1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Fenella

I need better shoes.

The man who designed these shoes was a sadist. And it has to be a man because a woman would not do this to other women—squashing baby toes beyond recognition, adding no padding in the sole and even less grip on the bottom, which causes me to skid along the damp pavement as I dash across the street.

A taxi screeches to a halt as I cross against the light, resulting in a long, drawn-out honk from a Maserati sliding by. The driver shouts something incomprehensible out the window, along with finger gestures. I ignore them and continue to cross because cars will stop for me because I'm Fenella Carrington and things always happen for me.

Except for this. This can't be happening to me.

The music from Bubbles nightclub chases after me, adding to the sounds of the Las Vegas Strip. This truly is a city that never sleeps because it's lit up to be as bright as day and it's very loud, so the only way to sleep in one of the hotel rooms is to take the penthouse, giving you the right amount of distance from the street, or use a sleep mask/earplug combination.

Fortunately, I have access to all of the above.

"Fenella—wait!"

The voice of my boyfriend/fiancé/ex-everything calls after me. Tiger Brannon is a singer and can project his voice over the white noise of the city. I consider that to be his only talent at this moment.

"For what?" Forgetting I'm in the middle of a busy street after midnight, I whirl around to face Tiger, who is panting after me.

You'd think a rock star would have better cardio, but in reality, Tiger is in horrible shape, skinny to the point of scrawny with no visible muscle tone. He's the lead singer for Opium and a fairly boring one at that. He never moves, just clutches the microphone like my friend Gigi when you give her a bottle of Dom Perignon and wails into it.

He is no prince.

Yes, I dated a prince, and unfortunately, every other man I've dated since has been found lacking in comparison. It's not that I want Prince Gunnar back—it's been years, and I pride myself in never going back, only forward—but Gunnar was one of the good ones.

"What should I be waiting for?" I shout at Tiger. Okay, it's more of a shriek than a shout, but I'm an emotional woman and this has been a very bad night.

Three hours ago, I had been in Los Angeles, enjoying sushi with my friends Coral and Rupert when I got the Google Alert that Tiger was at Bubbles, the nightclub owned by my friend, and fellow billionaire, Mase Stirling. The last time I spoke to Tiger, he had been finishing up a show in Dallas, Texas and moving on to the next stop on his tour.

I am not Travis; I would not follow Taylor from show to show. I do like to go once in a while, but Opium is not Taylor Swift. They may have an amazing music video, starring me and two of my model friends, but in my opinion, the band doesn't have the stamina to last, nor have they garnered the celebrity fans to make every concert a must-see event.

But I pride myself on being a good girlfriend. I sprang into action when I found out Tiger was in Las Vegas instead of the Midwest. From the sushi place, I made a few calls and quickly had the Carrington jet fueled and ready to whisk me away to Vegas. Rupert and Coral refused to come with me, even going so far as to point out how Tiger never told me he was less than two hours away by plane, but I still insisted on surprising him.

Bad idea all around. I do wish I could have convinced at least Coral to come because I could really use a squad with me. I'm alone out here for this.

Except for the groups of photographers there in front of Bubbles, and over there by the casino. They always seem to be around for times like this.

"For you to make out with other women?" I hold up three fingers. "In one night? Did you think I wouldn't find out? "

There are a lot of things I'm only now finding out about Tiger.

Google Alerts followed me from LA; by the time I landed, a handful of photos had shown up on the Internet of my boyfriend having some close contact with other women. According to Instagram, two were random fans who happened to be in the right place at the right time to get close to Tiger, but I recognized Luna Birch in the last picture. She's part of a group that follows the band across the country from show to show. Tiger and the band laugh at the group in private, but in the picture splashed across social media, Tiger is too busy exploring Luna's tonsils with his tongue to be laughing.

Because the world knows I'm with Tiger, I got tagged in all the pictures.

Nice of people to want to share the infidelities of my fiancé.

The sprinkle of rain has picked up, adding to the general crappiness of the night. These shoes are not meant for this weather, a surprise for Las Vegas, but neither is what I'm wearing—my Stella McCartney purple velvet flares and brand-new vest, which isn't really a vest but mesh covered in Swarovski crystals. It sparkles prettily in the headlights, but also moulds to my torso when it's wet.

Of course I didn't bring a jacket because that's what drivers are for, to keep you out of the rain.

More cars are stopping and there are many arms, with phones, hanging out of these cars as Tiger is recognized .

Which makes it worse because no one is recognizing me. I'm famous too. Granted, it's more for my father's money, but I've been on the cover of forty-six magazines and have over seventeen million followers, so hello—look at me!

That makes me sound vain, and I'm not that self-absorbed. I'm just really mad at Tiger.

Tiger catches up and reaches out a tattoo-covered hand to me. "Babe."

I jerk away, stepping back into the path of an oncoming car, which swerves around me. There is more shouting and a scream of excitement. Another fan. "Don't babe me. Three girls? And Luna Birch?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tiger tries hard to sound innocent but the guilty expression on his face says differently.

"Are you an idiot? I saw the pictures . Luna posted all about you kissing her! What are you thinking?"

"Fenella!"A woman shrieks from across the street. "I love you!"

I smile and wave but turn back to Tiger with a frown.

"I didn't think we were exclusive." Tiger holds out his hands with an appealing smile. And he is appealing if you like a gaunt frame covered in tattoos and piercings. His eyes are a strange silver-green, his lips are full—albeit with a double hoop on the bottom one—and the shock of platinum hair suits him.

He's the lead singer of the band with the most downloaded song on Spotify this month. Tiger is appealing.

At least he was.

I hold up my hand with the three-karat,square-cut pink diamond ring that Tiger presented me with nine days ago. Nine days! "Not exclusive?" I parrot. "What do you think this means?"

I shriek the last part, like a hyper fangirl. But it's still not enough, so I take off the ring and throw it at him. It bounces off his cheek. And leaves a scratch.

"Jesus!" Tiger slaps a hand on his cheek before scrambling for the ring. It's so big that it's not hard to find on the street.

"Babe. Fenella. You're making a scene," he pleads.

"Yes, and I'm very good at it." A group of teens passes us, not even bothering to hide the fact they're filming this. One of them has a bottle of Pepsi, and I grab it from his hands. He gapes at me as I give the bottle a good shake and spray it all over Tiger.

Now Tiger is the one shrieking as the cold carbonated soda drenches his expensive shirt. "You should write a song about me. Like you promised. Only now it's going to be about an angry ex-fiancée!"

I push the now half-empty bottle of Pepsi back at the guy with an apology and a hundred-dollar bill I had in my back pocket.

And then I walk away, leaving Tiger in the middle of the street.

Taylor Swift would write the heck out of this song.