This—the whole allowing someone to gain the upper hand on me, especially a female—is not like me. I’m typically in control.

My cell rings and I fish it out of my jacket pocket before checking the caller ID. I sigh as I hit the green button, ready for the whine fest that I know my baby sister is about to inflict on me for missing her birthday party this weekend. “Yes, Diem?”

“Are you back in town yet?” she quizzes.

“Just landed about ten minutes ago,” I tell her. I decide then that I might as well open the door for her temper tantrum for being absent this weekend. “How was your birthday party?”

“It was wonderful,” she replies in a tone I only remember her using after watching some sappy romance movie. Most people would call it dreamy. I call it delusional. Diem is very much the hopeless romantic type, so this mood of hers tells me that she’s met a guy.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. What shitty timing for this to happen. With me being so wrapped up in the whole Margo scandal and trying to close this deal with Yamada, I won’t have time to properly investigate whoever this man is like I typically do. As her brother, I find that it’s my duty to make sure whatever asshole is sniffing around my sister is good enough. Unfortunately, Diem tends to pick the loser artist types who I fear are after far more than her model good looks. Like me, people try to get their hooks in Diem for what our father left us, and it’s up to me to protect my free-spirited, trusting sister from motherfuckers who would use her.

Time to cut to the chase.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Does a man have to be involved for me to be happy?” Diem instantly fires back.

“Come on, Diem. You can’t bullshit me. You know the drill. Who’s the guy?”

She’s quiet for a few moments and then says, “I’m not telling you.”

“Diem . . .” I say her name with a bite of warning in my voice. “You might as well do this the easy way and just tell me. Don’t make me have Jack start looking into who this mystery guy is you obviously don’t want me to know about.”

Jack’s eyes immediately cut over to me at the mention of his name. I see a flicker of unease on his face before he quickly turns his head to stare out the side window. Jack hates when I send him out on personal missions like this for me—that’s no secret—so I’m sure the idea of tracking down my kid sister’s new love interest isn’t something that he really wants to do. But I know Jack. He’s loyal, and he’ll do it if I ask him to because, not only does he work for me, but he’s also my best friend.

“Don’t do that,” Diem begs. “I promise I’ll tell you all about him when I’m ready, but for now, allow me to keep this to myself. Please, Alexander.”

Her bravery to maintain this secret takes me aback because Diem isn’t typically like that with me. Sure, she bucks against my will most of the time, but it doesn’t take me long to get her to bend. She knows that I get what I want no matter what. So this little show of defiance catches me off guard, but the idea that she’s finally growing a little backbone makes me proud in an odd way. It doesn’t make me worry any less, though.

I sigh. “Fine. I won’t push for now. But so help me, Diem, if this asshole hurts you in any way, I will end him.”

“Thank you.” The pleased tone in her voice rings through loud and clear.

After I tell her good-bye, I end the call and lean my head back against the headrest. I hope Diem knows what she’s doing and doesn’t do anything rash with this guy until I’ve had time to run a full background check on him. I don’t have time to worry about my sister right now though. I have to focus all my energy on figuring out how to get out of the fucking mess I’ve gotten myself into with Margo. I can’t believe I’m married to the fucking Feisty Princess of Manhattan. How in the hell did I allow this to happen?

Margo

IT TAKES EVERYTHING IN ME not to bash my head against the expensive marble counter as I sit at the island in my mother’s ridiculously huge kitchen. I’m trying to figure out a way to tell her that I married a total rat-bastard this weekend on accident. Seriously, when Jean Paul renovated his Upper East Side apartment, he spared no expense when it came to this kitchen. It makes sense because he does occasionally film segments of his television show in here.

“That man takes such good care of me.” Mother busies herself with punching reheat on two of the pre-cooked meals her husband prepared for her in his absence. “He won’t leave for a trip if he hasn’t left food for me to heat up while he’s gone.” She turns to face me with a dreamy expression on her face. “I really think I’ve found a good one this time, Margo, honey. This one is a keeper.”

I love my mother, but it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes and blurt out ‘that’s what you said about the last four.’ My mother is a hopeful romantic, always believing in soul mates and fate and all that hokey nonsense.

She takes in the expression on my face and then shakes her head, causing her long dark curls to bounce around her shoulders. “Don’t give me that look.”

My mouth drops. Sometimes I forget how good she is at reading what’s on my mind even if I don’t make a move to voice it. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I’m your mother, Margo. I can read how much you detest the idea of love by the expression on your face. I’m pretty good at that, you know. Matter-of-fact, I once had this clairvoyant tell me I was a natural at reading auras.” The sound of the microwave dings, signaling that our food is ready and interrupting her train of thought. She lifts one of the plates of grilled chicken to her nose. “Ah. This smells wonderful. Jean Paul is a man of many talents, cooking being one of them.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.