Page 13

Chapter

Twelve

TINSEL AND TEMPER TANTRUMS

Madden

“Ho, ho, ho. Fuck off.” – M

P ing.

Ping.

Ping.

I sigh, feeling tired as I scroll through my phone with a scowl. More fake news flashes across the screen, twisting the story and painting me in an even worse light. Frustration starts to boil inside me. It’s all bullshit— the articles and the insincere messages popping up from faceless women from my past. They were always a blur in my head and a means to an end. Fucked up? Yes. Do I care? No. I never promised them anything and they wanted their two seconds of fame when they were hanging from my arm at every event or night out. They knew what they were getting into when they agreed to climb into my bed.

Their fake flattery and bullshit sympathy will get them nowhere now.

More text messages come in.

Perry: Hang in there, champ. It’s almost over. The media will move on if we don’t give them what they want. Rem is working on the first and only statement we will put out. She’ll be sending it to you soon to get the okay.

Remi: The media are parasites but they won’t keep us down, yeah? Here’s a statement that disproves your brother’s lies.

Lincoln: Hey, boss. You’re out of toilet paper. Can you call the reception and ask for more?

I ignore the first, intending to answer them later when I have the energy to deal with that shit.

I do answer the nuisance currently shitting in my bathroom.

Me: Are you shitting in my bathroom?

Lincoln: Why are you asking stupid questions, boss?

Me: You’re disgusting. Wipe your ass with your hands and get the fuck out.

Lincoln: I’ll use the white towels then.

Done with him and everything else, I pocket the phone.

Leaning against the railing, I watch as the sun rises high in the sky, casting a golden light over my hotel. I then reach for the mug of black coffee that’s hot enough to be enjoyable but cool enough to drink without wincing. I stare down at my coffee, watching the steam dance above the surface. The mug is plain white compared to the ones they used before with Santa, elves, and reindeer designs. My thoughts drift to how my staff had listened and stopped shoving Christmas shit down my throat in every meal and every corner of my suite.

I take another sip of coffee as I look out over the hotel, watching the early morning activities unfold. Guests swarm the area looking eager to start their day and get the most out of their time here.

My gaze drifts from the guests gathered at the buffet line to the pool and beach area below. And there it is—today’s theme: Candy Cane Madness .

A growl rumbles in my throat as I take in the sight. The three pools burst with red and white stripes, candy canes bobbing lazily in the water. It’s like the entire area has transformed into a giant red and white candy carnival. The beach isn’t any better. A massive candy cane-themed water slide snakes its way from a towering structure where lifeguards stand ready to hand out life vests and giant floaties to the guests lined up on the sand.

Everywhere I look, it’s an over-the-top holiday extravaganza.

I can’t help but snarl.

But then my gaze shifts back to the guests. Children’s faces light up as they rush to the slide, laughter ringing out as they zoom down, while their parents cheer them on and capture the moment with their cameras. Families lounge by the pool, their smiles wide and genuine as they splash among the floating candy canes.

Despite my personal aversion to the holiday, this festive bullshit seems to bring joy to others.

As much as I hate this shit, I have to admit that this kind of spectacle is part of why my hotels are so successful around the globe. My chain of hotels is known for creating an unforgettable experience, no matter how excruciatingly tedious it might be for me. It’s that commitment to excellence that draws people in and keeps them coming back. The smiles on their faces right now as they enjoy the pool and the beach are a testament to that success.

As I take another sip of my coffee, my phone buzzes softly. I pull it out from my pocket and look away from the red and white chaos below to focus on the screen. Another email from Perry. The subject line reads “Background check” , and the attachment labeled “Willow O’Sullivan” makes my pulse quicken.

I set my coffee down, hesitating above the screen. I had requested this background check ages ago, when I was still trying to make a name for myself, away from shadows of my past. I asked for it, then I told Perry to trash the file. I didn’t want to bring back memories I long buried and had no purpose in my life anymore.

I don’t want to revisit the memories of a time when I was struggling to survive, but now that she’s here, I can’t help but feel curious about her life.

She’s an ecologist and biologist, but that’s all I know about her.

I remember the girl she once was.

The girl who was kind and smart and loved her family fiercely. The girl who cared for plants—even those ugly little fucking mushrooms— like they were her friends. The girl who adored her mother’s waffles and confetti cake.

But she’s a woman now.

I don’t know the woman and the fact that I want to know her is fucking with my head.

With a deep breath, I tap on the email, the screen flickering as the attachment begins to download. The document finally opens, and I steel myself as I start skimming through the text. Details about Willow’s background—her career, achievements, and milestones—unfold on the screen.

She was taken out of school at fifteen and was homeschooled before she quickly went to college at just seventeen, Penn university. Her grades were phenomenal and she graduated top of her class.

She was taken out of school? My grip on the phone tightens as I think of what could’ve happened for her to leave school in the middle of the school year. Then memories of instances where she was picked on in school by asshole kids resurface.

Fuck, fairy. Did things get worse for you?

Anger simmers in my veins as I think back to the times she came home with red and puffy eyes because kids mocked her. Motherfucker.

I take a deep breath to calm the rage building inside me and sit back.

As I scroll through the file, my eyes are drawn to another shocking detail: “Father: Head of the O’Sullivan Clan—Irish American mafia family controlling Philadelphia. Known as the Godfather of the city.”

I blink, staring at the words, my mind racing to process what I just read.

The O’Sullivan clan?

I’ve heard of the infamous crime organization, but I never connected it to the family that took me in for those two years.

The more I think about it, the more it all makes sense. I remember the big, tattooed men flanking us, always hovering in the background, but I’d brushed it off as Willow’s uncles. They were never harsh and I never noticed anything out of the ordinary. The O’ Sullivan men who loved and protected Mila and Willow were a bunch of grumpy yet loving people. That’s all I remember. Sure, I heard rumors about them but I never thought them to be true.

If only I had known that then things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did but then I wouldn't have ended up where I was born to be at…the top.

I set the phone down, and turn my attention back to the scene below and think of her.

And as I’m lost in all things Willow O’Sullivan, Lincoln’s annoying as fuck voice breaks through my thoughts. “Thanks for fucking nothing, man,” he says, his tone annoyed, “and just so you know, I left you a little Christmas gift on your bathroom floor.”

I cringe.

Fucking disgusting.

I look his way and give him a dull look, feeling my patience wear thin. “How about you do something useful instead of grating on my last nerve?” I snap, my irritation evident.

The asshole smirks as he always does when I lose my composure. “Like what?”

Staring off at the sea, I shrug, “Go drown at sea or something.”

A moment of silence falls between us followed by Lincoln’s sarcastic laughter. “Man, you kill me.”

If only it were that easy.

“Fuck off.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll be inside. Call me if you need me.” He then retreats inside the suite, leaving me to my thoughts.

I take a deep sigh, and lean back reaching for my phone again.

I open my social media app, and look for Willow’s social media profile as it is listed in her file. The feed loads, and I find myself scrolling through a series of posts that paint a vivid picture of her everyday life.

The first thing that stands out is the sheer number of selfies Willow posts—each one taken outdoors, capturing her love for nature. I can’t help but zoom in on her face in every picture. Fuck, she’s beautiful. In one photo, she’s practicing yoga with a golden retriever puppy playfully nipping at her heels. The image is cute as fuck, her smile is wide and her eyes radiate her inner light.

I hate animals. Hell, I hate most things with pulse. But she doesn’t. She loves everything—every damn thing.

Further down, I see older photos of mushrooms and plants, and butterflies that I assume are from her mother’s greenhouse slash butterfly conservatory. The captions are mostly emojis or facts about plants or mushrooms. I scroll through her profile, reading every single caption until I reach the first photo she posted. It’s a makeup-free shot of her looking up at the sun, her wild curls blowing in the wind. She looks happy and free. I must have lost my damn mind because, before I know it, I’m taking a screenshot and saving it to my phone’s gallery. For what? I don’t fucking know. I just do.

Her life in photos confirms what I’ve always known. She’s too good for me, and her world is so far removed from my own. Hers is simple, full of life, color and love, while mine is cold, colorless, shallow— cutthroats and ruthless.

Closing the app, I force myself to stop stalking her like a creep and I glance up, spotting her in the flesh as she walks across the hotel grounds below, smiling shyly at every one she passes. Thud. Thud. Thud. Fuck, my chest.

She’s carrying a backpack as big as she is, a white coat draped over one arm. Next to her is that colleague with the ugly vests— I already forgot his name. Edgard? Emmett? I couldn’t care less.

What I do care about is the way his pathetic and needy gaze is fixed on Willow, filled with unmistakable adoration. Irritation flares within me, twisting into something ugly. The fuck’s smitten expression as he walks alongside Willow doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t like the way he looks at her, like she’s the only thing that matters in his world. It’s a look that’s all too familiar, and it stirs up a possessiveness that pisses me off because I have no right to feel this way.

It’s her.

It’s fucking her.

She’s messing with my carefully laid plans. I’m a man who prides himself on control, and here she is, disrupting my world and driving me insane.

I slam the phone down onto the table, the sudden impact making the coffee slosh dangerously close to the edge of the mug. My mood darkens as I push myself up from the chair, my quiet and peaceful morning now ruined by the jealousy gnawing at me.

I move to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing tightly, ruining the decoration as I scowl at the scene below. Willow and that asshole stroll along, oblivious to my seething gaze. I can’t stand the thought of the fucker being so close to her. Fuck.

I rub my chest, trying to get rid of the ache there. It feels like I’m on the outside looking in, and the feeling gnaws at me. “Fuck this,” I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists.

I storm off the balcony, the tension in my chest intensifying with every step. My thoughts are a chaotic jumble of jealousy and frustration, and I can’t stand the noise in my head. I stride towards the door leading back into the suite.

Lincoln’s voice slices through the red haze. “Where the fuck are you going now?”

I don’t slow down or look back; my mood is souring by the second.

Fucking fairy, what the hell are you doing to me?