Payton
thirty-five
Ainsley seems off and I know something isn't right. She was frustrated this morning, but it’s ten times worse when she gets home from work and she brushes off my attempts to figure out what the issue is.
I keep reminding her that I can handle anything and to let me do this for her, but she says it’s nothing and she’s fine.
She's not fucking fine and if we had time, I’d paddle the information out of her.
Instead, we have to attend the wrap party for Harlowe’s new cooking show at some pretentious restaurant downtown, which forces us to change and leave soon after arriving home.
“Baby, let me help you with whatever is causing this.”
She looks up at me, her face a mask of emotions I can’t begin to unravel before her cheeks turn pink and she looks away. “You can’t help with this. No one can. It’d make you hate me if you knew,” she says quietly, anxiously smoothing her hands down her dress.
When she looks up again, her hazel eyes are tortured, and I want to pull her into my lap and kiss away the tears that are pooling at the corners, telling her whatever it is can’t possibly be as bad as she thinks it is.
Nothing could make me hate her. Her bratty attitude, her mean words, nothing she can do has pushed me away, and nothing will.
She’s quiet and fidgety on the way to the restaurant, not letting me play with her or make her happy.
She’s barely listening to me when I tell her about my day.
Fuck, what’s wrong, and why is she icing me out after all we’ve worked through to get to a place of open communication and understanding?
I just want to take care of her, but she’s closed herself back inside her citadel, throwing up walls and hiding from me. This won't fucking stand. Not anymore.
I look over and brush the gold ring shining prettily at her throat while stopped at a light.
It’s a silent reminder to her that our relationship has taken on a deeper meaning now, and she’s supposed to be on the same page.
She glances over and smiles, but it doesn't meet her eyes and she quickly looks out the window again. Too soon, we’re at the restaurant and forced to perform and pretend there isn't something hanging over us that I need to make right.
“Fashionably late, but at least you brought Ainsley,” Harlowe says, greeting us when we walk into the restaurant.
“I loved that berry flag cake you made for the Fourth of July. It was delicious. Hana did, too. Now I have mad cravings for it. I need you to send me the recipe so I can make it this week,” she says to Ainsley.
“Of course. I can email it over, but it’s just Ina Garten’s flag cake recipe.
I’m not really a baker, so I keep things simple.
” Ainsley shifts on her tall, strappy black heels that make her legs look insane.
She’s wearing a hot pink minidress that’s structured through the bodice to look like bondage with black straps that crisscross around her chest exactly how I’d tie her up if I were showing her the ropes of Shibari.
It gives me ideas of what I'll do when we get home to make her talk.
“Perfect, I love Ina. Her recipes are so approachable,” Harlowe says, guiding us into the party and waving over a server with a tray of cocktails.
“These are the Harlowe, which is a spicy mocktail kind of like a jalapeno margarita, and that’s the F-Bomb, which is a French 75 variation with a rose cordial and rosé champagne,” she says, gesturing at the two drinks on the tray.
They’re both perfectly fitting for her. Ainsley takes the pink bubbly drink and I grab the green mocktail with a red rim.
“Congratulations on your show,” I tell her, tapping my glass first against Harlowe’s and then Ainsley’s.
“Thanks! But you’re on your own now. I have to mingle. Zander and Hayes are somewhere over there.” She gestures toward a corner as she gives us one of her supermodel smiles and wiggles her fingers before turning toward another group of people.
I face Ainsley, intent on finding out what her deal is now that I have her to myself.
“You’re going to talk to me. I don’t care what I have to call you or what it takes.
You’ll let me in and give me this burden to carry.
You know I can handle it. I hate seeing you like this.
Don’t fucking say you’re fine again. I know you’re not,” I say, cutting off the retort she’s about to interject.
She shakes her head, looking ill, and now I’m getting worried. What the fuck happened? She was irritated this morning, but something is wrong now.
“There are some things I can’t let you have,” she whispers, her voice strained and face warped in a way I’ve never seen. “I wish I were a better person, someone who didn’t have regrets and mistakes and irreparable things in my life that would absolutely destroy us.”
Destroy us? What the fuck is she talking about.
She’s not going to slip away from me that easily.
I can get past anything. “Baby, we can work through whatever it is. If there was someone else, or you did something you think is wrong, I can get past it. I just want you and what we’ve built together. ”
My phone vibrates in my pocket at the same time I hear text tones go off all around the room.
It buzzes again and I look around as people pull their phones out.
Faces turn our way, people talking behind their hands like that’ll disguise that Ainsley and I are the focus of their conversation.
I spot Hayes and Zander making their way toward us, their faces set in scowls that make people move out of their way without complaint.
Paige is behind Hayes, her hand in his and a worried look on her face as she bites her crimson lip and looks from me to Ainsley.
Harlowe gets to us before they do, holding her phone in front of her.
“Is this fucking true?”
I look over Ainsley’s head at the screen and my blood runs cold. At the top, in crisp, bold font, I see exactly why Ainsley was worried I’d hate her earlier. The headline is spelled out clear as day, and I know exactly who has been writing about my family for the last two years.
The Atlanta Haute List
Gossip Girl Uncovered: Ainsley Montgomery the Whore Behind The Haute List
That’s right. The traitorous bitch now reporting on herself and her new relationship with a fucking Olsen brother has been behind this gossip site for over two years.
Want proof? I have receipts. I built this site for her three years ago to use.
The dumb skank didn’t know how to cover her tracks well enough to keep me out when I discovered she’s still using the same platform.
Of course I gave myself a backdoor to get in whenever I wanted, and the code was exactly the same.
She just changed the domain and the design, the ignorant twat.
And Ainsley, your VPN wasn’t enough to hide from me, you cunty bitch.
You shouldn’t have spread your legs for the first rich man willing to give you a story and a place to stay when you once again fucked up your life.
You’re so pathetic you couldn't even get out of the hole you dug for yourself. And it had to be a fucking Olsen. I might’ve left you to your own devices knowing you’d blow it up on your own, but you picked him? That can’t stand.
But that’s not the worst, is it, you twisted fucks? You’re not even fucking together. This whole relationship has been for show. The brainless cunt had the fucking relationship contract saved to the site with notes on how to be your girlfriend. Damn, you’re both pathetic.
Payton, you slow-witted prick, the girl is a fucking fraud.
She’s using you and the blog post drafts on this site are proof.
She’s planning to run a story about your Fourth of July party tomorrow and another about some investments you’ve been making into local real estate and how that affects the city.
Looks like even your business deals aren't sacred when it comes to the snooping slut. She’ll use anything against you, even if your contract says she should keep her dick-sucking lips shut.
I’d say watch your back, but I hope you go down in flames, you entitled piece of shit.
You deserve to have your life fucked up by someone as messy and devoid of feelings as Ainsley.
She’ll fuck you over and fuck herself in the end, every time.
Deuces, dickbags and anyone who reads this stupid shit.
*Bow and Arrow*
I scan the article, every word committed to memory without any desire to remember it, feeling myself growing angrier and more detached with each line. When I finish, I look down at Ainsley, who’s shaking, her face ashen and eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“My ex-boyfriend is trying to ruin me,” she whispers to Harlowe. “He’s mad I’m with Payton because of some business dealings between his father’s company and Olympus. He’s cruel and manipulative and everything he says is hurtful and meant to break me down.”
“But it’s true,” Harlowe presses, popping her fist on her hip as Zander puts his arm around her waist. Hayes and Paige flank our other side, effectively shielding us from the rest of the party, but creating a hostile huddle that has Ainsley looking around like she’s trapped.
She’s about to bolt. Do I want to let her go, or keep her here?
The choice is harder than I thought it’d be.
Her next words slam a knife into my heart and rip it to shreds.
“I did start the Haute List, but what Archer said is meant to—”
“We don’t care about Archer. We’ll deal with him.
We care about the countless stories you’ve written about our family.
About my wife and child. Everything you’ve posted has harmed us in some way, and I don’t suffer anyone who fucks with my family,” Hayes says, his presence more menacing than ever as he towers over Ainsley and gives her a green-eyed death glare that makes grown men shit their pants.