My Billionaires Big Rooster

They say love makes you glow. Well, Ariella Monteverde was definitely glowing — but not from love. From rage. Her phone screen flickered in the dim light of her car, the sound of fake moaning echoing through her Bluetooth speaker. “Oh, Mason, you’re so good Ughh” Ariella froze. Her face went blank. Then she blinked once. Twice. “Oh, no you didn’t,” she muttered, voice calm — too calm — the kind that meant someone was about to die. Mason Cruz. Her boyfriend of two years. The man who said, “You’re my forever, babe.” Apparently, forever lasted right until his assistant’s lingerie fell off. The video had been sent by accident — Mason’s own assistant, stupidly uploading it to the company’s shared drive where Ariella, the marketing head, had access. A rookie mistake. Ariella’s favorite kind. She smiled, slow and wicked. “So, gusto mo ng scandal, huh?” In five minutes flat, she drove to his condo — her heels clicking like a countdown to judgment day. Her dress? Still the sleek black number from their “date night,” which Mason conveniently canceled because of a “meeting.” “Meeting my foot,” she hissed, stabbing the elevator button. “Let’s see what kind of meeting this is.” By the time she reached his floor, the anger had turned into energy — dangerous, electric energy. Ariella Monteverde was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. She knocked once. No answer. She knocked twice. And on the third knock, the door opened — revealing Mason, shirtless, wearing only guilt and confusion. “A-Ari? What are you—” She pushed the door open. “Don’t even start.” Inside, the scent of betrayal hit her — vanilla candle, wine, and cheap perfume. And there she was. The assistant. Hiding behind the couch, wearing Ariella’s silk robe. “Oh, wow,” Ariella said, clapping slowly. “You didn’t just cheat. You accessorized it.” Mason scrambled. “It’s not what it looks like!” “Oh, good!” she said brightly. “Because what it looks like is you cheating on me with your assistant while wearing my robe and drinking my wine.” He stammered. “We were—uh—discussing the campaign!” Ariella tilted her head. “Right. And which position best helped the discussion?” The assistant squeaked, grabbing her clothes. Mason turned pale. Ariella, meanwhile, walked to the wine table, poured herself a glass, and sat like she owned the place — which, technically, she half did, since she’d paid the downpayment. “You know,” she began conversationally, “I was actually going to say yes.” Mason blinked. “Yes to what?” Ariella smirked. “To your proposal next month. You hid the ring under your car seat. Not very subtle.” He froze. “You—how—?” “Please,” she scoffed. “I live in your car half the time. You really thought I wouldn’t notice a Tiffany box?” Silence. Just his shallow breathing, the assistant’s embarrassed whimper, and the sound of Ariella sipping wine like it was gasoline. Then she stood, all calm fury and red lipstick. “Congratulations, Mason. You’ve just downgraded from queen to side dish.” And with that, she tossed the wine right onto his face. Red. Sticky. Poetic. She grabbed her purse, walked out the door, and didn’t look back — because queens don’t look back at peasants. It wasn’t until she reached her car that the first tear fell. “Ugh. Nope. Not crying. Not for him,” she muttered, wiping it away. “You don’t cry for clowns.” But emotions are traitors too. By the time she reached her apartment, she was crying and swearing in three languages. Her best friend, Lani, opened the door in pajamas. “Girl, why do you look like you auditioned for Kill Bill?” Ariella threw her purse on the couch. “Because apparently, my boyfriend is starring in Fifty Shades of Corporate Trash.” “Oh, hell no,” Lani gasped. “Mason? The guy with the jawline and two brain cells?” “The very same.” “What happened?” Ariella took a deep breath. “His assistant happened. My robe happened. My wine happened. My stupidity happened.” Lani’s eyes widened. “Girl… what’s your next move?” Ariella’s tears dried instantly. Her lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Revenge. But make it fashionable.” Two days later. The Monteverde Public Relations firm buzzed with tension. Mason avoided eye contact all morning — probably praying Ariella wouldn’t burn the building down. Too bad she was wearing red today. The color of danger and ex-girlfriends on a mission. She strutted into the boardroom like she owned it. “Good morning, everyone.” Half the team froze. Mason visibly gulped. “Our presentation today,” she began sweetly, “is about brand damage control something my ex-boyfriend knows a lot about.” Everyone laughed nervously. Mason looked like he wanted the floor to open up. After the meeting, their CEO called her in. “Ariella, I heard about your… situation. Take some time off, hmm? Clear your head.” “Time off?” she echoed. “You mean a vacation?” “Yes, something like that.” She thought about it for two seconds. Then she smiled. “Fine. I’ll take it.” That’s how Ariella Monteverde found herself three days later in Malibu — burnt out, barefoot, and tipsy on overpriced cocktails. She booked a random Airbnb that looked peaceful online. Except when she arrived, she realized “peaceful” meant “owned by a billionaire who didn’t know she’d double-booked the property.” When the front door opened, and a tall man in gray sweatpants gave her an unimpressed look, Ariella’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me,” she said, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Who are you and why are you in my rental?” The man crossed his arms. “Your rental?” His voice was deep, smooth, and a little annoyed. “That’s funny, sweetheart. Because I own this house.” Ariella blinked. “You’re kidding.” “Do I look like I kid?” She looked him up and down — the messy dark hair, the broad shoulders, the smugness that screamed “I’m richer than your WiFi signal.” “Oh my God,” she said slowly. “You’re Damian Vale.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know me?” “Everyone knows you,” she said. “Billionaire tech giant, women’s magazine nightmare, the man who crashed his own yacht out of boredom.” He smirked. “I see my reputation precedes me.” “It trips over itself,” she shot back. For a moment, silence. Then — he laughed. It wasn’t polite laughter. It was the kind that filled a room, rough and amused. “I like you already,” he said. “Well, I don’t like you,” she replied, brushing past him. “And since this house was listed under ‘shared rental,’ I’m staying.” “Shared?” he repeated. “You mean—” “Exactly.” She threw her luggage on the couch. “Looks like we’re roommates, Mr. Billionaire.” Damian exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fantastic. Just what I needed. A dramatic woman with trust issues.” “Trust issues?” she snapped. “My ex cheated on me, not because I have trust issues, but because men are trash!” “Good,” he said dryly. “Then I’ll take out the garbage.” Her jaw dropped. “You’re impossible.” He smirked. “And you’re loud.” Ariella glared. “Fine. I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours.” “Perfect,” he said. “Don’t break anything.” “Don’t exist near me.” He grinned. “No promises.” That night, as she lay awake in the guest room, listening to the ocean waves crash outside, Ariella told herself she’d hate him forever. But the universe, as usual, had a sense of humor. Because by next week, she’d be working for him. And by next month… She wouldn’t know if she wanted to strangle him or kiss him.