Page 15 of Delicate Storm

“Brant Webster.”

“Who?”

“The guy that painted the mural on the Westerly Hotel.”

“The graffiti guy?”

“He prefers to be called an artist.”

“I’m done. Tell your agent he’s dealing withmenow. It’s my house. I call the shots. And if you don’t speak to your son withinthe next couple of days, don’t bother calling him at all. Ever. Happy? I made the decision for you. Bye, Macy.”

I hang up as I pull over to the side of the road, something I probably should have done when I first answered. My heart pounds as a tightness fills my chest.

I never planned on giving her an ultimatum, but enough is enough and she pushed me to the edge.

My priority in all of this is Isaac. He deserves better. He deserves the world, and I will fight anyone that says otherwise.

But if she doesn’t call…if my plan backfires… What the hell do I tell Isaac?

CHAPTER FOUR

Paige

A MONTH LATER

We’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’sme. 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 arethey?

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