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“Good because I already tried to stop loving you and I couldn’t. So I think you’re stuck with me.” She grabbed his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss.
“Baby there’s no person I’d rather be stuck to in all the world.” He planted a soft kiss on her lips. “Ava you beautiful creature, will you marry me?”
She nodded, her smile so wide her face hurt. “Really? Kade I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.”
“Sweetheart I’m a billionaire, you want to get married tomorrow then we’ll get married tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Sophie, I’m getting married tomorrow!”
“It’s about damn time.”
THE END
Chosen By The Billionaire
Some days, I would just look at myself in the mirror, and I would sigh. I'd always had this feeling like I, and myself as a whole, were just all around too vanilla to be of any interest to anyone or anything, and that I would never be one of those lucky people who figure out what it is that makes them happy in life. It just seemed beyond what I was capable of, like my indecision and my inability to be what other people wanted me to be would be my ultimate pitfall in life, and like there was no redemption for me because of that.
To put it simply, I'd always been something of a curvier girl, and this had led to a lot of internal debating with myself as to my worthiness. We live in a time, obviously, where people at least attempt to be more accepting of people despite, and even because of their differences, and in some ways that should have been encouraging to me. But it still didn't do a whole hell of a lot for my confidence for some reason, and honestly, that sort of “universal acceptance” stuff could feel patronizing to me in my insecurity. Like, it was more of a consolation than a comfort. A nice enough sentiment, sure, and probably the way that all people should try to live. But when you really step back and cut out the crap, you can't honestly believe that people won't judge you by your appearance. That's just a fantasy, pure and simple, and if you live your life under the impression that things are really like that, you're basically trying to undermine millennia upon millennia of fundamental human nature.
Being talked down to, and told to accept traits that I didn't like, was the last thing that I felt that I needed, and I knew that all the rationalizing in the world wouldn't do me a lick of good. The question was, then, whether my curves were really the problem, or if the problem with my life was a lack of self-confidence, whether independent of my physical issues or otherwise.
On self-inspection, it really did seem like my sensitivities with regard to my appearance were something of an exaggeration- I was actually a rather attractive girl, once I could look around the own obstacles I had set up for myself. I had a roundish, beautiful face, with piercing blue eyes, and eyelashes that fluttered back at me from the opposite side of the mirror. Long chestnut hair flowed down from the top of my head to around my shoulders, framing my button nose and small, delicate lips like a photograph, the combined effect looking not altogether unpleasant, not by any means. Moving down, my breasts were large, round, and firm, a perk, I supposed, of being curvaceous, my dark cleavage deeply cut and tantalizing- the effect, I was sure, the same on a man as it currently was on myself. My curves, I decided firmly, and made myself believe without question, were in all the right places, and as my eyes danced down along them, they seemed to follow a certain tantalizing rhythm, zigging and zagging at just the right moments, and nearly making my head spin as I at last landed down at my waist, and I had to take a moment's rest before continuing.
Finally, I turned around to face the wall, with my butt toward the mirror, and craned my neck around to inspect my booty's reflection as well. It took a bit of standing on tiptoes with the mirror at its current angle for me to be able to see derriere in it, but at last I managed to see exactly what I wanted to, and the fact was confirmed for me, on no uncertain terms- I had a nice ass...
Guys, or at least pop culture would have one to believe, were all about big and juicy cabooses these days, and by all accounts I seemed to possess such assets in abundance. Physically, at least, there seemed to be no good reason why I couldn't seem to land a boyfriend, judging by my meeting of nearly all criteria by which the opposite sex are said to peruse for a mate.
This, then, seemed to indicate that the problem lay on a much deeper level than the surface alone, which I'd half come to suspect and fear in my analysis... It wasn't guys being shallow or guys unable to develop an interest in me- it was, quite simply, I concluded, that my own standards were too high. That I'd read too many damn romance novels to settle for any sort of real life relationships, expecting something miraculous in my life that I was sure to never truly experience, and that no woman ever did, really, or at least not in this lifetime.
The talented and insanely productive (not to mention wealthy) Arthur Benton could be said to be highly responsible for my disillusionment with the dating scene, and had, over the years, largely shaped my delusional impression of what the ideal man should be like. With no relationship experience of my own to my credit, I'd become very bookish over time, devouring the sorts of romance novels one might be wont to scoff at on the bookshelves, the dime paperbacks with smutty-looking covers of shirtless men ravishing the bodies of beautiful women in their tattered dresses, with titles so cheesy that they're impossible not to roll your eyes at them when you see them. And I knew full well, even as I was reading them, that what they were describing as far as true relationships was complete and utter nonsense. And I suspect that all women do as well, when they read those sorts of things. But that didn't stop me from taking those fantastic impressions Benton made to heart, internalizing the romantic, over-the-top gestures carried out by his characters as a sort of ideal for what I should be expecting in a partner myself.
Irrationally enough, I'd simply become enamored with so many of his shirtless examples of masculine perfection, manly men who, in all likelihood, did note even exist in the fashion in which they were presented in the written word, and who, if they did exist at all outside the realm of fantasy, would surely not be interested in such a woman as myself. Hell, did I really think that any of the shirtless macho men adorning the cover of his novels would even bat an eye if I walked past them completely stark naked, much less harbor any sort of romantic attraction to me in the least?
And that, I believe, was how Arthur Benton had become a billionaire... By presenting such an amazing and fantastical portrait of the ideal man that emotionally vulnerable women such as myself would become enamored with his depictions, and in fact develop addictions to such tantalizing fantasies, thereby buying into more and more and more of his works, unable to get enough, to satisfy our cravings and make up for the senses of emptiness we must all surely possess within our dull, humdrum lives.
But, like most addicts, I didn't care whether I was simply feeding my addiction, and making living a real life more difficult for myself by consuming Benton's works. I gobbled them up like candy, never able to get enough, unable to satiate my desires, and in fact, beginning to harbor a rather ridiculous crush on the author himself- I mean hell, could you blame me? I began to think, after a while, that so many of Benton's characters shared so many of the same chivalrous, heroic attributes, that he himself must have come to adopt such traits, or at the very least that he believed they were values that all men should display, and he therefore had come to exude characteristics of his own creations. I'd seen pictures of the man from long, lazy hours of online searching (not to mention fantasizing,) and he was in fact a handsome enough man. I mean, if he hadn't struck it big as a romance author, I can just about guarantee you he had just the kind of face that could easily have established him as an actor. Dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to flash right off the screen into reality, almost burning into the pupils of the gazer, not to mention, at least for my part, making them break into an outright cold sweat... He had luscious, jet black hair, a chiseled face, and, from what I could tell, a rather sculpted physique. Honestly, he was precisely the kind of macho man who could have posed for one of his own book covers, and I began to wish that he would do just that one of these days, for the sake of seeing him shirtless if nothing else...
So, yeah, overall, Arthur Benton was probably about the nearest picture I could fathom to any sort of ideal boyfriend- a devilishly handsome, good-hearted billionaire, precisely the kind of man who was as much the polar opposite the sort of man who could possibly harbor any interest in a girl like me whatsoever. Any thoughts to the contrary, I felt certain, were nothing more than me deluding the hell out of myself. But you can bet your ass that did little to stop me from fantasizing...
And yet, things seemed to take a somewhat unexpected turn, outside the simple realm of such fantasies... You see, I was shocked, one evening, while browsing the internet, to discover that my fantastical crush was on his way to a city near me- stopping, as he was, at a point on his book tour.
I was astounded... The opportunity, of course, was far too wonderful to pass up, but almost the instant I began to consider it I could feel the butterflies in my stomach spiraling out of control, making me seriously queasy with anxiety...
I was a mess... I knew that, as great as my excitement was at the prospect of meeting him, it would more than likely end up in disappointment in some way or another. Still, though, I marked the date on my calendar, and began to hope for the best while expecting the worst.
It's hard to explain what exactly I'd hoped would happen... I mean, all I had were my fantasies about the event- him arriving shirtless, and me the only one in line to see him somehow despite his massive popularity. When I let my mind wander, it usually ended up in realms of ecstasy where he swept me off my feet and wrapped me immediately in his arms, imagery which I felt certain could never be anything more but delightful hallucinations.
I was rather stunned, then, when reality turned out to be almost as stunning as fiction itself...
However, the start of the event was just about as disappointing as I'd feared it would be. I showed up at the address at which the signing was scheduled to take place with a copy of one of my favorite of his novels in hand, only to find that the line to interview this devilishly rich and handsome celebrity spanned an entire city block, and that everyone but me had apparently had the foresight to line up almost a day in advance. I sighed heavily, and for a moment studied my fellow Benton fans. It was hard to pin down a certain profile amongst his varied readers, except, of course, that they were almost exclusively female. Many of them were older than myself, many of them younger, of all different body types and appearances, but, I couldn't help but think, whether justified or not, prettier and more appealing than myself. And yes, I knew even then that I was being ridiculous... Did I really think I had some miraculous chance of snaring this deadly gorgeous catch for myself in the first place? Honestly, no, but in my heart the fantasy persisted, and was dashed and bruised by the sight of so many more sexually appealing and worthwhile women than myself.
I sighed heavily, knowing that I was being ridiculous, and that my attitude regarding the matter was going to end up ruining this otherwise pleasant experience for me entirely. I tried to put the other girls in line out of my mind, and proceeded to whip out my phone for distraction- putting on music, and playing some pointless, goal-oriented mobile game. I stared intently at my screen, not daring to tear my eyes away and let myself drown once more in comparison to the girls around me, as inch by inch by inch the line crept forward, almost imperceptibly, drawing me nearer and nearer to the doorway by the hour.
Finally, I made it up to within sight of Mr. Benton, and I could feel my body beginning to tremble with anticipation. His lips were moving, although I had no idea what the hell he might be saying over the gaggle of women laughing and swooning and carrying on in his presence. He had a sort of look about him, almost a sort of jaded expression, as thought, in being given all the attention in the world by these women, a fact which a lot of men might have killed for, he was somehow exhausted by the whole ordeal of it, tired of people who only saw him as some larger than life figure, and thereby ignored the fact of his humanity, and that he bore no more connection to them than he did any other manner of complete stranger... Or was I just imagining this? Was there any shred of the truth to the thought whatsoever, or was I just hoping it to be the case so that I could prove myself the exception? Damn me...
I was shivering by the time I was three away from him in the line, and my stomach was churning so violently I felt for certain I would end up turning around and fleeing by the time I got to the front. But alas, I somehow managed to power my legs into moving forward, and before I knew it I was standing face to face with my idol, my hopeless, ridiculous (childish?) romantic crush. I could feel my jaw quivering as I gazed in awe at him, and my body tensed, so that I felt as though I could barely move. I knew that time was limited, however, that in a moment his security guards would be encouraging me to move it along so that the line could maintain its momentum. Working up every ounce of my mettle I cleared my throat, and broke away from my astonishment long enough to hand him my copy of his book. He smiled at me, as though kindly amused by how frazzled I was, and asked, “Who should I make it out to?”
“I- I- Olivia...”
