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In one photo, I was talking to Xavier while he was sitting and staring up at me with an amused smile. The second photo showed him carrying me over his shoulder and out of the club.
The article itself was a mishmash of speculation and outright lies.
The PR queen has allegedly been hooking up with her most infamous client for weeks, which may explain why the notoriously unflappable Castillo heir went all cavemanwhen he saw her dancing with someone else at Mallorca’s most exclusive nightclub…
Sources also say Castillo’s friends crashed their secret romantic getaway, which led to an “explosive” argument between the couple and a plan to make Castillo jealous. Did the plan work? See for yourself…
There were more photos interspersed within the text, including a grainy shot of us on the beach, another of me dancing with some random guy, and a close-up of Xavier facing down said guy on the fucking tabletop.
Rising anger burned my initial shock to ash.
Perry fucking Wilson. That little toad was probably enacting revenge for the time I’d gotten him booted fromMode de Vie’s Fashion Week party, which everyone knew wastheparty to attend for those who wanted to see, be seen, and gather society intel.
I didn’t care that he was the most influential gossip blogger in Manhattan; I was going to peel the skin from his sorry body and use it as a canvas for his obituary.
I replied to my friends with a brief message telling them I was okay and that I’d explain later (plus another ask for Isabella to please keep feeding The Fish while I was in Colombia). I was about to email Perry and chew him out when Xavier woke up.
“I know that look,” he said, his first words in hours colored with exhaustion. “Who pissed you off?”
I handed him my phone with the article open.
He scanned it with a disinterested expression. “Ah.”
I was still too riled up to pay much attention to his unusual subduedness. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else do you want me to say? It’s Perry. This is what he does.” Xavier shrugged and handed the phone back to me. “Besides, he’s the least of my worries right now.”
My anger collapsed like a house of cards caught in a sudden gust of wind.
I was so used to butting heads with Xavier that it was hard to turn off the default mode in our relationship, but now that I was no longer steaming over the blog post, I noticed the shadows in his eyes and the seemingly unconscious clench and unclench of his fists. It was a different Xavier from the one pictured on Perry’s blog, and it made a weird little pinch slide in between my ribs.
“No news is good news,” I said, my voice gentling. “You’ll get a chance to talk to your father.”
“Maybe.” Xavier’s mouth tilted up for a second before sobering again. “We used to be close, you know, when I was younger. I was his only child, his heir. I was supposed to continue his legacy, and he spent all his free time preparing me for the task. Office visits, tutors, enrollment at the best international schools where I could network with the people I would do business with one day.” Emotions flitted across his face in a rare display of vulnerability.
I kept my eyes on his, afraid to breathe yet unable to look away, and worried the smallest movement on my part would spook him into silence. Xavier never talked about his relationship with his father, and the glimpse into their past both fascinated and saddened me.
“But it wasn’t all business,” he said. “We had normal father-son days. He took me tofútbolgames—or soccer, as you know it. We had family dinners and vacations abroad. It was nice. Then…”
I suppressed an involuntary flinch.
I knew what happened next. Everyone did.
“My mom died,” Xavier said, his handsome face devoid of emotion. “And everything changed.”
A heavy ache slipped past my defenses and burrowed deep inside my heart.
He’d been eleven when his mom died. The fire that took Patricia Castillo’s life made international news given her marriage to Colombia’s richest man, the sheer destruction left in the fire’s wake, and a viral image of a preteen Xavier being carried out by firefighters.
That image anchored every article and TV segment about the fire. The authorities ruled out arson, but details about how the blaze started remained murky.
“Do you miss her?” Xavier asked quietly. “Your mom.”
My mom had died in a freak horseback riding accident when I was fourteen. My parents’ marriage had been a socially expedient but loveless one, and unlike Xavier’s father, who never stopped grieving his wife’s death, mine had remarried less than two years after burying his first wife.
A new, different kind of ache blossomed. “All the time.”
My admission bled between us, forming a strange, tenuous bond that sent tingles over every inch of my body.
