Tequila Hours

Billionaires

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."

Literature

This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally impor

Romance

Do you want to read a little of a new story by the author? Chapter One Five Years Later Chapter Two Did you like this story? Continue reading by clicking here> https://amzn.to/46wdoSs Acknowledgments About the Author Dedication Dedicated to João Paulo, Larah and all the Marias. Synopsis A widowed fa

Short stories

Eloise Muir is a young, energetic woman. She has everything in her which makes any man kneel to her. Working in a News Firm, she had encountered many admirers and turned down their proposals elegantly. But, her one co-worker, David Cooper was reluctant to accept her refusal, hence, he kept finding e

Modern

The brilliant streamers of coloured light which wave at certain seasons over the heavens have long since been recognised as among the most singular and impressive of all the phenomena which the skies present to our view. There is something surpassingly beautiful in the appearance of the true ‘

Literature

Giant Hours With Poet Preachers by William L. Stidger

Literature

Flying the Atlantic in Sixteen Hours by Arthur Whitten Brown

Literature

Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers by Various

Literature

A celebrated author has justly remarked that Christian women can, like the guardian angels, invisibly govern the world; and the author of the Serious Hours of a Young Lady has very appropriately made this truth the basis of his book, since the object that he had in view in writing it was to point ou

Romance

Eleanor Vanderbilt, the scion of a powerful dynasty, found herself in a moment of gilded tradition, presented with a curated selection of aristocratic bachelors, poised to make a choice that would shape her future. Yet, as her fingers hovered over the portrait of Ethan Hayes, the man her heart once

Fantasy

I woke up to a familiar, cheap motel ceiling. Today was the day Chloe and I were supposed to elope. But this wasn' t just any morning. I'd lived this day before. Ten years ago, on this exact date, Chloe died saving me in a fatal car crash. Now, I'm back, haunted by a chilling ultimatum: "Thirty

Literature

Hours with the Ghosts or, Nineteenth Century Witchcraft by Henry Ridgely Evans

Romance

She was her own person and knew exactly what she wanted. He owned the whole damn thing and thought he could do anything. She had something he wanted but didn't know. He had what she'd always dreamed of, but she had no idea how to achieve it. She lied out of love. He didn't forgive anyone. She hated

Literature

I have received a large amount of correspondence concerning this small work, and many reviews of it — some of them nearly as long as the book itself — have been printed. But scarcely any of the comment has been adverse. Some people have objected to a frivolity of tone; but as the tone is