Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways)

Present

Arya arrived at the courtroom the first day of the trial.

Clearly, she’d decided to give my friendly advice a nice, long middle finger with a side of mind-your-own-business clapback.

At least she opted to take a seat in the public seating area and not the family bench, where she’d be visible. Conrad Roth never had hired a female litigator like I’d suggested to his daughter. Whether it was out of pride or because he knew he couldn’t worm his way out of this mess was anyone’s guess.

Five victims, accusing Roth of six counts of harassment each, seeking $200 million combined in compensation, $40 million each.

Unlike other sexual predators of his position and wealth, he’d done a piss-poor job at covering his tracks. I estimated it at four weeks before Judge Lopez would ask us for our closing statements.

I stood in front of Judge Lopez’s bench for my opening statement, clad in my Brunello Cucinelli suit and grave expression. It took everything in me to rip my eyes from the woman in the last row of the courtroom. Arya sat with her back ramrod straight and her nose tilted up. The picture of poised elegance. She’d stopped hitting the pool, so I’d had a week to stew on our last encounter, in which she’d pretty much told me to go shove it when I’d offered to take her for dinner. Naturally, it made me want her even more.

I wasn’t sure when, exactly, the line between wanting to screw her over and screw her, period, had begun to blur. But I knew I was straddling it like an eager stripper performing at a bachelor party for tips.

No matter how irrational, how illogical, how dangerous (and there was no denying that touching her could complicate my case, my partner prospect, and my life in general) it was, I wanted Arya.

Deserved her too. After everything she’d put me through, having her in my bed was the perfect consolation prize.

She could go her merry way after I was done with her, probably to marry beneath her pedigree, now that Daddy dearest would be banished from the hedge fund company he managed and exiled from polite society.

Unfortunately for Arya, and maybe for myself, my opening statement included a presentation showing a dick picture of her father, which he’d sent a twenty-three-year-old intern, and which was enlarged on a screen in the middle of the room, pubes and half-mast erection intact.

I tried hard not to look at Arya while I explained to the jurors that her father had sent an image of his penis to someone younger than his own daughter, feeling sick to my stomach. And then ignored her after that, too, when my client tearfully explained on the stand how scarred she was by the (quite literal) revelation that her boss was a dick.

The first day of trial proceeded smoothly. The plaintiffs were compelling. The jurors warmed up to them. I gave an Oscar-worthy performance, making a show of listening and bunching my eyebrows together in concern at all the right places.

When Judge Lopez banged his gavel and said the court stood in recess, I turned around to Arya’s seat and found it empty.

I proceeded with the plaintiffs and Claire through the double doors of the courtroom, out to the foyer, breaking the day down to digestible bullet points for my clients. I descended the courthouse stairway, slipping between the grand columns. Rain clung to my suit. Across the street, a flash of rowdy chestnut hair I’d recognize anywhere disappeared behind the door of a coffee shop.

Arya.

“I’ll catch you back at the office.” I touched Claire’s arm, just as she turned toward me, saying, “Would you like to grab some coffee on our way so we could talk?”

She stopped, swallowed hard, then nodded. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

With my eyes still glued to the coffee shop’s door, I crossed the street and strolled inside. Arya was already seated, cradling a cup of coffee at a high window-facing table, staring into it. I slipped into the stool in front of her, knowing full well that I was playing with matches next to a six-gallon barrel of explosives.

“How’re we feeling today?” I recognized on impact that it was the wrong thing to ask. How the heck did I think she was feeling? I’d just spent the last seven hours nailing her father’s metaphorical coffin closed before dumping it in the ocean.

Arya looked up from her coffee cup, a little disoriented. The rain knocked on the window in front of us.

“Aren’t lawyers supposed to be good with social cues? Take a hint,” she groaned, rubbing at her eyes.

“I’m more of a straight-shooting kind of guy.” I placed my briefcase between us.

She put the rim of her cup to her lips, nibbling on it. “Is that so? Here’s a truth bomb for you, then—I don’t want to talk to you, Christian. Ever.”

“Why’d you come here today?” I asked, ignoring her words. I didn’t make it a habit to harass women, or even give them the time of day unless they vied for it. But I knew Arya’s defense mechanism was pushing people away—we were cut from the same cloth—and wasn’t completely certain she wanted to be alone right now. “He didn’t even acknowledge you.”

“There was a picture of his penis the size of a movie screen in the middle of the courtroom. A little hard to look your child in the eye after that.”

“Exactly. You can’t possibly believe he’s innocent after that.”

“I’m not sure he is innocent at all.” She set her cup back on the table and spun it with her fingers absentmindedly. “I’m in the reasonable-doubt zone. But you are right. He has been ignoring me. He wouldn’t even take any of my calls.”

“That’s a form of guilt admission.” I grabbed the cup from between her fingers and took a sip. She took her coffee with no sugar and no milk. Just like me. “Which brings me to my original point—why are you here?”

“It’s hard to let go of your only family. Even if said family is horrible. It’s worse than if he’d died. Because if he died, at least I could still love him.”

Being the son of two asshole parents, I could relate.

“What about your mother?” I asked.

“She’s not much of a mother, to be honest. That’s why I think I managed to overlook the glaring signals from Dad. You said you’re not close to your parents, right?”

I smiled tersely. “Not particularly.”

“Only child?”

I nodded.

“Do you ever wish you had siblings?” She propped her chin on her fist.

“No. The less people in my life, the better. What about you?”

“I had a brother,” she mused, staring at the rain, which was coming down harder. “But he died a very long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes I think I will always be a half of something. Never a whole person.”

“Don’t say that.”

I’d never met anyone as whole as you, imperfections and all.

Suddenly, Arya frowned, cocking her head sideways as she studied me. “Wait, are you even supposed to talk to me?”

“You’re not a part of the case anymore. You no longer provide professional services to your father, and your name is not on the witness list.”

Though ethically, my speaking to the defendant’s daughter was unorthodox at best and a dumpster fire at worse.

She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t?”

I shook my head. “He removed all mentions of your company from his websites a couple days after I visited your office. At your request, I assumed.”

Arya’s thickly fringed eyes flared. Obviously, my assumption had been wrong. She shot up to her feet, knocking her coffee over. Brown liquid spilled over the table and floor. She righted the cup with shaky hands. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Miller.”

She slapped the door open, running off to the street. I grabbed my briefcase and followed her, recognizing how goddamn thoughtless I was. At this point, I was begging to get in trouble. Judge Lopez would have every right to dismiss me from the case if he found out what I was doing.

History repeats itself.

“Arya, stop.” I shouldered past the Manhattan evening crowd. Rain came down in sheets on both of us, weighing her crazy hair down. She picked up her pace. She was running. From me. And I was chasing her.

My legs moved faster.

“Arya!” I barked. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say to her. I just knew I wanted to get the last word in. The rain beat down on my face. She halted at an intersection, at a red light. Trapped, she turned around, her posture guarded, like she was ready to pounce. Her green eyes danced in their sockets.

“What? What do you want from me, Christian?”

Everything, and nothing at all.

Your tears, your apologies, your regret, and your body.

Most of all, I want you to remember. What we used to be. And what we can never be anymore.

I ran a hand over my soaked hair. “Why did you stop coming to the pool?”

She threw her head back and laughed. She was so beautiful I wanted to strangle myself for taking the case. For not letting Conrad Roth get nailed by someone else while I conducted a sordid affair with his daughter. Full of naked weekends in exotic places, champagne, and kinky sex.

She grumbled. “I wanted to get some dirt on you. Then I . . .” She trailed off, stopping herself at the last minute, not wanting to complete the sentence. “Then I realized you are not the real villain in the story,” she finished quietly.

“I’m not.” But the words felt funky in my mouth, because in some ways, I was. Neither of us gave a rat’s ass about the rain pounding on our faces as we stood in the middle of the street. Her scent, of peaches and sugar and Arya, amplified through the rain. The light turned green behind her back. I stepped closer, my fingers twitching to cup her cheek. “Cut your losses. Turn your back on your father like he turned his back on you. Have dinner with me.”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Raindrops flew from her hair. Suddenly, we were back to being fourteen. I glued my forehead to hers, breathing her in. Shockingly, she didn’t push me away. Our hair was plastered together, our noses touching. Her heart pounded against mine. I wanted to do things I had no business thinking about.

“God.” She curled her fists, pressing them against my chest. “I want this to stop.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I was, at least in that moment. It was a moment of pure, simple old Nicky, with his stupid weakness for this girl.

“I feel so lost.” She exhaled.

“You’ll find yourself, soon enough. When the trial ends. When the dust settles.”

“Is fucking a Roth a longtime dream of yours?” Her lips moved so close to mine I could taste them.

“Not generally, no. But one in particular, yes. It’s on my bucket list.”

“And do you always achieve what’s on your bucket list?” Lips against lips. Skin against skin.

“Most times,” I admitted.

“Well, you’re not getting me.”

“You’re already halfway mine.”

Our bodies were flush together, our clothes soaking wet, but she didn’t cower. She didn’t step back. I remembered the twelve-year-old girl who wouldn’t let me win one stupid argument while we hung out at the cemetery. That girl was still there.

“Wanna bet?” Drops of water hung from her eyelashes, and she’d never looked more beautiful, more destructive, more real.

“Sure.” I spoke into her mouth. “Let’s make it interesting. If we have sex, you are paying me for all the dinners I’m going to take you to retroactively.”

Someone pushed past us, almost knocking Arya into the street on their quest to find a dry spot. I pulled her by the waist into me, back to safety. Our gazes didn’t break.

“How chivalrous of you. And if I win and we don’t sleep together, you are going to answer all of my questions about my father’s case.”

“I can’t do that.”

“After it’s over,” she clarified. “Which is also the timeline for this bet.”

I tucked wet tresses of hair behind her ears. “Within reason, and with my attorney-client-confidentiality agreement in mind, you have a deal.”

“How long will the trial last for?” she asked. I was mesmerized by her lips. How wet they were. The way they pouted around different vowels as she spoke.

“Four weeks. Five, if your father’s legal team gets its head out of their asses and shows up, which frankly seems unlikely.”

“Better get your game on.” She offered me a vixenish wink.

I watched her go, feeling robbed somehow.

Ari and Nicky.

Nicky and Ari.

Then, I hadn’t been enough.

I was going to prove to her that nowadays, I was more than she could handle.

Later that evening, Arsène and I were in a trendy SoHo bar when we met Jason Hatter, a nice enough chap who’d gone to Harvard Law School with me. He spotted us from across the bar, kissed his date’s cheek, and made his way to us. He told us he’d recently made it to partner at his own firm, but he looked about as jolly as a man who had to lick armpits for a living.

“You’re still not partner?” Jason asked, more surprised than cocky about it. He was a nice guy, but he sure was as tactless as a used napkin.

“Christian is still working his charms on Daddy and Daddy.” Arsène patted the small of my back, like I was his date or some shit. I swatted his hand away with a glare.

“I’ll be made partner this year,” I told Jason.

“Well, I don’t doubt it. You have made yourself quite a name. My girlfriend’s asking if you’re seeing anyone.”

I thought about Arya, not Claire, before shaking my head. “But no offense, pal, I’m not into the whole threesome thing.”

Jason laughed. “I meant she wants to set you up with a friend.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Not into that either.”

After Jason left, Arsène turned to look at me, a smirk full of triumph playing on his lips. “Back to your story. Just so we’re on the same wavelength here, you’re saying you chased her down the street?”

I cradled my brandy, rubbing my knuckles over my jaw. “Correct.”

“And then,” Arsène continued, speaking extra slowly, staring at me like I should be wearing a helmet, because I was a danger to myself and everyone around me, “you bet her you could make her sleep with you, even though you don’t even have her phone number?”

“I do have her phone number,” I pointed out. “She just didn’t technically volunteer it to me.”

“Define technically.”

“I asked my secretary to find it.”

Arsène nodded silently, letting me digest just how crazy it sounded to an outsider.

“Then you almost kissed her.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Because . . . ?”

“That would complicate things.”

This one was a lie. Truth was, I’d known she’d push me away, and I was biding my time.

“Sorry to break it to you, bud, but the train of complicated has departed. You’re in dumpster-fire territory. Bottom line is, you’re toast,” Arsène said matter-of-factly. “You never cross the line of professionalism. With Arya, you ran over that bitch with a Formula One car, then did doughnuts on it.”

“Don’t make me the saint I’m not.” I swirled my drink in its tumbler. And then, because apparently I now wanted to prove my lack of professionalism, “I had sex with Claire.”

“Some sex it was. The woman was more vanilla than a fudge-cake ice cream. You kept her around out of sheer convenience and did everything in your power to keep your affair under wraps. Plus, it didn’t even last three months.”

“Claire was bad press, even after I informed HR about us.” I waved him off. “She works under me.”

“Not in the way she’d like.” Arsène tilted his glass up, downing his drink, and slammed it against the wooden bar. “Besides, it was never about the press. Arya Roth is your kryptonite. You should’ve never taken the case, and now you can’t back down. Unless, of course, you want to see your career go up in flames.”

A busty redhead slid between us just then, wrapped in a black leather skirt and what looked like a red bra missing a few parts. She shot me a feline smile, jerking her head sideways. “My friends over there bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t get you to buy me a drink. What do you think?”

“I think”—I smiled cordially, leaning toward her, whispering in her ear—“you just became fifty bucks poorer.”

The woman’s smile morphed into a scowl, and she backed away, stomping back to her clones. She was exactly my type, but I needed a little more than a carbon copy of my last one-night stand. I wanted someone to challenge me, to fight me, to drive me nuts. And that someone was currently blue balling me for going after her father.

I turned back to Arsène, finding him beyond amused as he shook his head. “So toast.”

“What now?” I hissed.

“Old Christian wouldn’t say no to a night of no-strings-attached sex with Jessica Rabbit.”

“Old Christian doesn’t have to wake up at six tomorrow to prepare for trial.”

“Sure.” Arsène patted my shoulder, chuckling. “New Christian can sell himself this load of baloney if it makes him feel better.”

That evening, when I took an Uber back home, I asked the driver to make a pit stop at Arya’s work address. I didn’t care what Arsène thought. All I needed was one taste before I discarded Arya right along with her father back to my past.

I knew Arya and I had no future. Not only because she’d pretended to be a trustworthy person only to stab me in the back, but also because she literally thought I was someone else. A relationship wasn’t on the table. Arya would run for the hills the minute she found out who I really was.

Besides—fourteen-year-old Arya had crushed me for nothing more than blood sport. What would thirty-one-year-old Arya do when she found out the game I was playing?

The damp streets of Manhattan blurred through the window before the driver stopped by the redbrick building where Brand Brigade was situated. It was ten thirty at night. Arya’s office light was on through her window.

I watched as she floated around her office, plucking paper from the printer, while talking on the phone.

She’d grown up to be a workaholic. Just like me.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” I asked absentmindedly, still staring at her through the window.

“It’s been fifteen minutes.”

It has?

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. I hadn’t even known I’d said it out loud. “We good to go?”

“Yeah.” I played with my matchbook. “Home it is.”