Page 3 of Xander

GODDESS APHRODITE!

Chapter

One

JORDAN

3 years later

“What am I supposed to do? When I logged in last night, I had three thousand notifications calling me a bitch and telling me to go off myself!”

I closed my eyes briefly as the anxious young starlet continued to vent on my computer screen. She had gone on a late-night show and, unscripted, regaled her unimpressed audience with a story of how she had turned down her first boyfriend’s marriage proposal because he had given her a diamond ring instead of one with alexandrite. This morning, an article had gone live titled, LET THEM EAT CARTIER.

The actress was crying now, and despite her oblivious diva status, I felt a surge of sympathy. She wasn’t much older than a child, and nobody liked being bullied—not even rich, preternaturally pretty young women who were given almost every opportunity to succeed.

“Sweetie,” I said. “Don’t cry. It’s really not that bad. They don’t even know you. Why do you care?”

I wasn’t usually this familiar with clients, but I felt terrible for this young girl who was likely feeling trapped and panicked. I knew well what that was like, and nobody had sweetied me—no matter how much I wished they would.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice wet with tears.

The door creaked open. A large shadow obliterated part of the light coming in.

Henry.

Irritation flickered through me, which I quickly suppressed.

After getting married, I condensed my once bustling PR firm to the select clients who backed my husband’s business. Henry insisted that this carefully curated list would demonstrate our united front and that managing fewer clients would ultimately benefit our family goals.

No one had ever accused me of not being a team player, and I’d do anything for our family. Winding my company down in favor of working from home allowed me to focus on growing our family—except it had been three years, and there were no children to grow. Instead of letting it dampen my spirits, I had flung myself into work and didn’t like when Henry casually interrupted my calls. These high-profile clients paid more than my previous clientele and expected my undivided attention.

“Okay,” I said soothingly, glancing in my husband’s direction. This time, I worked to keep my voice professional, conscious of my audience. “Calm down. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’ll post an announcement on your social media that you’re stepping back for a while because you realize you still have much to learn about tone and privilege. Don’t respond to any of the comments. Find a charity—preferably one with good optics—and donate to them. Then we’ll organize a press junket for your upcoming film to wash all this out.”

“Really?” she asked, with the full-throated skepticism only a cynical twenty-year-old could convey.

“Really. Just don’t say anything else. When it comes to news, people have the attention span of a dust mite. As long as you don’t fan the flames, they’ll shift targets within a week.” Or less.

“Well, I have been wanting to try out this new wellness retreat…”

“Great,” I said. “Do that. Give me their name and social media handles, and I’ll see if they’ll give you a discount for a shoutout on Instagram.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” she trilled. “Thank you so much.”

“I have to go,” I said. “But have your agent call me if you run into any problems.”

I ended the video call and turned to face my husband.

He was tall—that was usually the first thing people noticed about him. That, and his piercing eyes and cold, unsmiling demeanor. He looked like a fortress: a solid, unfeeling wall of a man. Waiting for me to get off the phone had done nothing to uplift his mood. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

I smiled brightly. “Hello, darling. What can I do for you?”

Henry didn’t return the smile. “When I sent the maid to check on you twenty minutes ago, she said you were holed up in here, busy gossiping.”

I strongly doubted Jenna had said any such thing. She liked me. Most of my husband’s staff did. I remembered their birthdays and their children’s names and quietly parceled out bonuses and small gifts from my account to sweeten the sting of Henry’s ill temper. Most likely, she told him I was on the phone, and he decided to embellish her report.

“I’m sorry,” I said, because as I always tell my clients, apologizing first is best. “I was on the phone with a client and must not have heard her knock.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t keep the door closed,” he said.