Page 21 of Bastian

Reaching for my phone, I unlock it and search for the video Baron mentioned. It was posted on the company’s website. From what I can tell, I’ve been their most popular topic recently, but what’s interesting is the fact that they’re fairly new. Launching their newspaper and magazine a month ago. Huh.

Standing from my chair, I walk toward the window once again. I stand there with a big fucking smile on my face because, for the first time in three years, I don’t feel like half of my heart is dead.

She promised to show me how it feels to hurt.

Well, here I am, darling.

Make it hurt.

At this time, Arianna decided to act up on her promise of war.

She fired the first shot and instead of being angry, I feel a sense of thrill I haven’t felt in three long years.

My girl’s come home.

THE GOSSIP ROOM

The youngest president in U.S. history, President Kenton was seen attending a charity event with a mystery woman. Could it be that the President finally found the one after a long trail of broken hearts?

By Kelly Garrett | 04/27/2023 12:12 PM EST

ARIANNA

MR. PRESIDENT

“Sometimes you must be a

bitch to remain on top.” - A

Grief.

I guessed I was no stranger to it. To the way everything felt excruciatingly heavy lately.

Suffocating.

Most days, my breaths were so strained it was a labor to draw them into my aching lungs.

Maybe I knew the feeling, but I was sure I’d never felt it so distinctly as for the last three years.

Looking out my office’s window, where the city moves at full speed below me, my mind takes me elsewhere. To a simpler time when all seemed so perfect and real. It was perfect, yes, but it wasn’t real.

I can still recall the husky way he said it. “The world is yours. You just have to want it enough to take it.” I remember it all. The cold wind on my face and the beautiful view of Paris in the winter. His hot breaths on my neck and his larger-than-life presence still linger.

The memory of that day in Paris when Sebastian took me on a hot-air balloon ride is still vivid in my memory, just like every memory I ever shared with him. The only difference is that now I feel nothing.

That’s a lie. I do feel something.

Rage.

Before, those memories would keep me up at night, crying until I made myself sick, just enough to fall asleep and then do it all over again.

Haunting me.

Some people say time heals all wounds, but does it really?

Because my wounds are still present, and very fucking angry.

Bleeding.

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