5. Pancakes, Control Issues, and Other Breakfast Disasters
5
PANCAKES, CONTROL ISSUES, AND OTHER brEAKFAST DISASTERS
ARIANA
You know your life is in free-fall when you're barricaded in a Vegas hotel room, wearing last night’s dress like a second skin, your hair a bird’s nest of regret, and your only jewelry is a poker chip wedding ring. Not to mention, your ex-fiancé is currently going viral for finding his "authentic self" with your former college roommate.
The room feels smaller by the second, air thick with the scent of spilled champagne and panic. My phone is practically vibrating out of my grip with a never-ending stream of notifications. I squeeze it like a lifeline and force myself to read Will’s latest post—again.
"Sometimes the universe sends us signs. Sometimes those signs wear Louboutins and work sixty-hour weeks. Today I'm grateful for dodging bullets and finding my authentic self. #blessed #truthseeker #newbeginnings."
Beneath the caption is a nauseatingly perfect photo of Will and Jenny in Santorini, backs arched in matching yoga poses as if karma itself has rewarded them for their betrayal with Grecian sunsets and enlightenment. My stomach clenches .
“I’m going to kill him,” Lily growls from where she’s sprawled on my hotel bed. “Like, full-blown Dateline episode. Like I said before, I know people.”
“You do not know people,” Kat deadpans, eyes glued to her laptop. “And murder is harder to spin than a PR crisis.”
"Speaking of crises..." I swipe through my inbox, the messages blurring together. “Senator Thompson’s wife is asking for help with ‘compromising yacht photos.’”
“The one with the OnlyFans scandal?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm, skimming past it to another emergency. “And apparently Regina St. Claire’s daughter was caught trying to steal a baby llama from the zoo.”
Lily sits up, blinking. “I mean, I hate to say it, but that’s kind of badass.”
“Not helping.” My throat tightens as I drop onto the mattress, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The walls feel like they’re closing in. I need a plan. I need control. I need?—
Kat clears her throat. “Where exactly were you last night?”
I freeze, phone slick in my grip. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. You disappeared from the club. Didn’t come back. And?—”
"And your dress has glitter in places glitter shouldn't be," Lily adds helpfully.
“I needed air,” I say quickly, but my heart is beating so fast I can barely hear myself.
“For eight hours?”
“It was... very fresh air.”
Lily narrows her eyes, gaze flicking to my clenched fist. “Is that a poker chip ring?”
My stomach drops. My fingers curl instinctively, but it’s too late.
“Oh my God.” Kat finally looks up, horror dawning across her face. “What did you do?”
“I— ”
Lily gasps. “Was ‘fresh air’ tall and devastatingly hot?”
My mouth goes dry. My hand drifts to my neck before I catch myself.
“Ha!” Lily shouts. “Made you look! Do you have a hickey?”
“No!”
My phone buzzes, saving me from further interrogation. But the second I glance down, my stomach turns to stone.
MRS. PLATSKY: Need help with damage control. Son's TikTok about our family yacht went viral. The wrong kind of viral. Call ASAP.
"Another crisis?" Lily peers at my screen.
"Apparently the yacht community is having a rough day." I switch to my email, where three more client emergencies await. "Maybe I should start specializing in maritime PR disasters."
"Or," Kat says slowly, "maybe this is the perfect time to start your own firm."
I look up. "What?"
"Think about it. Your clients clearly trust you more than the Drake name. Will's making himself look like an ass online. Why not take advantage?"
"Because I just broke my employment with Will’s company? And, in case you forgot, I already lined up an interview for a new position.”
“Um, Will and Drake’s PR contract came with a morality clause," she reminds me. "Which I'm pretty sure 'secretly dating your fiancée's college roommate' violates. As for the interview, those things can be cancelled, you know.”
“Besides,” Lily adds, "you've always wanted your own company. Remember that business plan you wrote in college?"
I start to protest, but my phone lights up with Will's latest post – some nonsense about "growing through what you go through" featuring him and Jenny in matching meditation poses.
"I'm going to need bail money," Lily mutters .
"No one's getting arrested." I stand, needing to move. "Or starting companies. Or?—"
A notification catches my eye:
A post from ALEX DRAKE…
Will’s billionaire cousin.
Oh god.
I click so fast I nearly drop my phone, but it's just a photo from the club last night. No Elvis. No marriage. No...
Connor.
The world tilts. The floor isn’t solid.
My brain flashes to this morning.
His lazy smirk. The low rasp of his voice. The way his hand lingered just a second too long when he handed me coffee.
“Oh, this is good.” Lily leans over my shoulder, giddy, looking at my phone. “Who’s Mr. Tall, Handsome, and Probably Amazing in Bed?”
“No one.”
Kat groans. “Ariana.”
“I’m serious! He’s just—a fellow crisis haver.”
“A fellow crisis haver?” Lily wheezes. “That’s your best excuse?”
Before I can scramble for a better one, my phone buzzes again.
SENATOR THOMPSON'S WIFE: Okay, now it looks my daughter STOLE the yacht to make the OnlyFans. Be back with more deets
“What is it with people and yachts today?” I croak.
Kat slams her laptop shut. “Enough. You’re spinning out. You have three crisis clients and a flight in six hours.”
Shit. I do.
I have six hours before I’m back in Seattle. Back to the PR firm where my ex-fiancé is flaunting our breakup. Back to a reality that still doesn’t feel real .
My lungs feel like they’re collapsing. The weight of it all crushes down at once.
Will’s betrayal. My career hanging by a thread. The goddamn poker chip still digging into my palm. I lurch to my feet, needing air. “I have to pack.”
I stumble toward my suitcase, but my vision tunnels. My fingers fumble uselessly with the zipper. My phone buzzes again. Another crisis. Another notification. The walls inch closer, the ceiling pressing down?—
Lily’s voice is muffled. “Ari?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My lungs are concrete.
Then, as if the universe isn’t done curb-stomping me, my phone pings one last time:
UNKNOWN: That post was bullshit. He didn’t deserve you.
My fingers tighten around the phone. My pulse stutters.
UNKNOWN: We’ll figure out the marriage situation. I’ll take care of everything when I get back to Seattle.
Seattle.
Of course he’s in Seattle. Because of course Alex Drake’s best man would live in my city.
My breath catches, panic momentarily edged out by something else entirely. Shock. Intrigue. A flicker of something warm and unsteady in my chest.
UNKNOWN: Also, you left your earring in my suite. Cinderella move or strategic PR ploy?
A strangled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. My fingers hover over the screen, heart hammering.
Connor. Has to be.
ME: You’re texting me. How did you even get my number?
UNKNOWN: I have my ways.
ME: That sounds ominous.
UNKNOWN: Relax, Mrs. High Roller. I asked Alex.
ME: Of course you did.
UNKNOWN: Get some rest. I’ve got this .
I stare at the screen, rereading the words. I’ve got this.
Something in my chest loosens. A tether I didn’t know I needed.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat.
I stare at the screen, then down at the ridiculous ring still clutched in my fist. My reflection in the hotel mirror is wild-eyed, lipstick smudged, looking every inch the woman who has officially lost all control of her life.
I take a slow, shuddering breath. Then another. The panic lingers, but a new sensation edges in?—
Determination.
I exhale sharply and straighten. “Fine. If the world wants to drown me in yacht scandals and bad decisions? Then I’m going to turn the damn tide.”
Kat and Lily exchange wary glances.
“Oh no,” Kat mutters. “She’s got the look.”
“The ‘I’m about to burn my life down’ look?” Lily whispers back.
I grab my laptop bag and sling it over my shoulder. “No. The ‘I’m about to get to work’ look.”