The Billionaire Takes a Bride

She had to agree—the restaurant was busy, but it wasn’t a hotspot for celebrities or the upper crust. They’d picked it because it had good food and a good location close to shopping. The fact that Sebastian’s mother had shown up here told Chelsea that she’d been waiting to ambush Chelsea in particular. And since she had Lisa in tow? Chelsea could just guess what this was going to be about.

“Oh, look, it’s my new daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Cabral said with a fake sweetness. She arched an eyebrow and gestured at the small table occupied by Gretchen and Chelsea. “Room for more company? We’d love to join you.”

Chelsea opened her mouth, then gave Gretchen a helpless look.

“As long as you don’t film me, I’m fine with that,” Gretchen said.

“No, we’ll crop you out of the shot.” She snapped her fingers at the cameramen. “Not the disheveled one.”

Lovely.

“You heard the woman,” Gretchen said, eating another forkful of salad. “Not the sexily disheveled one with the billionaire fiancé that likes to sue people.” And she gave them a sweet smile.

“Definitely don’t film the disheveled one,” Mrs. Cabral said in a low voice.

The waiter rushed over, a worried expression on his face.

“Oh, good, you’re here to get us chairs? We need four of them. One for me, one for Lisa, one for my purse, and one for Raquel here.” She kissed the tiny dog’s head.

“Actually the only animals we allow in the building are service animals,” the waiter said. “You’re going to have to remove it from the premises.”

“She is my emotional service animal,” she said in a snotty voice and gave him a challenging look. “Chairs?”

The man wavered, and then pulled a few chairs from a nearby empty table, crowding them around Chelsea’s tiny lunch table. Well, then. Guess that was decided.

Mrs. Cabral sat down with a flourish, and the cameras circled around their table. Chelsea pushed her soup away. Did she think she had no appetite before? She was really done now.

“I’m glad we found you,” Mrs. Cabral said. “We need to talk. What did you say your name was again? I feel as if I need to stop calling you ‘whore’ since you’re not divorced yet, and ‘gold digger’ sets a bad tone for the conversation.”

Oh, lord. “Chelsea.”

Gretchen’s eyes went wide and she forked another mouthful of lettuce into her mouth.

Mrs. Cabral sniffed. “Yes, well, I’m here to mediate between you and Lisa, since you stole her man and my son refuses to meet up with the family to discuss this in a sane manner.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Gretchen muttered.

“Is this the time that I get to point out that I’m not a whore and we signed a prenup? I don’t want Sebastian for his money.”

Lisa began to sob theatrically, taking one of the napkins from the table and dabbing at her face. Gretchen’s eyes got even wider and she continued to chew, fascinated.

“Did you know we were together when you stole him from me?” Lisa asked, her tearful voice sad and small. Her over-inflated lips were hot pink and looked ridiculous on her narrow face. They matched her skin-tight bandage dress, though.

“Actually, Sebastian told me he hadn’t seen you in two years.”

“He lied, he was with me last night.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible, since he was in bed with me,” Chelsea refuted. Sure, most of their time in bed together last night was a pillow fight and nothing sexy, but she was starting to get annoyed at the sob story that Lisa was trying to spin for the cameras.

“Oh, snaps, this is getting good,” Gretchen said, forking another mouthful of salad into her mouth. Her gaze went from Chelsea to Lisa again.

Lisa’s face was blotchy and her lashes were starting to clump. “He was with me—”

“He wasn’t, so why don’t you try another tactic? Or am I going to have to endure more of this good-cop-bad-cop thing you two have going on?”

Both women bristled.

“Now listen here, whore,” Mrs. Cabral began. She leaned in and her little dog yipped. “Let me tell you—”

“No, let me tell you something,” Chelsea said, getting to her feet. “You interrupted a lunch with a friend of mine so you could film a scene for your show. You want a scene? Don’t call me a whore. I’m your new daughter-in-law and you’re going to have to put up with my ass every holiday until the end of time, so you’d better get fucking used to it. Now unless you want me to start calling you ‘Granny,’ you’ll quit with the name calling.”