Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Darcy
I stormed into my room like a pissed-off four-year-old who had her Barbie’s hair ripped out by a nasty little boy on the playground. I slammed the door shut, leaned back against it, and slid down until my ass landed on the painted concrete floor of my room.
“This fucking dick ,” I told myself about Sebastian, completely trapped but not ready to give up.
He caught me off guard, that’s for damn sure, but he would not win. Well, the only way he would win is if I were all about the money he’d baited me with to date him—money that would be made off the article, which would give me everything I wanted as a journalist. It wasn’t about the money the article would make, but Sebastian’s story would be the biggest exclusive ever, catapulting my notoriety and giving me tons of new business opportunities in respectable fields of journalism. I could finally leave Lifestyles and start my own magazine—or publishing company, for that matter—with the earnings I’d make, and my name recognition after that would open doors that weren’t within reach to me now.
It was very tempting. On the flip side, working at Lifestyles for the rest of my life and making chump change might be worth not having to date that bastard. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to eat my words with Avery about how I wasn’t attracted to Sebastian.
I meant what I said to my friend, and now this piece of shit was forcing me to lie to her because he was an entitled baby billionaire who couldn’t be bothered to go on a straightforward date with someone who’d made this winery a shit-ton of money? I mean, who cares? It would be like a business dinner, and this guy was throwing a tantrum like I’d recruited him to be on the newest season of The Bachelor.
Okay, fine. Maybe I didn’t need the money, but the winery did, and the faster we could bring in money with the recognition from my article, the quicker he could get his ass out of here and move back to New York.
But would he leave? Would it be that fast?
That’s it, I couldn’t do this. I wouldn’t do this. I had more self-respect than this. I was not driven by money, and I wouldn’t allow it to dictate my decisions. I had to go hunt his ass down and find him.
I marched to the door and flung it open, only to see the sorry sucker smoking a cigar across the way on the side of the courtyard where his room was. He was puffing away like a fucking king who’d cherry-picked his queen for the rest of her miserable, arranged-marriage life.
Not me, no way.
I power-walked the entire stretch of the upstairs balcony until I reached where he casually stood, leaning against the edge and staring down at the neatly trimmed trees in the lower courtyard.
“I changed my mind,” I said, noting that he hadn’t flinched once since I’d stormed over here and approached him.
“That would be a mistake,” he said in a low voice.
“No, what would be a mistake is acting like I’m dating you and then showing the world what you want them to think.”
“And what’s that?” he tilted his head and puffed his cigar while he looked over at me.
“Isn’t it a little too early to smoke cigars for people like you?” I questioned in utter disgust.
He grinned, and this time, the sexy wolf grin did absolutely nothing for me. He rose and stared down into my eyes.
“People like me?” he chuckled. “Oh, I nearly forgot. You’re a journalist who entertains others by writing about people like me and what you believe to be true when half the time you are wrong.”
“I state facts after thorough research. I do not make things up,” I said.
“Well, here’s a fact, Miss Burke,” he said, intentionally using formalities with me in a condescending tone. “People like me smoke cigars whenever we damn well want. I prefer to smoke them when I’ve achieved a beautiful victory that reminds me of the man I truly am.”
“The man you truly are? What’s that, a lying asshole?”
“No, a man who won’t be played or fucked with by you or anyone else. I’m to be respected.”
“Well, I’m here to disrespect you and tell you you’re smoking a victory cigar too soon.” I rudely pulled the cigar from between his fingers and stomped it out on the concrete walkway where we stood.
He crossed his arms and exhaled in irritation, “Do tell me how you plan on backing out of this when you and I know it is highly profitable for you and your family to remain in agreement.”
“I don’t need, nor do I want, any money or fame. I most certainly do not wish to write about you and give your sorry ass any more recognition than it deserves. Unlike you, I am not motivated by money. I’m not a prisoner to it like you are.”
I hoped my insult would’ve pissed him off, but he just grinned as if I were the idiot, and he wasn’t.
“Well, that’s fine, then.”
“You’re going to be in that auction and do all of this the right way,” I demanded, taking back all my power.
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, I don’t need your story anymore, and I’m not fake dating you.”
“Yes, you are,” he answered with an amused expression.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I questioned. “I’m not doing this, and there’s no possible way you’re making me.”
“You know the funny thing about us wealthy assholes ?” he questioned, and I could tell he had more shit up his sleeve to con me.
“That you’re assholes?” I said.
“Very cute and very true. I can see you’ve done your research,” he mocked.
“Get to your point,” I snapped.
“We have so much money that when someone writes things about us that we don’t like, especially if we don’t want it talked about?—”
“Yeah, okay, Sebastian,” I said his first name to avoid his games of stupid formalities. “I’m not writing anything about you, nor do I care to. I do not want you , of all people, to take up space in my head.”
“I know. You told me you wouldn’t write about me a few moments ago.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“As I was saying, if someone were to read something that disagreed with them, they might be inclined to sue you or even take down the entire business, especially a tiny Clarke Kent publication like Lifestyles , which is most likely operating from a tiny office in Los Angeles, barely able to keep the lights on.”
“What are you trying to say? Are you just trying to insult Mr. Juniper’s business because I work there?”
“Carson Juniper is a fool for owning that ridiculous magazine. I’d never even heard of it until I did a little research on you because of this benefit.”
“What are you driving at, Sebastian? If you won’t sue me for writing nothing about you, why are you saying any of this?”
He grinned, and dammit, he was so fucking gorgeous that I couldn’t stand it. His perfectly polished teeth and his light beard growth were accentuating?—
Stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought, my hormones dominating my anger for a brief second. I needed to back up. I was standing too close to him, and his intoxicating cologne was fucking with me.
“I’m saying this because I wonder if you recall a certain woman. Does the name Tiffany Beaumont ring a bell?”
“Sure, she’s the billionaire heiress I wrote about years ago,” I said, confused about why he’d bring her up.
“You say that like you got away with something.”
“I didn’t get away with anything. I wrote only facts. Not one lie, not one scandal.”
He smirked, “You don’t think that writing about her dating a college frat boy wasn’t scandalous for a woman of her status?”
“I didn’t say she dated a…” I drifted off, forgetting what I had said when I wrote about Tiffany and Chad’s relationship a couple of years ago. The magazine wasn’t even big back then, so no one hardly read it. How the hell did this guy read it?
“Allow me to refresh your memory,” he said, sliding open his phone and smirking down before clearing his throat. “ Billionaire Heiress Finds Love in a College Frat Boy: A Modern Fairy Tale .”
He paused to see if that title evoked a reaction, but I was trying to remember having the balls to write such a cheesy headline. So, he went on.
“Once upon a time in the glittering world of the elite, where champagne flowed like water and private jets were as common as taxis, there lived a billionaire heiress whose name was synonymous with extravagance. Let’s call her Tiffany.” He looked up at my blank expression. “Jarring any memories yet?”
“No, and that title is so lame. I’m shocked you’d think I’d write something like that,” I answered casually.
“Oh, your name is right at the top,” he turned the phone to show me, and I batted it away.
I should’ve been more embarrassed that he’d dug up this cheesy thing that I’d put my name on than I was pissed off that he was baiting me with it for some dumb reason.
“…Tiffany had everything a girl could dream of—a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a closet bursting with designer labels, and a fleet of luxury cars that could rival a dealership. But despite all her riches, there was one thing Tiffany couldn’t buy: true love ,” he batted his eyes, acting like an immature idiot while mocking this damn story.
It was slowly starting to come back to me. The dark-haired beauty was the heiress to her father’s globally successful hotel chain, and she fell for a guy named Chad. I thought their love story was cute, but I didn’t recall writing it to sound so fucking corny. Oh, whatever. I was young and new to all of this. The real shame here is that I thought this was amazing at the time.
Because I didn’t interrupt him, Sebastian pressed on, “Enter Chad, a strapping young lad with a heart of gold and a GPA that barely scraped by,” he said like some dad, reading a fairytale bedtime story. “He was the quintessential college frat boy—perpetually clad in a backward baseball cap and sporting a grin that could charm the pants off anyone (quite literally, in some cases),” he stopped, laughing at the lame remark I’d added.
I must’ve been high when I wrote this.
“Tiffany and Chad’s paths crossed one fateful night at a charity gala, where Tiffany was holding court in a gown that cost more than Chad’s entire tuition. Chad, emboldened by a few too many glasses of champagne, sauntered up to her and uttered the immortal words : ‘Hey there, beautiful. Wanna dance?’” I could tell he was working hard not to laugh at this stupid story I’d written about the heiress. “To everyone's shock— including Chad’s —Tiffany said yes!” He practically yelled with all his dramatic emphasis.
“Okay, I get it,” I held my hands up. “I was a young, very new journalist when I wrote that about Tiffany, and that was so long ago that she probably doesn’t even remember Chad.”
“That’s the point,” he said, his dark eyes staring into my soul. “If she were to find out about it, it might jar her memory. I’m sure her current husband, Andrew Wellington, would never approve of this, especially since she gave birth to their twins four months ago. His family would be outraged to know a small press had published this for profit. Did you have Tiffany’s permission to publish this story about her wild and unruly dating years?”
“No,” I said, solemn and a bit nervous. “But she obviously has never heard of it. It’s old news.”
He clicked his tongue. “No, Miss Burke, any news is news when it comes to people of status. I am friends with the Wellington and Beaumont families, and I’m sure they’ll be appalled when I tell them what you wrote about Tiffany. In fact, I know they will be. They would probably do anything to bury the article, the press that printed it, and you if they found out.”
I gritted my teeth together in anger. “Blackmail, eh?” I said, knowing I was so fucked because of this investigative asshole . “That’s the look you want, knowing that blackmail is the only way I’ll fake date you?”
“It’s a look I’m willing to have to avoid being auctioned off.”
“Then I’ll tell your dad and Jim not to include you in the benefit. Jesus Christ,” I said, conceding my position just to get him off my back.
“No, sweetheart,” he said with a glare. “It’s too late since you’ve already sold my father on the idea. I’ve given you the only option, and no one is to find out the truth of this fake relationship.”
“Do not threaten me,” I seethed. I was backed into a corner, and it was clear that this bastard was as ruthless as he was handsome.
“Then, I see we have an agreement,” he grinned, took out another cigar, smelled the length of it slowly, clipped off the end, and lit it.
I stared at his first victory puff in disgust.
“Oh,” he said as I turned to walk away, “you’ll remember to adore me and be unable to keep your hands to yourself whenever we’re in public. You can start practicing tonight in front of your parents. I’m sure they’ll find it all very believable.”
I marched back up to his tall and robust frame, and though I wanted to punch him in the gut, I elected not to bruise my hand. Instead, I ripped the cigar from between his teeth and threw the damned thing on the ground like I had the first.
“Wouldn’t want you to die of lung cancer, lover, ” I snarled. “You should probably stop smoking those things now.”
He smirked, “I said to act like my fake girlfriend, not a nagging wife.”
“You are—ugh,” I couldn’t find the right words. I was a fucking journalist who made money describing things in great detail with adjectives galore, but I couldn’t find the appropriate words to describe this man.
“Say it, sweetheart,” he chimed.
“You might be good-looking on the outside, but you’re ugly on the inside,” I said, using an insult that would’ve leveled a second grader.
I didn’t know what was worse, that I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, or that I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, yet I still kept talking.
His eyebrows shot up, probably amused that my comeback was about as mean as if I’d stuck out my tongue at him.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Oh,” he smiled, “the Mitchells took me up on my dinner offer. I purchased a car and I’m having it delivered this afternoon. We’ll drive it to Yountville tomorrow to dine at Chef Thomas Keller’s iconic restaurant, The French Laundry.”
“He should feel so thrilled, ” I finally answered after a long pause.
I should’ve never tried to play games with this dickhead. There was no way out of this now. He had this backup plan because he knew I didn’t want my reputation ruined or Mr. Juniper’s magazine sued by some snotty billionaire family I’d written about without their expressed permission, regardless of it being harmless.
Max nearly had a coronary about me wanting to publish the article about the private jet landing at the climate-change conference, so I couldn’t imagine the hell I’d get if this shit got exposed. My future in journalism would be over, and from the way Sebastian read that article, I was beginning to think it might’ve been over before it started. God, how embarrassing.
If I didn’t hate him before, it was safe to say I did now. Not like that would hurt his feelings or anything. Soulless devils like Sebastian probably loved it when people like me hated them. In fact, I knew he loved it. Why else would he demand me to be all over his ass as if I were in love with him when it was the opposite of what he wanted?
This was a match made in hell by El Diablo himself.