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?
“May I ask who’s calling?” Claire purred. I could practically envision her feline smile. I stopped walking, digging my fingers into my eye sockets.
“Arya. Arya Roth.”
There was a pause. I could hear Christian in the distance, laughing. People congratulated him in turns. The scream lodged in my throat rolled an inch upward, toward my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Roth.” Claire’s voice turned cold. “He’s not available right now. May I suggest you make an appointment to speak to him? You can call his secretary. Same number, but her extension is seven-oh-three.”
“Look, I—”
She hung up.
I stared at my phone. For the first time, I truly felt unhinged. I couldn’t anticipate my next move or trust myself not to do something I would regret. Overflowing with rage, I yanked out the key Christian had given me for his apartment—shortly before getting in my pants again—and called an Uber.
Why had he given me the key, anyway? Oh, but the answer was clear—to taunt me. To make me look for my book. To watch me sweat for it. I’d always been a game to him.
Well, guess what, I was going to get the book that he’d stolen from me. Even if I had to rip his entire preppy apartment to shreds. I would not leave without it. And his only chance to pry that book out of my hands would be if I had to smack him with it on my way out.
The entire journey to Christian’s house, I read through the headlines on my phone.
Dick Move: How Conrad Roth Lost Everything because of That Pic.
Court Orders Wall Street Tycoon to Pay 200 Mil!
Roth in Hell, Conrad!
The media was having a field day. At first, I skimmed through each article to see if my name was mentioned in any of them. Once I realized I was mentioned in virtually all of them, I stopped checking. Media-management expert. Ha! Christian had just handed me my ass in that department, and he’d done a brilliant job at portraying me as an idiot. Jillian continued calling and texting, and so did my mother, whose worst fear had come to life—she was now broke and penthouseless. After such public humiliation, I should hope also newly single.
The Uber stopped in front of Christian’s place. I darted out, passing the receptionist and doorman briskly—appearing as if this were my natural habitat—and made my way up to the apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped in. His scent immediately seeped into my system, taking root. Shaved wood, fine leather, and male. Only it no longer brought me pleasure. Now, I wanted to purge it from my system.
If I were a handsome, highly intelligent sociopath, where would I hide a book?
I tried the kitchen drawers first, yanking them open one after the other, flipping their contents to the floor. Utensils flew out, spilling on the expensive parquet. I then moved to the cabinets, emptying them, too, then ripped the couch pillows from their base, unzipping the cases to see if the book was inside one of them.