Montenegro Williams the first

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Married for A Million Dollars:

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Chapter 1: Montenegro Williams the first

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Not only is curdled milk revolting, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan—or whatever magazine Ariana had curiously picked up from her neighbor’s recycling bin last week—called it a bad omen.

And then further added that in some dreams is interpreted as a sign of dirty money.

While that does give her a sense of apprehension to look forward to for the rest of her day, she assures herself that she’s unfortunately not living a dream, but reality.

Plus, the only reason why his milk expired was because she hadn’t found the time to clean out her fridge nor the money for groceries yet.

So here Ariana is, finally throwing the milk out and mixes a concoction of leftover peanut butter crackers and cookie crumbs from the pits of her dwindling cookie jar as breakfast.

She downs half a bowl and washes it away with a cup of black coffee before grabbing her keys and starting her walk to the bus station for her seven a.m shift at Roswell.

Roswell is a three star diner at the corner of a bustling street. It’s home to both old and new players of the money industry who surprisingly respect and endorse the place. Surprisingly. Its tiny kitchen serves greasy breakfast goodness from seven to twelve, and just as fattening lunch from twelve to four.

After all the other shops in the plaza close, Roswell’s private lounge opens to a night of politics, soju, and an all-you-can-eat buffet, meat edition.

Ariana started working at Vene when she was fifteen. Back then she could only take the breakfast and lunch shifts since she wasn’t old enough to serve the evening alcohol.

As a sophomore, she’d take afternoon shifts and the seven a.m ones on weekends. It made good money—and majority of the customers were white-collared workers who paid generous tips and cleaned up after themselves.

Occasionally they’ll receive the less-dressed, perverted, seedier diners.

It was during senior year when she took the opportunity to study dance at an academy in America that she missed the diner for seven months. She missed working there so much that she showed up at George’s office straight from the airport, asking for her old job back, which her manager was happily obliged to give.

That was also when Gianna realized her job wasn’t just a nice pastime. It was the only thing that pulled her the past year.

Times have been tough lately.

Which is why Gianna needs this job.

She would do anything to keep it.

And by anything that means preventing herself from physically assaulting annoying customers, no matter how gross or complicated they were being.

That meant she had to try her damndest  from hurling a glass pitcher onto this beautiful man’s face.

Williams Montenegro, qualified asshole.

Sal poked his head in the break room earlier where Ariana was catching up with her psychology notes and informed her that Mr. Montenegro had specifically requested for her.

That puzzled Ariana because none of the staff addressed Walter by his surname.

The formalities have been dropped long ago. Plus, he never visited on weekends, let alone a Sunday morning.

Ariana knows his schedule by heart so she can clear tables beforehand whenever she expects Walter to come by.

So why would he want to summon her now?

She tosses her binder aside anyway and heads out to the booth area. Ariana scans the room and upon finding Walter’s usual seat by the window empty, figures Sal had made a mistake.

It was still weird, because it wasn’t like his coworker was able to miss Walter’s signature gray hair and booming voice.

“Hey, over there,” Sal hollers behind the counter.

She tilts her head in the direction of the farthest booth in the back, completely parallel from where Walter would’ve normally sat. Apparently Sal doesn’t know the deal either because he just nervously shrugs when Ariana raises a brow at him.

As if this couldn’t get any shadier.

Walter Montenegro was a ball of energy that never seemed to lose his youth at the ripe age of sixty seven. Everyone—including the guys—adore him.

Even long-legged Sal would trip over air whenever he was within a two feet distance with the old man. He was a kid at heart, and Ariana enjoyed spending her shifts talking to him.

Ariana makes her way to the back booth, only to be stopped by Javan’s smack on the ass as she walks past. She stops, takes a step back, and punches Javan’s bicep to which the punk only snickers at.

“Damn Ari, you’ve got an arm,” he grins wolfishly. “Better use it on a whip and teach me how to be a good boy, yeah, babe?”

Ariana wrinkles her nose. “And why would I be doing that when I could easily become an officer and use my arm to whack your face with a baton and then throw you into a dingy cell, where you belong?”

But Javan just smirks. “Only you’d aspire to live above us pigs, Ari.”

Ariana sweetly smiles.

Javan, a regular, was next in line to inherit Kia Motors. There isn’t much above him besides the everyday billionaires and the Prime Minister.

“Now don’t tempt me,” She teases. “Karma might be a bitch and have me marry one of you pigs and then I’ll end up being one of those celebrity housewives on TV.”

Even Javan looks a little queasy at that idea. “God, no. You wouldn’t.”

“It’ll be your fault if I do.” Ariana winks before continuing her way to the back where she expects Walter to greet her.

The thought of the old sport visiting her on a weekend makes her feel giddy and excited. She even skips in her step.

Dancer antics.

Ariana hasn’t seen Walter for a few weeks now, not that it’s surprising.

While Walter is a regular, he’s also a pretty busy and important man who frequents business trips. Hence why they haven’t been seeing him lately.

She looks forward to catching up with him this morning and letting him taste their newest addition to the menu—red velvet brownies.

“Hello, Wal—”

Ariana stills, eyes narrowing at the man tapping his fingers impatiently against the wooden laminate in the booth.

A face she once stored away in her memories lashed urgently before her. She hardly stops herself from concealing her gasp.

Well, look who we have here.

Heart beating wildly against her ribcage, Ariana blurts, “You are not Mr. Montenegro.”

The man’s perfectly shaped brow arches at her accusation and Ariana feels the full blown effect of his hauteur before he can even open his mouth.

Ariana doesn’t really expect it, but out comes a crisp, collected voice saying, “Pardon me?” while sounding demanding all the while.

He has thick chestnut hair that curves at his nape and sweeps across his forehead in delicate waves, a prominent, straight and narrow nose, a jaw that could cut, and a pair of full pink lips, the top being thinner than the bottom.

He’s awfully young by appearance, but his expression and actions give the impression that he’s older than he looks.

What intrigues Ariana the most are his dark hazel eyes, equipped with the longest lashes she’s ever seen on a man, that are currently inspecting her in disdain.

He’s definitely attractive—Ariana can’t help but admit the dark features of his eyes and hair are those of a walking wet dream. Even the quirk of his lips is sexy.

Whatever Ariana had built up of him from the sources she acquired before doesn’t give the man justice, nor does it prepare her to actually face him at this moment.

A moment she has been sort of dreaming, moreover dreading, for a while now.

Breathe, Ariana. You barely know the guy despite what you think.

She especially didn’t expect arrogance oozing out of him like an aura, with that stupid look he has on as if he could be doing anything else and anything better than sitting here in a rundown diner being scrutinized by a midget of a waiter.

“My coworker said Mr. Montenegro came looking for me,” Ariana explains impatiently. “Well, I’m looking at you and you’re definitely not him.”

A scowl replaces his smug expression. “I am definitely Mr. Montenegro—Montenegro Williams the first, to be exact.”

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TBC