Page 33 of Mr. Aster
“Get to your point,” I snapped.
“We have so much money that when someone writes things about us that we don’t like, especially if we don’t want it talked about?—”
“Yeah, okay, Sebastian,” I said his first name to avoid his games of stupid formalities. “I’m not writing anything about you, nor do I care to. I do not wantyou,of all people, to take up space in my head.”
“I know. You told me you wouldn’t write about me a few moments ago.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“As I was saying, if someone were to read something that disagreed with them, they might be inclined to sue you or even take down the entire business, especially a tiny Clarke Kent publication likeLifestyles, which is most likely operating from a tiny office in Los Angeles, barely able to keep the lights on.”
“What are you trying to say? Are you just trying to insult Mr. Juniper’s business because I work there?”
“Carson Juniper is a fool for owning that ridiculous magazine. I’d never even heard of it until I did a little research on you because of this benefit.”
“What are you driving at, Sebastian? If you won’t sue me for writing nothing about you, why are you saying any of this?”
He grinned, and dammit, he was so fucking gorgeous that I couldn’t stand it. His perfectly polished teeth and his light beard growth were accentuating?—
Stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you?I thought, my hormones dominating my anger for a brief second. I needed to back up. I was standing too close to him, and his intoxicating cologne was fucking with me.
“I’m saying this because I wonder if you recall a certain woman. Does the name Tiffany Beaumont ring a bell?”
“Sure, she’s the billionaire heiress I wrote about years ago,” I said, confused about why he’d bring her up.
“You say that like you got away with something.”
“I didn’t getawaywith anything. I wrote only facts. Not one lie, not one scandal.”
He smirked, “You don’t think that writing about her dating a collegefrat boywasn’t scandalous for a woman of her status?”
“I didn’t say she dated a…” I drifted off, forgetting what I had said when I wrote about Tiffany and Chad’s relationship a couple of years ago. The magazine wasn’t even big back then, so no one hardly read it. How the hell did this guy read it?
“Allow me to refresh your memory,” he said, sliding open his phone and smirking down before clearing his throat. “Billionaire Heiress Finds Love in a College Frat Boy: A Modern Fairy Tale.”
He paused to see if that title evoked a reaction, but I was trying to remember having the balls to write such a cheesy headline. So, he went on.
“Once upon a time in the glittering world of the elite, where champagne flowed like water and private jets were as common as taxis, there lived a billionaire heiress whose name was synonymous with extravagance. Let’s call her Tiffany.” He looked up at my blank expression. “Jarring any memories yet?”
“No, and that title is so lame. I’m shocked you’d think I’d write something like that,” I answered casually.
“Oh, your name is right at the top,” he turned the phone to show me, and I batted it away.
I should’ve been more embarrassed that he’d dug up this cheesy thing that I’d put my name on than I was pissed off that he was baiting me with it for some dumb reason.
“…Tiffany had everything a girl could dream of—a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a closet bursting with designer labels, and a fleet of luxury cars that could rival a dealership. But despite all her riches, there was one thing Tiffany couldn’t buy:true love,” he batted his eyes, acting like an immature idiot while mocking this damn story.
It was slowly starting to come back to me. The dark-haired beauty was the heiress to her father’s globally successful hotel chain, and she fell for a guy named Chad. I thought their love story was cute, but I didn’t recall writing it to sound so fucking corny. Oh, whatever. I was young and new to all of this. The real shame here is that I thought this was amazing at the time.
Because I didn’t interrupt him, Sebastian pressed on, “Enter Chad, a strapping young lad with a heart of gold and a GPA thatbarely scraped by,” he said like some dad, reading a fairytale bedtime story. “He was thequintessentialcollege frat boy—perpetually clad in a backward baseball cap and sporting a grin that could charm the pants off anyone (quite literally, in some cases),” he stopped, laughing at the lame remark I’d added.
I must’ve been high when I wrote this.
“Tiffany and Chad’s paths crossed one fateful night at a charity gala, where Tiffany was holding court in a gown that cost more than Chad’s entire tuition. Chad,emboldenedby a few too many glasses of champagne, sauntered up to her and uttered theimmortal words: ‘Hey there, beautiful. Wanna dance?’” I could tell he was working hard not to laugh at this stupid story I’d written about the heiress. “To everyone's shock—including Chad’s—Tiffany said yes!” He practically yelled with all his dramatic emphasis.
“Okay, I get it,” I held my hands up. “I was a young, verynewjournalist when I wrote that about Tiffany, and that was so long ago that she probably doesn’t even remember Chad.”
“That’s the point,” he said, his dark eyes staring into my soul. “If she were to find out about it, it might jar her memory. I’m sure her current husband, Andrew Wellington, wouldneverapprove of this, especially since she gave birth to their twins four months ago. His family would be outraged to know a small press had published this for profit. Did you have Tiffany’s permission to publish this story about her wild and unruly dating years?”
