knows? Your future husband lives in Manhattan Beach, and we’d end up being neighbors.”

I roll my eyes. “I love New York way too much to ever leave.”

I can’t see myself trading the fast pace of the concrete jungle for the mellow vibe of the City of Angels. I’m a New Yorker through and through.

“If we lived in the same city, it would be reminiscent of our time in Nepal—two badass rebels against the world,” she says.

“Nepal…” The memory washes over me like a caress and I offer my partner in crime a warm smile.

Keira and I met not long ago, but you’d never tell by how well we get along. Even if we live on opposite sides of the country, we’re constantly in touch. We’re the same age, and we both ran away from our lives when everything around us came crashing down.

That’s how we ended up on the other side of the planet at the same time.

For six months Nepal was her refuge. I was there for two.

We left the monastery we were staying at with a greater sense of self-awareness, self-actualization, and a lot less hair.

Leaving that safe cocoon was bitter sweet.

I returned to a city I love, a father I worship, and to a stepmother I loathe. Keira moved back to her hometown.

I pluck my phone from the table, my fingers already typing the gossip site’s URL.

“I need to put an end to this madness. The celebrity content creator needs to retract this ridiculous wedding announcement before people start believing the lies. Then, I have to deal with my stepmonster.”

“The shit’s about to hit the fan,” Keira says.

“Damn right. Someone needs to butt out and shut up.”

I reenter the kitchen to the main house an hour later.

Keira flinches. “Where are you going?”

Since she returned to LA, she’s been living with her older brother’s best friend who’s now her boyfriend. Rhys Hartford’s guesthouse is quite posh, but pales in comparison to his magnificent, modern mansion, aka the main house.

“You’re not dressed to hang out at the pool,” she says.

After breakfast, I swapped the jeans shorts and yellow tank top I was wearing for a more fashionable getup. “No pool time today, chica . I’m going to battle, so I had to dress the part.”

Her eyes travel the length of my body. “What does that mean?”

“There’s no phone number to reach the gossip site.

I sent numerous emails, but given their influence, I’m sure they’re bombarded with messages.

No doubt, mine is lost somewhere in their inbox.

I tried to call my stepmother, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Ditto for my father. Exasperated, I called my father’s executive assistant. At least I was able to reach her.”

“And?”

“Everyone is walking on eggshells on the executive floor.”

“What happened?”

“My father and stepmother are locked in his office and they’re engaged in a yelling match. From what I hear, it’s ugly.”

“Your stepmother is a piece of work,” Keira says.

“Daddy has to be fit to be tied to lose his composure in front of the staff. I can only hope he’s tired of getting stepped all over. I love him to pieces, but marrying that woman was his biggest mistake.”

Keira gives me another onceover. “Okay, there’s a war raging in New York, but that still doesn’t tell me where you’re going.”

“I’m not holding my breath when it comes to getting a response from the gossip site and since my dad is duking it out with his wife, I have to rely on Plan B.”

“Which is?”