Arianne Blackwell is everything you'd expect in a Queen Bee and more. And she thrives in Brookswich, a town that comes hand in hand with money, power and pompous assholes.
Everything about Alejandro Velasco spells trouble with a promise. And he thr...
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September 1st 2024
Throughout my life I'd been known as a lot of things, Arianne, Aria, Ari, Queen Bee, Law Student, New Yorker, Fashion Blogger, Fashion Designer, all around 10/10, and now: the bitch who left Oliver Van Doren at the altar.
It seemed even my own sister could only see this. I hadn't seen the thirteen year year old in weeks and the first thing she asks me, "So, Arianne, why the hell did you stand up Oliver Van Doren at the alter?"
The glare I shot the essentially younger version of myself could have froze a flame. Of course her glare was much more effective because she was eyeing me with all the disdain a bored, grounded thirteen year old could manage. And that was a lot.
"Let me guess," she said, rolling her eyes, "You don't wanna talk about it?"
I shook my head.
Hell no did I want to talk about it. It was singlehandedly the worst moment of my life. And I was betting, the worst moment of Oliver's life also. I didn't even want to think about the look on his face when he realised that I wasn't showing up to our wedding. I hadn't seen it personally but my father yelling at me about how distraught he looked was description enough.
And then there was that horrendous photo of me running out of the hotel in a fifty thousand dollar wedding dress that had been plastered over every magazine I seemed to pick up these days. 'Fashion Designer and Blogger Arianne Blackwell ditching Billionaire Oliver Van Doren at the Alter' or something equally as sleazy seemed to be on every single cover, and inside a long, detailed column about how much of a bitch I was.
And I couldn't exactly disagree.
I thought about then, for the first time in weeks, the engagement ring in my bedside cabinet. The engagement ring that was perfect, shaped like a heart and more carats than I cared to admit. And then I couldn't stop thinking about how perfect the man who gave it to me was. How perfect he was as a person and yet my messed up ass still didn't want him.
It was like nothing had changed since I was a teenager: instead of wanting the perfect good boys I only wanted the flawed bad boy. And six years later I didn't want a bad boy necessarily but I didn't want Oliver, the good boy, either.
I told my sister, "I don't really know why I left him."
"You don't know?" She repeated.
"No, I don't know," I snapped, "Something just didn't feel... right."
Ariella didn't reply to that, however her best friend, Riley, did.
"How can something not feel right with Oliver Van Doren?" Riley objected, "The guys obscenely rich and gorgeous."
I reminded myself not to call her a fucking idiot because this was just the way that rich thirteen year old girls were wired to think. Money was the main aim when looking for a boyfriend, attractiveness was just an added bonus. Hell, hadn't Dad all but raised me to think the same thing? I internally snorted at that. Yeah he had and clearly that all just flew out the window.
