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Harlow’s dirty laundry must be all over the media if Trace knows it, too.Oh, fuck. She will not be pleased. I feel more than a little responsible.
“Be right back.”
After a quick swish with my toothbrush, I toss on some gym clothes and haul ass downstairs, my phone and the link I haven’t opened yet nearly burning a hole in my hand. Once I reach the kitchen, I see my brother nursing a cup of coffee and staring at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts in. “She’s a gorgeous girl but—”
“I literally found out five minutes ago about her ex-fiancé when Cliff called.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Let me catch up to you.” I bring up the messages on my phone and find the link waiting for me. I have a terrible feeling it’s going to change a lot between Harlow and me. But maybe it will at least help me make sense of her behavior.
I press the link and wait. YouTube pops up. The subject of the video saysBride runs out on fiancé in epic style.It’s currently trending and has over three million views. My gut clenches as the footage starts to roll.
Harlow stands at the back of the aisle with an older man I can only assume is her father. They exchange words that don’t look happy or comforting before she anchors her hand on his arm with a scowl. I frown as she walks up the aisle. Clearly, she’s pissed at her father, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the pending divorce from her mother. And why that would make her abruptly leave the man she’d once agreed to pledge her life to.
After Harlow and her father pass the camera, the angle of the shot changes. The video shows her from the back, her upswept hair revealing a mostly backless dress and a long veil that lends a luminous look to her silky skin. Her train dusts the ground behind her as she nears the altar. The camera sweeps up to show a shot of the unlucky groom. He’s average height—which is still far taller than Harlow. He’s got a typical stockbroker’s haircut, a face I swear I’ve seen a hundred times in football stadiums all over America, with only a cleft chin to differentiate him. He clasps his hands in front of himself, seemingly not nervous at all, merely smug. But I get why the smarmy bastard would be. He’s thinks he’s marrying a beautiful woman from a wealthy family in a lavish ceremony. I recognize the ballroom at the Ritz Carlton here on Maui.
As she approaches him, the music changes, and giant screens at the front of the room show snapshots of the two of them together, mostly staged poses from a single shoot—her wearing her engagement rock, him looking somewhere between self-satisfied and bored.
I’ve never met the guy. I don’t even know his name. And I already want to punch him.
Suddenly, the rotating images of the happy couple projected on the screens on either side of the makeshift altar disappear as the sound of a needle being dragged across a vinyl record echoes. Beside Harlow, the groom frowns in confusion as a different video flickers and starts to roll.
This one shows the groom with his pants around his ankles, bending a blonde over a linoleum countertop, a pot of coffee to their right, as he plows into her, racing to orgasm in a full-out sprint. She’s wearing four-inch stilettos and has her pencil skirt hiked up to her waist, showing off a hell of a tramp stamp that’s wide and flanked by inked filigree. The script writing flows and sways, spelling out one word:Whore.
The wedding guests gasp, jaws dropping. The groom starts losing his mind, demanding someone kill the feed. No one does. They just stare.
As the footage continues, he huffs and bucks on film, his white ass clenching on every down stroke. “Fuck, Mandy. You’re such a whore, just like your tattoo says, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she pants. “Yes. Your whore.”
“My pregnant whore. Do you think I knocked you up in this room?”
“Or on your desk. There’s something about getting pregnant by your boss in the office that seems even dirtier. Do you think your girlfriend suspects?”
“She’s oblivious,” he assures as he plunges into his assistant again. “I’ll make sure she stays that way.”
The drag of the needle across an old LP sounds again, then Harlow’s face appears on both screens at the front of the room, her smile acid. “Hi, Simon. Or should I say stupid fucker? I’m not oblivious. And I’m not marrying you. Instead of being a no-show at the altar and leaving you to awkwardly explain to our family and guests why I’d run out on such an awesome guy at the last minute, I thought I’d just show them. I hope you and Mandy get everything you deserve in life. Oh, and I think you’ll find that Mercedes you just bought for our island vacations might not look quite so pristine.”
On the screen, a pale gray European sedan appears. The wordsJust Marriedwritten in temporary ink across the back window have been crossed out with black spray paint. The wordsLying Slimehave been painted across the trunk in big, bold letters instead.
When Simon barrels down on Harlow, motions angry and jerky, she tosses her bouquet in his face, flips him her middle finger, then marches down the aisle, glaring again at her father. Then the video ends.
I’m blinking and stunned. A million thoughts charge through my head, none I can voice past my shock.
“Holy shit.” Trace looks almost as bowled over as I feel.
“That happened less than a week ago?” I breathe as pieces of Harlow’s puzzle start to fall into place.
No wonder she’s not eager to talk relationship. It’s a gross understatement to say that her last one ended badly. I understand now why her brothers are worried about her.
“Holy shit,” my brother repeats.
I don’t blame him for being so shocked his vocabulary has been reduced to two words. If I wasn’t so focused on what to say to Harlow—how to deal with her—I’d probably be repeating Trace’s catch phrase, too.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…why didn’t she tell me that she’d just broken an engagement? Give me a hint? Even mentioned that she’d ever been engaged at all?
