Page 7 of One Wealthy Wedding

I pull on a sweatshirt and loose shorts, then jog through the north wing hallways to the stairs and up into the gym. The space is expansive, housing an Olympic-size swimming pool on the other side of the glass windows, a tanning deck, a sauna, a steam room, a massage room, and a full gym. Cole says it’s better than even the Royals’ training facility. The blond wood and dim lighting are soothing, or at least they should be.

Even though I’m barely awake, I jog on the treadmill before diving into the pool and swimming laps until I’m shaking. The vodka threatens to come up twice, but I manage to avoid throwing up in my own swimming pool. That would be a first. I can’t even be amused by the image. Why is it that hangovers always come with a heaping dose of self-loathing?

I really have to stop doing this. When my primary responsibilities were schmoozing with investors and buying up European properties, waking up at noon with a hangover was fine. But now I’m back. With very little to show for it, other than a crappy office building in London. I’m off my game, and it might be time to admit that this isn’t working anymore.

As if in agreement, my phone pings for what has to be the fourteenth time this morning.

“Who the hell—” My voice trails off as I flick through the messages.

One from Olivier de Clare, telling me he’s sorry about the photos.

One from our PR firm with a link to the article.

And an email from a very angry potential investor telling me there’s no way in hell he’d give us his money if I’m going to spend it yachting off Monaco and surfing in Australia.

I scrub a hand over my face. The yachts were free. Idiot.

I know which photos he’s talking about. They’re at least a month old, but Olivier’s ex must have sent them to the press. Olivier broke up with him last week, and it was messy and contentious. I click through to the article.

Fuck.

It’s worse than I suspected. I’m naked. On a yacht. Surrounded by empty champagne bottles. There’s even a double magnum tipped over on its side next to me. I zoom in. I’m smiling like I don’t have a care in the world. I squint at past me, wishing I could tell him to watch for the paparazzi that always frequent the Mediterranean, looking for a scoop. Or better yet, don’t party with Olivier at all, because he has more money than sense. I’m the idiot, not our investor.

My business partners, Jonah and Miles, are going to be so pissed. Or worse, disappointed.

Christine, Jonah’s sister and the head of our PR firm, calls right as I’ve gotten to the part of the article that talks about my past relationships. A charitable term really, because none of them has lasted more than a week. And because I’d rather get a tongue-lashing from Christine Crown than read about my failures in black and white, I pick up.

“Really, Theo?” she says.

“What do you mean really? Those photos are old.”

“Well, they’re new to Page Six,” she says. Her voice is already thick with annoyance, and her New Jersey accent is strong.

“It’s not my fault Page Six is behind. That was at least three yachts ago.” I say the words mechanically, because this is what I do, make light, smooth things over, get people to like me.

Except things don’t feel very smooth.

“You could keep me employed single-handedly,” she says dryly. “And much as I appreciate it, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that this is…what’s the technical term? Oh yeah—really fucking bad.”

“Yeah.” I sigh heavily and sink onto the exercise mat. “I know. I’ll do the usual, I guess—lie low for a while, be seen doing something respectable.”

This is, unfortunately, not the third or the fourth, or even the tenth time this has happened, but maybe this will be the time Jonah and Miles finally kick me out of the business.

“That might not be enough.”

“What do you mean? It’s always worked before. I spend a month out of the spotlight, people get bored, and I reemerge like nothing happened.”

She sighs. “You lost an investor, right? You told me you need a big push to get this European expansion done.”

She’s right. I told her that last year, when I was certain I’d return to New York with a shiny new investment portfolio, lots of European contacts, and the respect of my business partners.

“What do you suggest?”

She makes a considering sound. “Isn’t there a woman you can trot out?”

“A woman?” I ask tiredly.

“You know, two X chromosomes, long hair, that sort of thing.”

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