The Arrangement Spin-off: Taming The Heiress

The headline of the notorious gossip column screamed.

The photo showed me in last night’s slip dress. The same one I’d pulled down from my crystal chandelier this morning after I’d woken up, fully naked, next to my idiotic ex, Collin. In the paparazzi photo, I looked absolutely wasted as I stumbled toward a waiting car.

“This,” he said, tapping the photo, “is not how a future CEO behaves.”

I pushed his phone away. My mouth still tasted like champagne and regret.

“It’s one photo, Dad. One bad night.”

“You were representing Moss Media, Kyle. Do you think shareholders want to see this when they open their morning papers?”

“Since when do you care what shareholders think? You built this company by taking risks, not by playing it safe.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather throne he’d occupied for thirty years.

“I built this company with discipline and vision. Not by stumbling out of nightclubs at three in the morning.”

I set down my caramel iced latte harder than necessary.

“Is there a point to this lecture, or are we just rehashing my greatest hits?”

“The point is that I want to retire.” His words were calculated. “I want to name you as my successor and transition control of Moss Media to you.”

My heart stopped. This was it, everything I’d dreamed of, worked for, fought for.

“But I can’t do that,” he continued, “until you show me you’re ready.”

“I am ready,” I said, leaning forward. “Dad, I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I know this company inside and out. I have big plans for Moss Media’s future. We could expand into streaming, our music division could—”

“Plans aren’t enough, Kyle. Character matters. Leadership matters. Your mother—”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I intended.

Dad sighed. “Your mother would be disappointed in the woman you’ve become.”

The words hit me like a physical slap. My stomach clenched.

“Excuse me?”

“She had such high hopes for you. She used to say you were going to change the world, to make it better. Instead, you’re stumbling out of nightclubs and making headlines for all the wrong reasons.”

I stood up from Dad’s $18,000 leather Eames chair so fast, I made myself dizzy. Or maybe that was the hangover.

“You don’t get to use Mom against me. You don’t get to speak for her.”

“Kyle.”

“No.” I grabbed my ​​Hermès Birkin Bag, my hands shaking with rage and something that felt dangerously close to tears.

“I’m done with this conversation.”

I stormed out of his office, past his secretary, past the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the Los Angeles skyline—the view I was supposed to inherit.

The elevator couldn’t come fast enough.

Outside, the street was noisy and smelled like exhaust fumes. I yanked off my Bulgari sunglasses, not caring that the afternoon sun made my hangover worse. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to get as far away from that office and my father’s disappointed expression as possible.

I was walking fast, not really paying attention to where I was going, when my heel caught on something hard. I felt myself falling, plunging toward the dirty pavement, which was pretty much a metaphor for my life at this point. Someday, I was going to hit rock bottom and no one was there to stop me.

The afternoon sun warmed the sidewalk, and I'd already made twenty bucks, not bad for a Wednesday. I thought about my bank account, the pathetic $347 balance that was supposed to last me until next week.

And then I thought of Paige, my beautiful firecracker of a little sister, who at twenty-five, should have been out clubbing, dating terrible guys, and complaining about her job. But instead she was battling cancer.

This morning, I’d gone with her to a wig store, now that chemo had stolen her beautiful dark hair. I’d tried to make Paige laugh by donning a blonde bob, and I’d succeeded, but then she got a phone call from the hospital saying insurance wouldn’t cover immunotherapy.

It might as well have been one hundred million. Chemo on its own wasn’t doing enough. But combined with immunotherapy, Paige had a fighting chance.

My heart clenched like a fist. I would do anything for her. I’d find a way to pay for the immunotherapy treatment, even if it felt impossible.

I set down my guitar. "Are you okay?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she snapped.

She was beautiful in that untouchable kind of way—perfectly styled blonde hair, flawless makeup, clothes that cost more than I made in six months.

"Don't block the sidewalk," she said, like I had personally offended her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I laughed. "Last time I checked, this was public property."

Her eyes flashed, bright blue, furious. She pointed at the towering glass building behind me. “You're on Moss Media property."

I glanced up at the corporate monolith, then at her.

“I’m pretty sure the sidewalk belongs to the city."

She didn't like that. I could see her jaw clench, her perfectly manicured hands curl into fists. She looked like an angry kitten.

“That doesn’t mean you can set up camp wherever you want.” She straightened herself, looking at me like I smelled bad.

“I’m not homeless. I’m working.”

“Working?” She scoffed, gesturing at my guitar case. “This is what you call work?”

“Hey, at least it’s honest.”

She smirked. “Well, try to aim your honesty somewhere that doesn’t trip innocent pedestrians.”

“Oh really?” She strolled toward me, holding her up iced latte, which was nearly empty. “Well, Mr. hard worker, here's a tip for your talent,"

Before I could react, she threw the plastic up into my guitar case. Coffee and caramel splashed everywhere, soaking the few bills I'd earned.

"Jesus!" I jumped up, watching twenty dollars worth of tips turn into sugary sludge.

She was already walking away, her heels clicking like gunshots on the concrete.

I grabbed some napkins from my backpack, trying to salvage what money I could. The bills were ruined, sticky with caramel and cream.

I was still cleaning up when I saw something glinting on the sidewalk, a phone in a rose gold case, probably worth more than my rent. It must have fallen out of her bag when she tripped. I could have left it there. After what she'd just done to my earnings, I probably should have.

But my mom raised me better than that.

"Hey!" I called out, jogging after her. "Paris Hilton. You dropped this!"

She turned around, surprised when she saw her phone in my hand.

"Oh. Thank you."

She reached for it, but I didn’t let go. "You should learn some manners."

Her eyes went wide, like no one had ever called her out before.

“Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Just because you're having a bad day doesn't mean you get to take it out on everyone else."

She stared at me, and I could see her brain working, like she was to decide between yelling at me or having me arrested.

“Who are you?”

“Julian,” I said. “Julian Davis.”

Her manicured fingers brushed against mine as I released the rose gold phone. I wanted to know her name, her real one.

“No,” she responded, with a cruel smile. “You’re a nobody.”

I watched her go, her blonde hair bouncing behind her in perfect waves, noticing how rigid her shoulders were. Whatever had put her in such a foul mood, it was big. I was walking back towards my open guitar case, wondering if there was a way to salvage my sticky bills, when I heard a deep, booming voice behind me.

"Congratulations. That was nicely done."

I turned around to see an older man in an expensive suit, with silver hair, sharp eyes, and a presence that suggested he was important. He was probably in his sixties, but he carried himself like someone who could still command a boardroom.

I frowned. "Sorry?"

"The way you handled my daughter." He gestured in the direction the stiletto-clad woman had walked. “Most people either kiss her ass or run away. You did neither."

That explained the attitude.

“She’s your kid?"

"Kyle, yes. And she's usually not quite that..."

He paused, searching for a diplomatic word.

"Bitchy?"

He actually smiled. "I was going to say ‘spirited.’ But yes."

The man pulled out his wallet and placed a hundred-dollar bill into my coffee-soaked guitar case.

"Whoa." I held up my hands. "That's way too much."

"Play me something," he said. “Consider it a commission."

I looked at the hundred, then at him. "What do you want to hear?"

"Dealer's choice. Something... peaceful."

When I finished, the man was quiet for a long moment.

"That’s my wife’s favorite song," he said finally. "She taught herself how to play it on the piano. You play beautifully.”

"Thank you. Does she play anymore?"

"Not anymore. She died. Cancer." His voice was matter-of-fact, but I could hear the pain underneath. “Three years ago."

"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it. "My sister's battling cancer now. I know how hard it is to see a loved one fighting the disease."

He looked at me sharply. "Your sister?"

"Yeah. My little sister, Paige. I just found out today that insurance won't cover the immunotherapy treatment she needs."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Maybe it was the way he'd listened to me play, or the sadness in his eyes when he'd mentioned his wife.

"What's your name?"

"Julian. Julian Davis, Sir."

"Miller Moss." His steely eyes met mine. "I think this might be fate, Julian."

"Fate?"

"You're honest. You gave Kyle back her phone, even after what she did. You don't back down from a challenge. You called her out when she was being rude. And you played my wife’s favorite song.”

I wasn't sure where this was going, but something in his tone made me wary.

"I can help you," he said. “I'm the CEO of Moss Media Corporation. A billionaire, as my daughter would be quick to point out. I can pay for your sister's treatment, all of it. Immunotherapy, recovery, whatever she needs."

My heart stopped. "What's the catch?"

"I need you to marry Kyle."