27. The Billionaires Guide to Screwing Up Everything
27
THE BILLIONAIRE'S GUIDE TO SCREWING UP EVERYTHING
CONNOR
The thing about rehearsal dinners is that they're a practice run for perfection. Everyone smiling, toasting, pretending like happiness is something you can rehearse.
Lately, I've been pretending a lot.
The warm glow of La Famiglia's chandeliers reflects off the polished mahogany tables, casting golden light over the crowded dining room. The scent of fresh basil, garlic, and something sweet—probably Nonna Flora's famous cannoli—drifts through the air.
"Christ, mate, you look like someone took a piss in your espresso," Callum mutters, swirling the dark red wine in his glass. "Which, given your taste in overpriced American coffee, might be an improvement."
"Don't you have an oil empire to run? Or a small nation to overthrow?" I counter, adjusting my cuffs for the hundredth time.
"For fook's sake, what kind of Scottish royalty do you think I am, mate?" He smirks. “It is quite entertaining watching you spiral, though, Reeves. Might even be worth postponing my next hostile takeover."
“Spira—I’m not spiraling."
"No? Then perhaps we discuss why you've checked your phone seventeen times in the last hour?"
Before I can fire back, Grayson appears at my shoulder. "Need to borrow him, Cal."
Callum’s lopsided smirk deepens. "By all means. Though perhaps somewhere without security cameras? In case violence becomes necessary."
Grayson leads me away, tension simmering beneath his calm facade. We step into La Famiglia’s private wine cellar, a place I know well from countless business dinners. But tonight, the air feels different—charged, heavy.
"Gray—"
"I’m asking Roz to marry me."
The sentence alone is like a bomb dropping.
"Next week," he continues. "We’re moving in together, and I just… I know it’s right. She’s right. Everything’s right."
A burn settles in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
Not because I'm not happy for one of my best friends. I sure as shit am.
But because watching my best friends fall in love, watching them choose to risk everything for someone else, forces me to face an uncomfortable truth…
I could have had this. In fact, I did, long ago.
All these years, with Amanda and Matt. It had never been about them choosing each other over me.
It was about me choosing self-protection over vulnerability. “Strength” over “weakness.” About me never letting anyone close enough to hurt me over having something real.
Until Ariana.
"That’s…" I clear my throat. "Congratulations, man."
"Thanks." He studies me, eyes narrowing. "Though, watching you try to be happy for me while clearly wanting to punch something is surprisingly entertaining."
"I am happy for you."
"I know." His voice softens. "But maybe it’s time you were happy for yourself too?"
I need air. Now.
"I should?—"
"Run?" He grins. "Yeah, probably. Just… maybe consider running in the right direction this time?"
I don’t respond. Can’t. Because the walls are closing in, and if I don’t move, I might fucking shatter.
I escape to La Famiglia’s courtyard, letting the cool drizzle of Seattle’s spring rain cut through the heat in my veins. The doves that Ariana donated are still cooing from the corners of the small garden.
But the moment I inhale deep, steadying breaths, a voice slithers from the shadows.
"Well, well." Will’s smirk is razor-sharp. "If it isn’t the great Connor Reeves."
My jaw flexes, a slow burn igniting in my chest. "Walk away, Will."
"Or what?" He steps closer, the streetlight casting shadows in his eyes. "You’ll write another little ballad about it? Something about stealing another man’s trash?"
Everything goes deadly quiet.
"Say that again." My voice is a blade, sharp, deliberate.
His smile widens, cruel and smug. "You heard me. I just didn’t take you for the kind of man who settles for another man’s leftovers."
Before he can take his next breath, I slam him against the brick wall so hard the impact rattles through my bones.
I lean in, my voice low, lethal. "Listen to me, you pathetic little parasite. My wife is not leftovers. She is not scraps. And she sure as hell isn’t something you ever get to speak about again."
Will snorts, but there’s a flicker of fear behind it. "Your wife? Please. She’s just a glorified crisis manager who can’t even?—"
I tighten my grip, cutting him off with the pressure of my forearm. "Who can’t what?" I whisper, my breath scorching against his cheek. "Handle a snake? Because from where I’m standing, she crushed you like the spineless coward you are."
His throat bobs, his bravado cracking like cheap glass. "I left her."
I press harder. "No. You ran. Because she was too much for you. Too beautiful. Too smart. Too strong. Too goddamn good for a waste of space like you."
His hands grip my wrist, weak and desperate. "You don’t know what you’re talking about!"
"I know exactly what I’m talking about. And so do you. That’s why you can’t even look me in the eye. You knew she was bigger, better than that trashcan you call a PR firm. You knew you couldn’t keep up with her anymore. That you really never could.” I apply more pressure on his neck. "Tell me, Will, how’s that wellness empire of yours working out? The one you’re building by stealing from organizations like her father’s kidney support group?"
"How did you?—"
"I know everything. I did some reach after Monaco. That ‘lifestyle change’ of yours? Yoga and crystals and fucking namaste’ing with Jenny on every continent. A cover. For every transaction. Every fake account. Every time you used people like Gideon Bristol’s name to line your own pockets. Guess Drake PR wasn’t as profitable as you made it out to be. And I’m sure the SEC would love to know more about that.”
He whitens. “You can’t prove?—"
"I already have."
I let him go, watching as he staggers, gasping for breath. " Stay gone, Will." My voice is steel. "Because if you ever come near her again, you won’t have the chance to walk away."
Will’s gaze lowers, reality finally sinking in.
Then he runs.
Again.
I take several seconds before turning to head back in. I stop.
The guys—Luke, Callum and Grayson—are already at the doorway, smiles barely suppressed as they take in the scene.
"Well," Luke sighs, "that was anticlimactic. Connor, your timing could use work."
"My timing?"
"For realizing you're in love with your wife." He grins. "Though, sprinkling death threats in there was definitely the icing on the cake of you falling in love.”
I nearly laugh. But the sound gets caught in my throat.
Because he's right.
I do love her. Love Ariana.
I love her chaos and her complications and her complete inability to let anyone handle their own crises. I love how she color-codes her protein bars and alphabetizes her emergency contacts and tries to fix everything through sheer force of will.
I love that she makes me brave enough to want more.
To be more.
To fight for more.
“Fuck, guys, I have to go." I'm already moving. "Tell Alex?—"
"That you're finally growing a pair?" Grayson suggests. "Way ahead of you."
"Though perhaps," Callum calls after me, "I know a man with a helicopter..."
I flip him off as I run into Seattle's rain, pulling out my phone:
ME: I'm sorry
ME: For running
ME: For not being brave enoug h
ME: For everything
The message fails to send.
Because of course it does. Because I blocked her number like the coward I am.
Like the man who was too afraid to fight for what he wanted.
But not anymore.
"Sir?" Christoph appears with the car. "Where to?"
I look at my phone, at the wedding invitation in my pocket, at all the carefully constructed walls I've built that never stood a chance against Ariana Bristol.
"Take me to her."