All mistakes are mine, folks!
"What the fuck, Gianna?" Her face is all red from running back and forth to the desk clerk and arguing with the lady but it's the tickets I'm glaring at. Not her appearance.
"I'm sorry, but it's on my card and I don't exactly have the same color of American Express card as you have."
"Fucking coach," I spit at her, my fingers curling around the handle of my LV luggage so tightly I think it might snap off.
"If I can give you one solid tip, sir," her voice drops. "Lose the grass and splash some water in your face. The red eyes make you look like a teen who discovered his big brother's stash of weed."
"You want me to throw out premium marihuana and go wash my fucking face? To get on that plane?" I arch my brows, the air conditioning inside so cold my nipples could cut through my shirt.
"We're in Europe," she sighs. "Getting on an eleven-hour flight to the United States." I get another one of her eyerolls as if I'm a fucking tool.
"Yeah? We were about to do the same on the jet."
"Do you have any idea how strict customs are if you travel to the US? I swear to god, I don't have the money to bail you out of jail, Mr. Cullen."
I let her words sink in for a bit. It's not like I have the amount of cash on me that could bribe custom agents here.
"Fucking fuck." I turn on my loafers and head to the closest restroom.
The water does help even though I won't admit that to Gianna. My ginger hair darkens as I run wet fingers through it, but my eyes are so green and red-rimmed I look like a girl who watched the fucking Notebook for the past three days.
I blink a few times and rummage through my carry-on until I find my glasses. As I struggle with my contacts, an older gentleman enters the men's room to wash his hands. His eyes meet mine in the mirror.
"You okay, son?" he asks with an British accent
The scowl on my face stops him from touching my shoulder.
"New brand of contacts my eyes don't agree with," I mutter as the dry-as-fuck rounds stick to the inside of the bin lid.
"You seem oddly familiar," the guy says as he gives me a once-over. Then he takes the rolled up London Times from under his arm.
"There it is, blimey… looks like You're a long way from home, Cullen." There's a smirk on his face as my eyes flutter along the headline of the first page.
Cullen's Corrupt Empire.
Carlisle Cullen, the God who loses his wings and tumbles to the depths of hell.
The picture accompanying the article is from last Christmas, featuring my parents, myself, and my sister.
The Cullen dynasty falls from grace due to the scandal that has just surfaced after the former CFO speaks out. The American household name loses everything in order to make due.
I dump all that's illegal and rush to the coffee place where Gianna waits for me. She's got a magazine clutched to her chest and hides her anxiety behind a fake smile as she sees me walk around with that damned newspaper.
"I take it you know what's been going on?" she asks meekly.
"I think we both do, now." I stare at her magazine and the way my father's face is plastered on the cover, big angry red font doing the name-calling.
"I'm sorry," Gianna says swiftly. "I didn't know, sir. Not until I paid for it."
"I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."
