2

The Billionaire's Obsession

Ciara Mendes

     Today was the day I was departing for New York, and I had mere hours left before my flight. Los Angeles traffic was brutal, and I knew I had to leave soon to make it to the airport. Given the choice, I might have opted out of this trip, but alas, debts must be settled. For just a few hours, I could endure the company of a spoiled rich kid rather than resorting to something that could land me in prison—and give my mother yet another reason to be disappointed in me.

I placed the flash drive in front of Melissa as she typed away on her desktop computer. She looked like she could use a spa day; her red hair was tousled, and her white-framed glasses were slightly crooked. I probably looked half as bad myself, having stayed up until three in the morning trying to write an article on Tanaya Henry. Tanaya had done her part, and I was simply supposed to write it flawlessly, but I struggled to complete it as quickly as usual due to the weight of my broken heart.

I always told myself to keep my personal issues separate from work, but it was challenging to push aside thoughts of my broken engagement, especially since my older sister was the reason for its demise. To make matters worse, people were constantly calling my phone, offering apologies for something in which they had no involvement.

After I slapped Fisher across the face and shot my sister a glare that felt like it could end her, I vowed never to speak to either of them again. They attempted to reach out multiple times, but I ignored their calls; they deserved nothing from me after the betrayal I felt.

""Thanks, Ciara, and good luck," Melissa says, her fingers flying over the keyboard as if her life depended on it, completely absorbed in her work.

"God knows I'll be needing it," I reply as I get ready to leave her office. "See you when I do, Melissa."

"Wait!" she calls out, causing me to turn back. I see her adjusting her glasses as she adds, "Mrs. Florence wants to see you before you depart."

I nod at her before leaving, understanding that it’s typical for Mrs. Florence to want a word with me before I head out. She always insists on a quick meeting before any interview, her way of offering guidance or perhaps a last-minute pep talk.

         Through the glass door, I catch a glimpse of the woman with sleek black hair seated at her desk, engrossed in her phone. Dressed elegantly as always in a tailored grey skirt suit, she finally lifts her striking blue eyes to meet mine, her attention drawn by the soft tapping sound on the glass.

"Come on in, Miss Mendes," she invites, her voice warm yet professional. I step into the room, returning her greeting with a polite smile before settling into the chair she gestured toward, feeling both anticipation and a hint of nervousness as I wondered what insights or advice she might share today.

"You will be staying at The Roosevelt Hotel; I assume you already knew that," she says, her gaze focused on the papers in her hand. Without pausing for my response, she seamlessly continues, outlining the itinerary for my upcoming trip, her tone efficient and businesslike, as she highlights key events and meetings that I need to prepare for.

"Everything is already finalized; you'll be staying for three days," she informs me, her eyes briefly meeting mine as she hands over the necessary papers. "When you arrive at the airport in New York, Mrs. Haynes was kind enough to offer her personal driver for pick-up and drop-off at the hotel. Do you have any questions, Miss Mendes?" Her tone remains poised, inviting clarity and ensuring I feel confident about the arrangements.

""No, Mrs. Florence, thank you," I reply, relief washing over me as I prepare to leave.

However, her voice, now tinged with a stern authority, halts me in my tracks. "I trust you will do well, Miss Mendes," she states firmly, ensuring that her expectations are clear and that the weight of responsibility hangs in the air.

I sensed that Mrs. Florence had likely heard from Fisher about the broken engagement; after all, word travels fast, and many might assume I'd become less reliable during such a tumultuous time. Steeling myself, I met her gaze firmly and asserted, "I can guarantee you I will do my absolute best, Mrs. Florence," determined to prove that I could rise above the personal chaos and deliver on my professional commitments.

Giovanni Haynes

        Having only arrived in New York three hours ago, I could already feel my mother breathing down my neck, bombarding me with the same relentless questions that seemed to accompany every visit. At fifty-six, with two grandchildren under her belt, she still yearned for more from me, oblivious to the fact that I simply wasn't the marrying type. Why would I choose to settle down with just one woman when the thrill of new experiences and changing partners every other day was so enticing? Yet, no matter how often I tried to explain this to her, it seemed lost in her relentless desire for tradition and family.

I couldn't help but feel the weight of comparison whenever Bentley Haynes was mentioned. Unlike my brother, who settled down at just twenty-one with his high school sweetheart, Ashira Mckenzie-Haynes, and quickly became a family man with two kids, Haylie and little Rayan, I was carving out a different path. My parents, particularly my father, idolized Bentley as the perfect son for taking over the family business, while I stood in stark contrast—unbound by traditional expectations and unfazed by the conventional milestones that defined success in their eyes.

"Gio, sweetheart, you know I'm getting older every day," my mother said, her voice laced with urgency. "Are you really going to let me die before you marry a nice girl and start a whole football team of children?" Her words hung heavy in the air, mixing with the familiar tug of guilt that always accompanied these conversations. It was as if she believed my life's worth hinged on fulfilling her vision of family.

I choked on my coffee, the image of a whole football team of children sending me into a fit of laughter and disbelief. A whole bunch of little ones? No thank you—kids were like tiny devils in disguise, always so full of energy and mischief. That’s exactly why I found myself resorting to bribing them with gifts just to enjoy some semblance of peace during visits with my niece and nephew. My idea of a fulfilling life was far removed from the chaotic family dinners my mom envisioned, and the thought of enduring the pitter-patter of little feet only solidified my resolve.

“Oh hush, Gio,” my mom said, soothingly patting my back as she turned to my brother. “Get him some water, Richard.”

But instead, my thirteen-year-old brother just shrugged, a mischievous grin creeping across his face. "Why don't you go get it?"

I swear, that kid had the heart of a demon; watching me choke felt like prime entertainment for him, and fetching water was clearly not on his agenda. He’d rather let me suffer a little longer than play the diligent little brother, turning a simple moment into a comedy of errors.

"Richard-"

"It's fine, Mother, I'm fine," I managed to wheeze out, raising a hand to halt her before she could launch into a lecture for my brother's behavior. Her words had caught me off guard at the worst possible moment, amplifying the embarrassment of my coughing fit. I knew she meant well, but there was a certain absurdity in a life-threatening incident being overshadowed by sibling rivalry. At that moment, all I wanted was a sip of water and the chaos to settle, rather than a battle of wills unfolding before me. "Remind me, why am I here? Richard has an interview not me."

"Bent is unable to make it since he has a business meeting with the Italian ambassador, so my only option was to have you here; it is as simple as that."

I glared at my brother, who was engrossed in whatever engrossing thing was on his tablet, clearly oblivious to my simmering frustration. It stung to acknowledge the truth: I was his least favorite, the shadow that Bentley's brilliance cast behind him. I was all too aware that Richy wouldn't lose a moment's sleep if he never saw me again, and the thought twisted in my gut like a dull ache, reminding me of how often I felt unimportant in my own family.

"Is that all?" I asked, feigning nonchalance.

A smirk danced on his lips as he leaned closer, clearly enjoying the moment. "I can’t help but relish that look on your face when Mom starts pressuring you about marriage. I overheard her mention that Jasmine Lavigne is back in town." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he watched my reaction unfold.

"Mother, is this why you called me here?" I felt the anger bubbling beneath the surface; it was difficult to direct it at her, but she knew all too well what that woman had done. The tension in the room thickened as I struggled to contain the emotions swirling within me, torn between familial loyalty and the memories that haunted me.

She shot me a guilty look from across the kitchen island. "Giovanni, that's not the only reason I called you here. You need to be in the pictures tomorrow. This isn't just about your brother— the journalist from Flare will be interviewing all of us." Her tone was earnest, but I could see the underlying tension in her eyes.

I stare down at the dark liquid in my cup, it was final.

I stared down at the dark liquid in my cup, feeling the weight of finality settle over me. "I need something stronger," I muttered, snatching my keys from the table and ignoring my mother's protests as I headed for the exit. The door swung open with a creak, and I felt a rush of relief mixed with defiance, ready to escape the suffocating tension and the unresolved feelings that seemed to linger like shadows in the corners of the room.

Jasmine Lavigne was someone I thought I'd never see again, I hoped I wouldn't and knowing Martha Haynes she had most likely set up a date for us. Perhaps a beautiful woman and a few strong liquor will make my night much better.

Jasmine Lavigne was someone I thought I'd never see again, and part of me hoped I wouldn't, but knowing Martha Haynes, she had probably orchestrated a date for us without my consent. As I braced myself for the unexpected reunion, I convinced myself that perhaps a beautiful woman and a few stiff drinks would ease the tension of the evening and make the night more bearable, if not enjoyable.