Dirty Headlines

“This is going to end badly,” I murmured, not even sure if he could hear me.

We slid into the elevator, and he pushed the second floor button, smirking. “But we will have one hell of a ride.”



I’d never believed in miracles.

My experience with life had been that it was pragmatic, uncontrollable, and unpredictable—with a royal introduction to all three when I’d caught my father with our maid’s mouth wrapped around his dick when I was only five years old.

He’d told me they were playing, and I’d believed him. Moreover, it looked like a pretty fun game, too—I loved touching my penis, loved being tickled, and combining the two seemed like the kind of idea to land you a Nobel Prize—so of course I ran it by Maman. Needless to say, Maman was not impressed with the way my father conducted his spontaneous playdates with the help.

The maid was fired, my parents had a huge fight, and from that point forward, I can’t remember a time when we were a happy family.

Or just happy.

Or just a family.

For all the shit both of them had been through together, for all the affairs and infidelities and fighting through lawyers and stooping so low they made me wonder just how bad, exactly, humans could be, they hadn’t gotten a divorce until last year.

My father, however, had never loved me. His disdain was fundamentally present in the way he looked at me, the way he sneered, and the way he deliberately avoided anything I liked or that mattered to me. He thought, in some fucked-up way, that I was responsible for the slow and unstoppable breakdown of his marriage. Which only went to show how little responsibility he took when it came to his problems.

That’s why I had very little faith in this thing called life. If something went right, it was probably because it was taking a turn on its way to go seriously wrong. Give it time, and it would happen. Life was about putting out fires, or, if you worked in a newsroom, about starting them.

Which worked well for me. My personal experience with people was lackluster. So I didn’t mind screwing them over if they did something bad that deserved to be publicly discussed.

Anyway, like I said, I’d never believed in miracles, and that’s why I knew there was a reason Lily had left the gala before Jude and I got back to the terrace. Unfortunately for all parties involved, I didn’t have it in me to care enough to check. Lily was part of my plan, sure, but my plan was already in motion. I would deal with her little tantrum later, remind her about my parents’ chateau in Nice—the one she wanted to renovate and live in during the summers so badly. I’d buy her another ticket to the Maldives to vacation with her friends, soothe her the way she was used to being soothed—with pretty shiny things and negative attention.

“Oh my God! Célian!”

After all, not long ago I’d caught my fiancée on all fours, taking my father’s cock in her mouth in his office while he caressed her bare, fake-tanned ass—much like the maid had all those years ago.

It hadn’t been coincidental, and I knew it. My father was a sick prick, and he’d figured I remembered the day he’d buried his family six feet under—not only by cheating on my mother, but also by deciding it was my fault for ratting him out. He made me feel like I was fundamentally defective. So I became what he treated me as: a world-class jerk.

“Why would I not be here? I work here.” I’d clucked my tongue, ignoring the entire scene playing before me with pure nonchalance, like my father had been sitting at his desk and Lily was typing away on her desktop as a part of that bullshit internship she’d wanted to take for half a second to impress me and prove she was worthy of inheriting Newsflash Corp.

I’d walked into his office with purpose—he’d invited me there, so he knew I’d catch him—and of course, I couldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing me hurt, so I poured myself a glass of scotch. I took a seat across the room on a brown leather settee and sipped quietly, watching the view from his window.

Lily had finally had the audacity to tuck her shirt into her skirt, roll the latter down her bare thighs and wipe her lips, running like a headless chicken across the room. She’d reached out, about to throw herself at me.

“Get anywhere near me and your life, reputation, and social circle, as you know them, will cease to exist.” I’d sipped my drink, crossing my legs.

She’d halted in place, collapsing onto the carpeted floor. My father had chuckled, taking his time to zip himself up. I remembered thinking no son should see his father’s penis at that age, unless it was because he needed to give him a bath because he was too sick to do it himself.

“Son,” he’d finally greeted.

I’d smiled, thinking, Not anymore. And maybe not ever.

“Cela aurait d? être toi sous ce bus et non ta soeur” he’d said. It should have been you under that bus, not your sister. But his tone had been kind, apologetic—like he’d been pleading Lily’s case. Bastard.

I’d answered him in French. “You know, Papa, I wish that too, every single day. And I know why you do. Because the minute I get the chance, I’ll ruin you. Completely.”

After Jude and I reached the second floor and destroyed the video, we went back to the terrace shared another drink with our colleagues, blissfully ignoring each other—another thing about her that made my dick happy. She wasn’t clingy or needy or even particularly interested in claiming me or my attention. She did her own thing. Like me, she simply had needs that needed to be met. Call me a saint, but I was happy to take one (or six) for the team.