The truth was, I wasn’t sure either. But Christian had made me feel what no other man had managed to in years, so it was worth a shot. I’d spent years refusing to get close to men.
Maybe it was time to put a little trust in someone.
I was lying atop Aaron’s grave when the final verdict came down. Curled into myself like a shrimp against the cold rock, my hair splayed like the roots of the weeping willow across the tombstone. Minutes before the text arrived, I’d been wondering, idly, what Aaron would be like if he were still alive.
I knew I’d inherited my mother’s personality—taciturn, indifferent, with a prudish air—but also my father’s voracious hunger for life. The need to sink my teeth into the universe like it was a juicy chunk of pomegranate, crimson beads trickling down my chin.
Would Aaron have been more of a dreamer or a realist? Would he have inherited Mother’s fine blonde hair or my father’s dark mane? Would we have ever double-dated? Shared secret handshakes? Or bittersweet memories of scraped knees and melting ice cream and cartwheels under sweltering summer sun . . .
Would my mother have been different? Happier? More present in my life? Would she have been able to stand up to my father?
And Nicky, would he still be here? After all, Aaron would have been the kind of protective brother who never would have let me coax Nicky into kissing me. Would Ruslana be here too?
A ping in my pocket snapped me out of my musings.
Dad: We lost. I’ve lost two hundred million dollars. Your boyfriend looks happy. I suppose now that it’s all over, he can buy you all the pretty things your heart desires. You always were a disappointment, Arya. But I never thought you were a traitor, too.
A scream lodged inside my throat. I swallowed it down, dialing my father’s number. He sent me straight to voice mail. I called him again. He deserved a piece of my mind. A third time. Then a fourth. Still nothing. I withdrew my phone from my ear, frowning.
A disappointment. A traitor.
How did my father know about me and Christian? With quivering fingers, I typed both my and Christian’s names into my phone’s search bar. I assumed Christian hadn’t publicly declared our relationship in court, which meant whatever had been publicized about us was common knowledge. Sure enough, the first result in the search bar took me to a local news website covering Manhattan’s nightlife, where a picture of Christian and me standing under the waterfall tunnel, my hand pressed against his chest, was displayed.
Rothless Betrayal: How Arya Roth Turned against Her Father . . . and Fell in Love with His Enemy.
By: Cindi Harris-Stone
It appears that pampered socialite slash PR consultant Arya Roth, 32, daughter of shamed hedge fund tycoon Conrad Roth, 66, who is currently on trial for sexual harassment, is sleeping well at night ahead of her father’s impending doomsday. The beauty was seen canoodling with none other than sought-after bachelor and top litigator Christian Miller, 32, who also happens to represent her father’s accusers. The pair were seen on Tuesday embracing one another in Manhattan.
Canoodling.
The word was a big, fat red sign.
The one Christian had used to describe what we shouldn’t be doing. I hadn’t heard this word in eons before he had said it, and now it was here, on the page. This, in itself, wasn’t prime evidence. But coupled with the fact he definitely had a motive and interest in leaking this item, it made my blood run cold.
He’d tipped them off. He must have. The night I’d placed my trust at his feet, he’d gone ahead and stomped all over it.
Jillian’s name flashed on my screen. I sent her to voice mail, calling Christian instead. I didn’t know at what point, exactly, I’d gotten up and begun moving, but I had. I found my way out of the graveyard in a haze. I reached Christian’s voice mail. I called again. Then again. After the sixth time—I was wandering around the streets of Park Avenue, with no direction or plan—I called his office’s landline, my neck and cheeks burning with rage and humiliation. No one had ever wronged me so profoundly. So maliciously.
“Hello?” A cheerful voice invaded my ear. I recognized it belonged to Claire, the associate who was working with Christian on my father’s case. Even though she was the last person I wanted to talk to, I wasn’t in a position to be picky.
“Hi, Claire. I’m looking for Christian. I was wondering if you could put him through?”
In the background, I heard cheers, chatter, and the sound of a champagne bottle popping. The office was celebrating, no doubt the huge success that was Christian and Claire’s case. A rush of self-loathing filled me. How could I have been so stupid?