Hotline Fling

CJ Chapter 1: Smoke and Mirrors

Celia and Jason's novela: An off-Broadway actress scorning her socialite family and an introverted FDNY paramedic engage in steamy anonymous calls until Fate intertwines their lives.

Celia's POV

'What my mother doesn't know won't hurt me' shouldn't provide this much satisfaction. Imagining her long, slender fingers curled around her pearls until the soft globes dented the milky white skin on her neck was so sweetly sinister. I almost gave myself cavities.

My phone spewed up the entertainment like a newsfeed. The wedding announcements hit social media, and the jealousy accusations and speculation on which of Phillip's friends I was fucking this week made me snort.

I declined the engagement party invitation weeks ago, yet the fucking floodgates of contact showed no one believed I would follow through on it. One disappointment-soaked message after another from the infamous Irina Dawes made me smile until my cheeks pinched. I refused to indulge the spectrum of responses –from passive-aggressive insults about my time management to disbelief, embarrassment, then my personal favorite, tempered rage– until my silence prompted a DM from the last person I wanted to communicate with.

Philip: We need to talk.

"No, we don't," I murmured and blocked him.

I frowned at seventeen missed calls, all from the she-devil. Close to a new record. Good. Last night's marathon with Davi and Sara was so much more enjoyable. Lazy sweats, eating takeout from the containers, and laughing at bad porn for the win. The only sacrifice was not seeing my mother's pained expression in person, her beaming smile showcasing a tight clench of her teeth.

As if summoned, the she-devil who probably planted those media stories called again. "Celia, this isn't negotiable," the insane woman insisted. "It's family."

Family. That excuse again. So tiring. Where was this family when I needed them three months ago? Coddling the bride-to-be, as always.

"It's too soon." I retreated into my closet, rummaging for the perfect outfit. What was the appropriate ensemble?

"You'll wear a proud face." My mother's tone clipped with her go-to chilly indifference. This call was a verbal equivalent of adding agenda items to my calendar. A notification on my phone followed. Two months from now. Interesting timing, except never worked for me when it came to public humiliation. "Six hundred guests are expected–"

"Then no one will notice if I'm not among them." I pulled out my sharpest office attire, a pristine, crisp white collared shirt, black suit, and toe-killer Manolo stilettos. Equal parts form and fashion.

"They'll notice the maid of honor is absent. I've taken care of all the arrangements." Of course, she had. Her asking me instead of the actual bride screamed what this event was, an excessive show of everything my family wasn't–close, connected, and unyielding solidarity of support. "They'll notice the maid of honor is absent. I've taken care of all the arrangements. Will a four still fit, or have you let yourself–"

"I need to go." Except for last night, silence equaled agreement in the Dawes household.

"Another interview, Celia?" The exasperation in her voice made me smile. "Your father and I have been patient enough, indulging in your debauchery–"

"Debauchery indulgence is what created this family fuckery, Mother. I'm only returning the favor." I smoothed my uneven hair and cupped my warm cheeks. The temptation to reveal where I was interviewing was strong, but flinging the secured position in her face would be much sweeter. "Excuse me. I have another interview, which I'll tell you all about later."