Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance)
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Authors: S. Ann Cole
Tags: #Amazon Copy, #February 4
Y
ES,
M
R.
V
AN
D
ER
W
ELLS
A Novel
by
S. Ann Cole
L
ICENSE
N
OTES
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2016 by S. Ann Cole
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: S. Ann Cole
Formatting: S. Ann Cole
Editor: Cherie
Macenka
Proofreaders: Kay Karolyshyn, Robin H., Cherie Macenka
Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Making or distributing copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For permission requests, contact the publisher via email:
[email protected]
.
Visit my website at
www.AnnCole.net
T
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
D
EDICATION
For all survivors of abusive relationships.
Be it physical, verbal, or emotional abuse,
abuse is abuse
.
You woke up one day, looked at yourself in the mirror, and thought,
I’m too fly for this ish
!
For that reason, I dedicate this book to
you
.
Congratulations on your freedom and newfound confidence! You are nothing short of awesome, so you deserve nothing less than a 10-star kind of love.
Take the time to fall in love with yourself, find
your
identity, and let nothing define you.
Tilt your face to the sky, smile back at the sun, wink back at the stars, and
do
you
!
I FELL
I fell in love
With a man.
It was love
And a triangle
A love triangle.
His love
My love
His fists.
I fell in love
With a man.
Asked for his heart
He gave me
All the wrong parts.
A bruise
A crack
A stitch.
I fell in love
With a man
And found myself
Three new friends
To play with.
Fear
Fright
Folly.
I fell in love
With a man.
I fell out of love
With a man.
I fell in love
With Freedom.
Her arms
protects
Fear
she rejects.
I fell in love
With Freedom.
And found myself
Three best friends
To play with.
Wisdom.
Courage.
Strength.
I fell in love
With Freedom.
I stayed in love,
With Freedom.
Never will I
Fall in love
With a
man
.
P
ROLOGUE
Three Years Ago
M
Y WIFE IS A WHORE.
For every second I stood staring at that goddamn screen, I could feel my heart pounding faster, and ever faster. Sweat made my palms itch, my necktie like a noose, strangling, stealing every breath, wheeze by wheeze.
“Do you want to make a move, sir?”
A question was directed at me. I should answer. Shouldn’t I? When a question is directed at you, you’re expected to answer. Simple mechanics. Nothing complicated.
Why, then, did I find it so damn hard to curl my tongue and form as little as a syllable? Why was my brain no longer doing its job? My only functioning anatomy are my eyes. Glued to the twenty-two inch monitor in my private investigator’s office; a screen, divulging to me the pixelated version of my perfidious wife and my equally disloyal twenty-year-old valet.
An underprivileged emo kid I picked off the streets a couple years back, put him through school, gave him a roof, food, clothing, a job, and a future. This was how the ingrate chose to repay me. By screwing my wife. Five days a week, according to my private investigator. Apparently, my wife went home at noon each day, and they’d go at it like animals, before she skipped out for work again.
Bitch
.
“Mr. Van Der Wells?”
This shouldn’t have shocked me. After all, she had to be getting it elsewhere if she wasn’t getting it from me, right? Not because I wasn’t giving her the attention she deserved, because I did, I gave her the world; she just didn’t want it.
I’d say it’s because she wasn’t attracted to me anymore, but it was time I started being honest with myself: She never was attracted to me to begin with. Understandable. Because—again with the whole being honest with myself—I wasn’t attractive.
No, I didn’t have goddamn self-esteem issues. If I did, I wouldn’t have waited until my wife stepped out on me to start admitting my hideousness.
My wife and I grew up as friends. Close friends. Two privileged kids from two insanely wealthy families on the Upper East Side of New York.
Recession was blowing the hats off even affluent ones’ heads. To weather it out, our families sought to align. Thus, in a hoary and clichéd fashion, we were pressured into marriage, fresh out of college.
However, “pressured” referred more to
her
, my wife. Not a lot of convincing was done on my part to get me on board. Here’s why: I had a crush on her since high school. While she crushed on older, college jocks. Me? I was just her chubby childhood friend that she ignored and shoved in the background the older she grew.
Get it now? Yeah, imagine my elation at being “coerced” into exchanging rings with my all-time crush.
Booyah! Score! Fist pump! My life is life made
, I’d thought.
L-U-C-K-Y. The happiest man alive after we got married, because, it didn’t matter how rich I was, I knew I would never, in my life, score a knockout like Sienna Sullivan. One of the hottest, sexiest, wealthiest piece of ass in New York.
What, you think that’s a turn-off? Lite confidence and zero percent arrogance does nothing for you? Apologies. But, see, in life, most of us choose to live in denial. Like the 300-lb women you see sashaying on the beach in two-piece bikinis, heads held high, thinking, “
I’m thick, sexy and proud. Ain’t no skinny bitch gonna make me feel bad about my curves
.”
…And then there are those who are
realistic
. The ones who wear waist-trainers under their one-piece and volunteer to let their kids bury them under the sand.
I’m realistic. I knew if I ever got a woman who looked like Sienna Sullivan to voluntarily spread her legs in my bed, she would either be: a) a hooker I handpicked and paid a hefty price for, or b)
a gold-digger or social climber more interested in my net-worth than my cherub-like cheeks.
So, yeah, I thought getting Sienna’s hand in marriage was nothing short of a miracle.
My name? Nate. Nate Van Der Wells. Sounds hot, doesn’t it? I can imagine chicks, hearing the name Nate Van Der Wells, mentally sketching a profile that fits that name: Between twenty-seven to twenty-nine. Millionaire, at least. Suave, clean-cut, dashing debonair. Lean, cut, abs for days. Total chick-magnet. Master of his universe.
Well…some of the above are true. I
am
twenty-eight. I
am
the master of my universe, because I
am—
not a millionaire
,
but a billionaire. What I
wasn’t
was suave or dashing. What I wasn’t was lean, or cut, with zero abs. What I
wasn’t
was a chick-magnet.