Page 5

Paige

A MONTH LATER

W e’ve got the first pics of Billionaire Christian Mikkleson and his new mystery girl in what appears to be a hotel jacuzzi. Now we know he’s well and truly moved on but has anyone heard from Paige?

The phone drops from my hand as I suck in a breath. Another day, another headline. Another piece of false information.

That’s not Christian’s new girl. It’s me . It was taken almost a year ago. And the only reason no one has figured it out is because I’m wearing a wig. Another game of ours.

God, I feel icky.

I hate that my name is still being associated with Christian’s, but I guess it could be worse. At least I wasn’t identified. For now.

Staring down at my phone, I consider calling him again to complain, but he didn’t answer my first three calls, and I seriously doubt he’s behind this. Especially now that there's photo evidence, and it’s not exactly a flattering image. He’s too vain to have released that.

Whether or not it was him, we need to talk. For the last two weeks I’ve been hit with headline after headline about my sex life with Christian—the games we played, the money we spent. A false version of events anyway. And while no one has mentioned me by name, it won’t be long before someone puts two and two together, and I need to stop that from happening.

Lying back against my pillows, I close my eyes just as my phone buzzes with another alert. I’d love to be the type of person who could ignore it, knowing it’s likely to be something I don’t want to see, but I can’t do that. Social media is my life; I’d be a nobody without it. And while I really wish that wasn’t the case, I can’t change the fact that it is.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, I curse and grunt as I stretch to reach my cell, the tips of my fingers brushing the edge. Just a little bit—

“Goddammit.”

I fall to the floor with a thud, my shoulder colliding with the frame of my bed, making me cry out in pain. All for a stupid gossip headline.

I rub at the dull ache, which will surely be a bruise come morning, and pick up my phone, finding a text from Christian instead.

And a photo.

Not the same photo that’s already been leaked online. Another one. One that clearly shows my face mid-orgasm with Christian’s head nestled between my legs.

And again, I’m nauseous.

The A-hole: I don’t know how they got this, but you know what they’re like. (Shrug emoji)

A goddamn shrug emoji? Like it’s no big deal. And who are they ?

Paige: Who? And why the hell does a photo like that still exist?

The A-hole: Relax. It’s harmless and they’re not going to release it. I just thought you should know that they’ve seen it

Paige: Who the fuck is THEY?

The A-hole: My family. I thought you knew they were behind the leaks

What the hell?

His family. Jesus .

Does that mean the leaks have been for me? Are they threats? A way to ensure my silence. Who does that?

And if it was them, are they willing to sacrifice their son? I mean, they practically gave him a loaded weapon for his own demise without him even realizing it. That photo will ruin his business reputation just as much as it will ruin mine. You’d think they’d want to keep their son’s life private. Although it’s safe to say, in the media, Christian’s been painted as a hero in our breakup, so he’d probably come out of it unscathed. While I’d be called a whore. The tramp that tried to deprave the innocent young businessman.

Which, coincidently, is actually what his parents already think of me. It’s been their opinion of me from the get-go. Never mind that it was the other way around. I was the innocent and naive one when we met.

I can’t win.

I want to scream.

I want to post Christian’s tiny dick pic all over the Internet and tell the world he gets his size from his dad. But I can’t do that. I have to be the bigger person and take it like the proper young woman I was raised to be—with poise and grace.

But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice to Christian. It’s time he learned what his parents are really like.

My fingers run wild as I type a response, pointing out exactly what he and his family can do with their photos and their stories. As I’m halfway through, my phone buzzes again and I pause, second-guessing myself.

Dammit.

The A-hole: Should we meet up to talk about it all? I’ll be in LA next week

Is he kidding me? Meeting up is the last thing we should do.

Paige: Or you could tell your parents to drop it and then we agree to never see each other again

The A-hole: I’m going to ask you again… Do you know anything?

Jesus . The short answer is yes, but the long answer is so much more complicated than that. I have information on them. That’s what the threats are about. But I have no idea what to do with that information or if I even want to do anything at all.

I’m not blackmailing them. I’m not holding it over their heads. I left and I took the information with me. They should have let it go.

Paige: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just want a fresh start

The A-hole: Good enough for me

Great . But will it be good enough for your parents?

I throw my phone onto the carpet and drop my head against the bed, blowing out a slow breath. I barely get a second of reprise when there’s a soft knock on my door, and my dad calls out, not waiting for a response before he pops his head in.

“Only me.”

I snort out a laugh as he enters. “I know, Dad. Who else would it be?”

He smiles until he spots me on the floor. “What are you doing down there?”

“Yoga?” I lie, putting on my most innocent smile so I don’t have to explain why I fell off the bed.

Dad chuckles as he nods. “Makes sense. Are you ready to pick up your keys?”

Ready ? I’ve been ready since the day I arrived.

The time between me finally agreeing to move and me packing up my entire life was a lot shorter than Dad had anticipated. The second I agreed to his offer to join him here, he bought me an apartment in the same building as his, but then he decided to have it renovated to include some of the luxuries he thought I couldn’t live without—like a steam shower and a walk-in closet. Neither essential but offers I’d never say no to.

Because of that, I’ve been living with dear ole Dad while they finish. And now it’s done.

I get my own space again. I’m free. Within the restraints of living in the same building as the man that half raised me.

“I was born ready.” I smile wide, making him scoff in return.

“Come on, I don’t cramp your style that much.”

“You don’t,” I agree. For the most part he was working. “But I like my own space.”

Despite only just turning twenty-five, I’ve lived on my own for over six years.

I love my mom, but she can be a handful, and she knows it. Plus, she practically kicked me out by presenting me with the deed to her old Fifth Avenue apartment when I turned eighteen. I suppose I could have had a friend move in, so I wasn’t alone, but I liked the solace. That apartment was the only place I was able to truly be me.

“I get it. I would have done anything to have lived by myself at eighteen,” Dad notes and it’s my turn to scoff.

“You were only twenty, Dad. You weren’t that much older.”

“I know, but I worked hard for that apartment. Plus…a lot can happen in two years.”

“I worked hard too. I grew up being raised by you and Mom; I deserve more than an apartment.”

“You’re right. You deserve two. And now you have them. One in New York and one in San Francisco. And you say you’re not spoiled.”

“I never said that. I’m well aware that I am. And I graciously thank you for it. But I promise I have plans to start paying you back as soon as I’ve got my footing again. I could afford to move out now and live somewhere a little less extravagant , but I know you want me close, so I made the sacrifice.”

Dad bites back a grin. “What a darling daughter you are.”

“Always.”

I’m sunshine and lollipops until I have the keys in my hand and it all becomes real. I’m making a home here. In San Francisco. When I always assumed I’d end out my days in New York.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Dad says, cutting into my thoughts as I stare down at the new life sitting in my palms.

“That may be true, but it feels wrong.”

“You need to put New York behind you and focus on your life here. It’s going to be a big year, and the D’Angelo Foundation needs you.”

“ Mom needs me.” I may not have lived at home, but I saw her every other day. I may complain about her constantly, but we were close.

“She doesn’t need you. She pretends to need people so they don’t leave. Trust me, this will be good for her. And you.”

“You don’t have to be an asshole. You loved her once.”

“ Once ? Paige, honey, I still love her. And I have no doubt I’ll love that woman until I’m old and gray. She’s the one that walked away, remember?”

My heart seizes but I ignore it. “That may be true, but you love your work more. Always have.”

“Not all of us earn money simply by breathing, Paige.” His words sting. I know he’s talking about Mom, but I was born into money all the same. On both sides. Yes, my father worked hard for his, but at the end of the day, it’s still money that I’ll get ‘simply by breathing.’

“You didn’t exactly come from nothing,” I snap, a little embarrassed. “You weren’t broke. Grandpa would roll over in his grave if he heard you saying that. And you know I’m in the same situation, right?”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“About you . You’re earning your money by working. You’ve been a spokesperson for the Youth Voices charity since you were a teenager. You’re a model, a business owner, and an incredible artist.” He pauses with a brow raised, waiting for me to comment, but I let it slide. I don’t like talking about my art. It’s the only part of my life I’ve been able to keep secret. “You may have those opportunities because you were born into wealth, but like me , you’ve paved your own way and I’m proud of you. Always have been. Even when you refused to talk to me.”

Guilt gnaws away at my insides. Especially considering I only agreed to move here for my own benefit—and he knows it. To his credit, he hardly ever mentions it. Until now. Though, he’s joking.

“Relax, I’m—”

“Kidding, I know. You’ve forgiven my brattiness .”

“You weren’t being a brat. You were misinformed. I should have worked harder to ensure you knew the truth. But this is the world we live in. It’s impossible to know what to believe. Even when it comes to family.”

He’s not wrong. Christian’s family is proving that right now. And I have to admit, I kind of like having two sides to my family again.

“You know, I might actually miss living with you. A little,” I say honestly before quickly adding another “ might. ”

“Well, I know I’ll miss you. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Why don’t you come to the stadium tomorrow? The team has a preseason practice session. You could watch from my suite.”

“From your suite? You mean I can’t stand on the sidelines?”

“Not a chance. If I could put a restraining order on the entire team and force them to stay at least a hundred feet away from you, I would.”

“Come on, they’re not all bad.”

“No, they’re not but I heard what you said. You may not have explicitly told me, but I know that asshole hurt you. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else doing the same.”

He knows because the world knows. Only my ex painted a very different picture. My truth was getting in the way of his story. So, he rewrote the narrative. Kind of like the heroes across history. And I let him. I needed a reason to disappear, and he gave it to me. We’d been on the rocks for months. He traveled often, so it was normal for us to go weeks, sometimes months, without seeing each other. We’d share “I miss yous” on social media to keep the dream alive. But toward the end, we barely spoke. I’m not naive; I know he had women in multiple countries, but in New York, in America, he was mine, and I was okay with that. It was a relationship of convenience. But it ran its course.

As much as I want to support my dad, now is not a good time to be thrust back into the public eye. And while I may not be a fan of sports per se, I know the change in ownership of a team is a big deal, and it’s a bigger deal when it’s on the back of a Super Bowl win.

The media will be everywhere. All the time.

I’m already in the gossip columns on a daily basis; I don’t need to add fuel to the fire. And Dad doesn’t need that either.

I can see it now. Has Paige D’Angelo moved on with one of her father’s players?

I’d rather avoid that if I can.

Plus, I have no intention of dating anyone at the moment. Things are complicated enough.

“I think I’ll pass this time. Maybe another day?”

“Sounds good.”

I settle into my new apartment, and by seven p.m., I’m starving for something my dad didn’t have pre-stocked in my fridge. A sweet treat.

So after throwing on a more respectable outfit, I go in search of cookies, and call my mom on the way, missing the sound of her voice.

“Hi Sweetie,” she answers nicely, and then… “When are you coming home?”

“ Mom .”

“I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” She’s not. “Have you found anyone special yet?”

I don’t bother hiding my groan as I answer. “As I told you last time we spoke, I’m not looking for anyone.”

“I know you said that. But it wouldn’t hurt to put yourself out there again. Christian’s moved on and—”

“I look like the poor little girl that got left behind?”

“No. Of course not. Never. No.” That’s a yes.

If she was standing in front of me, I’d give her a death stare. But since she’s not, the man walking toward me in the lobby is bearing the brunt of my gaze.

And now he’s stopping. Dammit .

I hold up my phone to signal that I’m busy, but he doesn’t take the hint, asking me if I’m Paige from the Internet, his voice in a whisper. I shake my head no but he doesn’t believe me. And when I take a step out of his way, he follows.

A shiver runs through me, and I’m about to tell him to politely fuck off, when a man comes into view, with a newly familiar glare, and my pulse spikes.

“Oh my God!” I gasp out loud. “I’m sorry,” I tell both the stalker guy in front of me and my mom on the phone. “I just saw a long-lost friend,” I lie. “I have to go.” I walk away without a backward glance and lower my phone, my mom’s rushed “What?” the last thing I hear before I hang up.

My lips pull into a smile and I become the stalker, following my new “friend” until he stops in front of the elevator, only then calling out, “Window-seat guy!”

To my surprise, he turns, his expression doing nothing to hide his shock.

What are the chances?

I glance over my shoulder to make sure my stalker hasn’t followed and breathe a sigh of relief as I rush to catch up to the only person I know in this city other than my dad.

And he just unknowingly came to my rescue. Again.

I owe him a drink.