Mile High with My Fiance's Brother

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Vivienne

"I'm going to kill him. I mean it. I'm going to cut off his balls and wear them as a necklace!"

Mia's shriek burst from the speaker, grinding against my nerves like a rusty chainsaw.

I groaned and pulled the scalding phone a half-inch away from my ear. The hangover had left my mouth feeling like it was stuffed with a wad of dust-covered cotton, and my stomach was staging a full-scale revolt.

I forced one eye open, struggling to focus. What greeted me was the cold, hard, disinfectant-scented synthetic leather seat of McCarran International Airport's departure lounge, surrounded by scattered fast-food wrappers littering the floor.

"Mia, keep it down." My voice came out hoarse, like sandpaper scraping glass. "Unless you want me to have a brain aneurysm right here in this departure hall that reeks of year-old french fries."

"And you still have the nerve to talk about dying, Vivienne Cole?

" Mia's voice didn't soften in the slightest—in fact, it cut through even sharper.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? I called your apartment twenty times!

Your flight was supposed to land in Washington five hours ago!

And now you're telling me you're still sprawled out in the Las Vegas airport like a homeless drifter? "

I fumbled for my purse on the floor, knocked over a half-empty water bottle, and finally fished out a pair of oversized sunglasses with some unidentifiable smudge on the lenses. I shoved them onto my nose, trying to block out the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.

"I missed my flight, Mia." I rubbed my splitting temples, my silk slip dress wrinkled like a dried-up pickle, the oversized denim jacket half-sliding off my elbows. "Who cares? Even if I'd made it back to Washington on time, there's no wedding waiting for me anyway."

Dead silence on the other end, followed by Mia's heavy breathing.

"Don't use that tone, V." Mia's voice came through clenched teeth. "That son of a bitch, Derek—how dare he?"

"How dare he?" I let out a bitter laugh, a wave of sourness rising in my throat.

The rage and humiliation I'd temporarily drowned in alcohol last night surged back up like lava.

"Oh, he dared just fine. He didn't even have the decency to call me.

One text, Mia. Three years of my life, and all I got was one goddamn text! "

"I swear I'm going to hire someone to break his legs—no, and his pathetic little dick too!"

Mia was still cursing on the other end, but her voice sounded muffled, like it was coming through thick water.

"The bride's been replaced, V. Don't blame me, but if you could lose some of that extra weight, maybe you'd photograph better."

For the first time in my life, I hated my photographic memory with a burning passion.

"Lose the extra weight"—those words drove into my deepest insecurity like a poisoned ice pick.

For three years, how many times had I stood in front of dressing room mirrors, desperately sucking in my stomach, drowning in self-doubt just to squeeze into dresses he deemed "decent enough"?

For a moment, that familiar, suffocating self-loathing nearly drowned me.

Could it really be because I'm too fat? Was I simply not good enough? Is that why he went off with that plastic-looking model whose ribs practically doubled as a washboard?

Like my softness was some kind of original sin. Like my natural curves were something I needed to apologize for.

My heart pounded violently in my chest, trembling. But then, a fury mixed with humiliation erupted like lava through that fragile layer of insecurity.

No. This wasn't my fault.

What kind of delusional bullshit was this?

Derek didn't just cheat. He chose the most brazen, most absurd, most self-destructive arrogance.

He'd watched me stress over wedding details, fly to Vegas—this place reeking of cheap perfume and strip clubs—to research venues and earn extra money for the final payment. Meanwhile, he was out shopping for a prettier "replacement," then had the nerve to blame it on my body.

As if the past three years—when he'd put his hands on me like he'd hit the damn jackpot—were all just my pathetic delusion!

Fury burned through my veins, scorching, controlled, and sharp enough to cut throats.

I'd planned to marry him, and he'd tossed me aside like unwanted baggage that didn't look good enough to take out.

No.

He didn't abandon me. He screwed up and lost me. I told myself.

Let him keep his perfect bride. Let him have the woman he thinks will make him look better on camera. I sincerely hope Chloe enjoys a cheating asshole whose spine has the bone density of overcooked pasta.

The next man who gets the privilege of touching me better deserves it.

He'll worship every inch of skin that idiot Derek failed to appreciate. My hips, my waist, my thighs. The parts I'd tried so hard to shrink down just to fit into what was "decent enough" for him.

Never again. I was done shrinking myself for men who didn't deserve the full picture.

He'll get a woman who makes him feel her immeasurable worth every single second.

And Derek?

Derek will get what he deserves. Front-row VIP seats to watch the woman he underestimated become untouchable and unforgettable.

I sucked in a deep breath of the airport's stale air, forcing my feet to plant firmly on the ground.

"V? Are you still listening?" Mia's anxious, high-pitched voice finally pierced through my thoughts. "Hey, promise me you won't be sad over that damn bastard. Your body is perfect, and he's blind as a bat to go for some plastic mannequin held together by starvation!"

"I won't, Mia." I laughed coldly, reaching to adjust the strap on my shoulder. "I'm heading back to Washington to go straight to his apartment, pack up all my stuff, and dump red wine all over his Persian rug. Gotta go."

I ended the call and shoved the phone roughly into my bag. The hangover headache persisted. I dragged my feet, planning to find a bathroom first to salvage this face that probably looked worse than a zombie's.

Just as I turned around and took two steps, a tall figure blocked my path.

More accurately, a fat man in an airport security uniform. He held a walkie-talkie, eyeing me up and down like I was garbage.

"Ma'am, this is a passenger waiting area, not a homeless shelter." The security guard spoke rudely, even pointing his walkie-talkie antenna at me. "If you don't have a boarding pass, I need you to leave now."

The anger I'd just suppressed shot straight to the top of my skull.

"Open your eyes and look carefully, buddy." I yanked the crumpled boarding pass from my bag and practically shoved it in his nose. "I have a ticket! And I'm a paying passenger waiting for my flight. You have no right to kick me out!"

The guard glanced at the wrinkled paper and sneered. "Economy class. And your flight left five hours ago. You look like a junkie, and I got complaints about you causing a disturbance. Take your trash and leave now, or I'm calling the cops."

"Go ahead—call the cops, see what happens!

" I snapped, completely fed up, taking a step forward.

"All I did was get drunk and miss my flight.

What gives you the right to tell me what to do?

Go after the people actually stealing things in this airport instead of harassing a woman who's just been through the worst moment of her life! "

"Ma'am, my patience is limited. No ticket, no staying here." The guard clearly didn't want to waste more words. He reached out with his thick arm, trying to grab my shoulder and push me away.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed, swatting his hand away. My last thread of rationality snapped.

No ticket, huh?

I laughed coldly and, right in front of him, pulled out my phone and jabbed at the airline app.

"What are you doing? Don't try anything funny!" The guard frowned, warning me.

"What am I doing? I'm buying your damn respect!" I glared at the screen through gritted teeth, my fingers flying across it.

Screw the wedding venue deposit! Screw penny-pinching! Derek the bastard cheated, so that five thousand dollars I'd scraped together to pay for the wedding—it was all mine now!

I selected the next flight to Washington Dulles, departing in twenty minutes. Cabin class? I didn't hesitate, skipping right past economy and jabbing my finger on "First Class."

Enter credit card password. Fingerprint confirmation.

The payment confirmation chimed crisply through the noisy airport.

I shoved the phone screen right up to the fat guard's nose, the brightness making him flinch back.

"See that? AA405, first class. Boarding in twenty minutes." I lifted my chin, staring at his shocked face with almost cruel satisfaction. "Now, not only am I a legal paying passenger, I'm a valued guest of your crappy airline. Take your walkie-talkie and get out of my sight!"

The guard froze, his face flushing red. He looked at the twelve-hundred-dollar electronic boarding pass on my phone, then at my disheveled appearance, as if his ego had taken a massive hit.

"You crazy bitch..." He bit down hard, actually reaching for my phone. "I suspect you're using a stolen credit card. Come with me!"

Fuck the world!

As his hand closed in on my phone, I gritted my teeth, bracing for a fight.

But then—

"This is probably the most pathetic comedy I've witnessed all day."

A deep, gravelly male voice suddenly rang out above my head. It wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable penetration, like bass speakers pressed directly against my eardrums, radiating intense pressure.

Both the guard and I froze, looking toward the voice.

That one glance locked me in place.

Standing a few steps away was a man. A man so tall he blocked out all the overhead light.

He had to be at least six-three, shoulders broad as a wall. His perfectly tailored charcoal suit outlined his powerful muscle definition, yet his waist was cut tight—like he'd been sculpted by golden ratio proportions.

My gaze traveled up his crisp dress pants, gliding over his immaculately knotted patterned tie, finally landing on his face.