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“You okay, honey?” Dad asks.
“Thanks to you three, I am. Thank you,” I say to my unofficial bodyguards.
Dad smiles warmly.
“Anytime,” Oscar says.
“Phoebe, why don’t you swap seats with your boyfriend,” Rhys tells my best friend. “I’ll swap seats with Beckett’s mom. That way we can keep a close eye on Arianne—”
“What about—”
“She’ll understand,” Rhys tells me.
A pair of worried hazel-green eyes meets mine.
I smile to let her know I’m okay.
She smiles back.
“I feel so badly,” I tell Rhys, returning my attention to him.
“Who knows how many Marks are here tonight?” He makes a good point. “I don’t want your boyfriend to break my balls because I’m not watching over his girl while he pretends to be a rock star for the night.”
Everyone laughs.
A few shuffles later and I’m flanked between two white knights.
Mark was itching to get my side of the story because I’ve been tight-lipped.
Yesterday, the California court awarded me nine point seven million dollars, in the biggest judgment ever in a revenge porn case. Earlier this week, another jury awarded me sixty-three point eight million dollars in expectation damages as retribution for the promises Chance broke. Usually, cases like those take longer to settle, but thanks to Mariah’s little visit and her deep-seated vendetta against me, my lawyers had gold in the palms of their hands.
It took a while to get a trial date, but the verdict was swift.
Chance had promised me a quarter of a million dollars for my contribution to the massive growth of his company—I have copious notes of our discussions. I was more than happy with that number. Since he wasn’t man enough to keep his word, he ended up paying through the nose for his sneakiness and dishonesty. He was dumbfounded by both verdicts. So was I. Since the scandal broke, he was removed from his position of CEO.
The press smeared Mariah’s name and shamed her out of the country. I consider it vindication. The last I heard, the cantankerous bitch latched onto another rich, older man.
The lights turn low in the theater.
Rhys nudges my arm. “The concert is starting.”
I lean forward to look at my mom.
She’s like a kid on Christmas Day.
When I look to my left, Phoebe isn’t faring much better.
“Good evening, LA!” Tomas and Anders shout as they walk on stage, electric cellos in hand. Stasia, Beckett, Jace, Rod, and Holt, follow close behind, holding their instruments. Cello2Cello’s drummer is the last one on stage.
The crowd goes mental.
I jump to my feet and clap like a crazed fan girl. “Beckett, we love you!” I shout at the top of my lungs, waving my hands in the air.
I’ve watched Random Misconception’s music videos a thousand times. I know the lyrics by heart and I always drool all over my boyfriend. He’s a hotter-than-hell rock star with an insane swoon-worthy stage presence. Nothing compares to hearing the rawness of his deep voice or watching him in all of his elements than when he sings live.
Beckett looks freaking delicious!
He traded his bespoke suits in favor of an edgy look that honors his beginnings to a T—leather pants, motorcycle boots, and the form fitting t-shirt that showcases his muscles and ink. I also dressed for the part of the rock star’s girlfriend. I matched his all black look, except I’m wearing killer bright pink strappy high-heels.
