Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(22)

I took a sip, blinking at an invisible spot on my wall.

“Should I be looking into this more?” I grumbled, mainly to myself. “I mean, if you strip away the fact that this man is my dad, the allegations against him are pretty gross.”

Jillian shook her head vehemently. “Hello, I grew up with you, remember? Been to your house every day since junior high. I know Conrad. He’s the guy who takes you to the Cloisters every month, who gave his secretary a yearlong paid vacation when she gave birth. Hello? Who cares what Amanda Gispen says?”

I wanted to take every word Jillian had said and ink it into my flesh.

“If Amanda lied—why would she go all the way to court?” I played devil’s advocate.

“Because he turned her down? Because they had a thing and he broke things off?” Jillian offered. “There could be a hundred different reasons. People perpetuate drama all the time. Amanda can say whatever she wants.”

“Under oath?” I took another sip of my wine. “She could face jail time if she gets caught.”

“She could, but it’s unlikely. I just don’t see this thing having legs, Ari.” Jillian offered me a comforting smile. “He’ll be fine.”

I nibbled on the side of my lip, my thoughts ping-ponging from Christian’s hate-filled eyes to Dad’s expression, full of pain, embarrassment, and disbelief.

“Side note—I can’t stand the lawyer who represents Amanda Gispen.”

“Lawyers aren’t exactly known as the professional world’s Labradors.” Jillian gave me a pitying, you-should-know-better look.

“Yeah, but this one takes the seven-tier shit cake, Jilly.”

“Who is it?” Jillian bumped her toes against mine over the duvet, the way Nicky used to do when we were kids, reading books under my library desk. A wistful smile touched my lips. Oh, Nicky.

I remembered the day I’d called Dad’s personal PI and asked him to look Nicky up. To see if he was okay. It was the first call I made after I turned eighteen. I paid the PI with the money I’d saved over the summer selling tourist paraphernalia.

Nicholai is dead, Arya.

The revelation was followed by denial, anger, tears, and a mini breakdown. You know, to wrap it all up in a nice bow. The PI explained to me that this was the nature of the beast. That kids like Nicky often fell through the system’s cracks. That he’d probably died of an overdose or in a knife fight or as a result of a DUI. But I’d known Nicholai well, and he hadn’t been some punk who was up to no good. It was hard to believe he was no longer sharing the same slice of baby-blue sky I lived under.

“Just the most infuriating man on planet Earth,” I groaned into my drink.

“Does the most infuriating man on planet Earth have a name?” Jillian probed.

“A generic one,” I huffed. “Christian Miller. Or what I prefer to call him—Lucifer incarnate.”

Jillian sprayed the red wine all over my tweed dress and duvet, choking on a laugh.

“Say that again?”

“I prefer to call him Luc—”

“Yeah, I got that part. What’s his name?”

“Christian Miller,” I repeated, annoyed. “Thanks for staining my Egyptian cotton sheets, by the way. You’re a pal.”

Jillian stood up and dashed out to the living room and returned clutching a glossy magazine I did not recognize, because contrary to Christian’s belief, I did not read any gossip or fashion magazines (not that there was anything wrong with doing that).

She leafed through the pages until she found what she was looking for, then proceeded to wave it in my face in triumph. I recognized Christian through puffy eyes, looking to the camera in a dashing tux, his hair sexily disheveled, his smirk promising a good time and a bad breakup.

“What am I looking at?” I asked, as if my ability to use my vision had evaporated sometime in the last five seconds.

“Read the headline.”

“‘Thirty-Five under Thirty-Five: New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors Revealed!’”

Great. Not only was he rich, handsome, and dead set on ruining my family; he was also widely celebrated in the city we shared. I skimmed through the details.

Name: Christian George Miller.

Age: 32.

Occupation: Litigator at Cromwell & Traurig.

Net Worth: 4 Million dollars.

Height: 6’2’’.

Dream Woman: Would it be politically incorrect if I said I preferred blondes? Deep brown eyes. Tall and leggy. A science-related degree a bonus. Someone serious, a must. Enjoys parties, fine wine, and taking the paths less traveled in life.

I clutched my glass of cabernet to my chest, feeling personally attacked. His dream woman happened to be the polar opposite of me. Almost like he’d designed her envisioning everything that I wasn’t.

Calm your tits, Ari. He wasn’t throwing shade. He didn’t know you existed until six hours ago.

“I know we’re supposed to hate him, but since he is going to lose this case and get a giant slice of humble pie, can you tell me if he is as gorgeous in real life as he is in the picture?” Jillian repositioned herself on my bed.

Sadly, he looked even better up close. Of course, I wasn’t gracious enough to admit that.

“He’s hideous. Barf worthy.” I flung the stupid magazine into a trash can nearby, not surprised to find Christian’s face still smirking at me from the edge of said trash can. The man was going to haunt me through this lifetime and, very likely, the next four, if reincarnation was a thing. “It’s all Photoshop. He looks like a cross between an ogre and Richard Ramirez.”