Pick Your Poison
Maddox
The funny thing about scandals was that eventually, people stopped asking whether the story was true.
They just picked whichever version entertained them the most.
An emotionally unstable billionaire.
A playboy commitment-phobe.
A raging narcissist.
Or, according to one local morning show host, a cautionary tale for modern women.
The way everyone talked, you'd think I'd fucked one of Sloane's bridesmaids on the altar. Now that would've been a cautionary tale.
Hell, she'd only had ten to choose from. And the craziest thing? More than one had already volunteered – well, except for the altar part.
Next to me on the couch, Delaney waited quietly for me to either tell my story or make her drag it out of me, bit by juicy bit.
The weird thing was, I hadn't told anyone my story.
Sure, Sloane knew the truth, along with Cal and Ryder Vaughn.
But the guys wouldn't talk. And Sloane would be a fool to share it – not because I'd get some sympathy, but because that golden tiara of hers would take quite a tarnishing.
Now that I was preparing to spill my guts with Delaney, I was silently asking some questions of my own.
Why didn't I beat Sloane to the punch?
Why didn't I tell the whole world that she wasn't half as blameless as she seemed?
Why didn't I throw off the role of the city's biggest heart-breaking bastard?
The more I thought about it, the more I understood why I'd kept silent.
Actually, I had several reasons.
One. It was a giant fuck-you to everyone who wouldn't leave well enough alone. And yes, this included my own messed-up family.
Two. Destroying Sloane would've caused an avalanche of collateral damage – because once you start airing dirty laundry, eventually everyone ends up naked.
Three. I didn't give two shits what people thought of me.
And besides, I'd figured it would blow over soon enough, and the world would go back to the way it was.
Except it hadn't.
Sloane was making damn sure of that.
But hey, I had to give her credit. It was a bold move for someone who'd been selling my secrets to the highest bidder.
Now, after months of bullshit from strangers on the street, I'd come to realize my mistake. My not-so-brilliant plan had been to drop out of the limelight, not to shine a spotlight on myself wherever I went.
As my mental decision tree splintered in the background, I looked to Delaney and asked, "So, how much of this do you want to hear?"
She didn't hesitate. "As much as you want to share."
If I were being glib, this was where I'd say, I don't want to share any of it. But I had already realized something.
This wasn't true.
I wanted to share it with Delaney. She was a clean slate – someone untouched by months of bad press, someone who'd give me an honest take if I asked.
And these weren't the only reasons I wanted to tell her. Deep down, I actually wanted her to know that I wasn't the monster everyone claimed.
But where to begin?
With the three separate news helicopters hovering outside the church? With hundreds of guests filling the pews? With the flowers? The dress? Or the bride herself?
No.
The story started with my own mother – Evelyn Whitmore-McGuinness – who'd pushed for Sloane from the start. And why?
Because Sloane would be good for the brand, that's why.
In my world, nobody cared about love. They cared about the family empire along with carefully curated stories of how the brand itself had come to be – with glossy magazine profiles, handshakes worth fortunes, and the illusion that people like us were somehow better than everyone else.
What a joke. For one thing, magazines were a thing of the past, and it's not like I carried the family name.
Instead, the line of succession had come through my mom, who still wore that surname like a crown.
Whitmore.
Yes, those Whitmores. The ones with the watches, the handbags, the cosmetics, the luxury hotels, and more.
On the sofa, Delaney said, "I know what you want to say."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"That you'd rather not share any of it."
I couldn't help but laugh. "I almost did say that."
"So, why didn't you?"
"Because it wasn't true." And then, at her confused expression, I asked, "You wanna hear something funny?"
She nodded.
I met her gaze. "The truth is, I'm actually curious what you'll say."
"Really? Why me?"
"Because everyone else already has an opinion."
She hesitated. "You mean like your friends and family?"
Sure. Plus the rest of the world.
But I didn't say that part, because why tip my hand? If I wanted Delaney's honest take, I wouldn't be doing either of us any favors by jumping the gun. Keeping it simple, I replied, "Well, my mom wasn't happy it went off. I can tell you that."
Delaney looked thoughtful. "So your mom really liked her, huh?"
It was a simple question, but the answer was complicated. "Actually, I'm not sure."
"But you said she wasn't happy." Delaney sat up straighter. "Ohhhh, you mean because of the cost of the wedding?" She gave a sympathetic wince. "I can totally see it, especially if the food was already warm."
I almost snorted. "Mom wasn't the one paying." It was true. Sure she'd insisted on paying for the rehearsal dinner along with all of those ridiculous guest welcome bags. But Sloane had lined up corporate sponsors to cover nearly everything else.
Did I know this at the time?
Hell no.
Sloane had made a huge production of claiming that her family was too traditional to let the groom or his family pay.
Screw that.
I'd insisted on paying anyway, covering the honeymoon and the reception. And I'd done it in spite of the fact that most of that money eventually ended up with Sloane.
I paid. She got it for free.
How? By those suppliers funneling my payments straight back to her.
Of course, I didn't know this at the time.
Who knows, maybe I had bought a few hundred servings of lobster bisque.
Delaney asked, "So, who was paying? I'm guessing you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Well…because I guess you look a little bitter, like you couldn't get a refund."
I couldn't tell if she was joking. "A refund, huh?"
"I mean…it's not like you can return soup. But you never actually said. Were you the one paying?"
I considered what I'd learned far too late – or some might say just in time. "Now that's a funny question."
She shifted on the couch. "Because it's personal?"
"No. Because the answer's hilarious."
She studied my face. "Well, it can't be too hilarious, because you're not laughing. But I think I got you off-track. After all, nobody cancels a wedding because of bisque. And you never did say why you cancelled."
Funny, I'd never answered her question about who called it off. But maybe some things were obvious. I let out a humorless laugh. "It was closer to bisque than you'd think."
"Really? How so?"
"The short version? I found out she was lying about money."