Arranged to a Playboy door itsvlada
Arranged to a Playboy
Beschrijving
She was the daughter her parents dismissed. He was the heir who vanished. A fake marriage forged by a dead man's will was supposed to be business—nothing more. But in a world where empires are built on secrets, and love is the most dangerous vulnerability, Ari and Sloane find themselves tangled in a power game neither intended to play. She wanted freedom. He wanted distance. Neither expected to fall in love. Now, with their families' darkest pasts resurfacing and trust hanging by a thread, they'll have to decide: will they survive the lies that built their foundation... or burn everything to build something real?
Hoofdstuk 1
Apr 11, 2025
[POV Ariel]
I've always been a ghost in my own house. Invisible until needed, like a piece of furniture remembered only when guests arrive. Tonight is no different as I sit at our mahogany dining table, watching my parents discuss my future as if I'm not even here.
"The Harrisons' son would be ideal," my mother, Genevieve, says, cutting into her steak with surgical precision. "Their media syndicate would complement our magazine portfolio perfectly."
She doesn't look at me when she speaks, as if the match is already settled. The pearls at her throat catch the light from our chandelier, gleaming like teeth.
I push asparagus around my plate, a child's rebellion in an adult's body.
My business degree from Columbia and my journalism fellowship mean nothing in this calculus. I've spent twenty-eight years trying to prove my worth in a household where my chromosomes determined my value before I could even speak.
"I was thinking Hunter Lynch might be more strategic," my father counters, as if selecting a stock rather than a husband for his daughter. "Digital integration is where the industry is heading."
I clear my throat. "I actually have some thoughts on our digital strategy. I've been analyzing our subscription data and—"
"Ariel, please." My father's hand rises, a traffic cop stopping an inconvenient interruption. "We're discussing important business matters."
Of course. Because my input couldn't possibly qualify as "important business." Despite my double major, despite graduating summa cum laude, despite the comprehensive digital transformation proposal sitting in my father's email, unread for three weeks.
"Sorry I'm late." Charlie, my younger brother, slides into his seat with the ease of someone who knows they're wanted.
At twenty-seven, he's the golden child, the Newman heir apparent, despite his complete disinterest in the family legacy.
My father's face transforms instantly, hard lines softening into something that resembles love. "How was the gallery showing?"
Charlie lights up, describing his latest artwork with animated hands. I watch my parents lean forward, enraptured, as if his every word is scripture.
The same parents who called my journalism awards "nice little achievements" now hang on Charlie's every description of brush technique and symbolic meaning.
The irony burns bitter on my tongue.
Charlie, with his art degree and paint-stained fingers, is being groomed to inherit Newman Publishing—an empire he has repeatedly stated he wants no part of.
"Dad," Charlie interrupts himself, glancing at me with the understanding of a co-conspirator. "Did you look at Ariel's proposal? Her integration model could increase digital subscription revenue by thirty percent."
My chest tightens with gratitude. Charlie is the only one who sees me in this house, who validates my existence beyond my marriageable potential.
My father waves his hand dismissively.
"We have a team for that sort of thing, son."
"A team that hasn't stopped our declining print numbers or addressed our abysmal mobile platform," I say, the words escaping before I can cage them.
The silence that follows is glacial. My mother's fork pauses midway to her mouth. My father's jaw tightens, the muscle pulsing beneath his meticulously trimmed silver beard.
"Ariel," he says, my name sounding like a warning bell, "when you understand the complexities of running a media conglomerate, then perhaps your input will be warranted."
"I've worked at three different publications," I reply, heat rising to my face. "I've written award-winning investigative pieces. I completed the executive business program specifically to understand those complexities."
"Theory isn't practice," he dismisses. "And speaking of your... writing career. It's time you took a more appropriate role within the family business. Something in HR, perhaps."
Human Resources. Where they put people who need to be kept busy but not heard. The insult is so transparent it almost circles back to admirable.
"I think I'm better suited to content strategy or digital development," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel.
My mother sighs with practiced weariness.
"Darling, let's be practical. You'll be married within the year if we choose correctly. A demanding role would only complicate your transition."
My transition. Like I'm a property being transferred, a merger of flesh and family names.
I look at Charlie and find his eyes already on me, filled with apology and understanding.
He knows. He's always known how much I've wanted to earn my place in the Newman empire, how desperately I've tried to matter in our parents' eyes.
"May I be excused?" I ask, the formality a relic from childhood rules never outgrown.
I don't wait for permission. I rise, legs unsteady beneath me, and walk from the dining room with as much dignity as I can salvage.
In the hallway, I catch my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror—a woman composed of expectations and disappointments, wearing a mask so practiced I sometimes forget it isn't my real face.
In my bedroom, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. The browser history shows my latest research: Wayne Publishing. Our family's greatest competitor, the thorn in my father's side for three generations.
Richard Wayne's media empire stands for everything my father claims to value—innovation, journalistic integrity, forward-thinking business models.
A plan forms, dangerous and intoxicating in its simplicity. If my own family won't see my value, perhaps their greatest rival will.
Three hours later, Charlie finds me still at my desk, finalizing my new identity. Ari Winters—unremarkable, untraceable, unconnected to the Newman dynasty.
"You're really doing it?" he asks, closing the door quietly behind him.
"I have to." The resume on my screen contains my real accomplishments but a fabricated history. "I can't spend another day being invisible in my own life."
Charlie sits on the edge of my bed, his expression torn.
"They'll be furious when they discover you're working for Wayne."
"If they discover," I correct. "And by then, I'll have gathered enough inside information to prove I understand the industry better than they think. Maybe enough to force them to take me seriously."
The words sound hollow even to my ears. We both know this isn't just about proving myself anymore. It's about escape. About breathing without the weight of inadequacy crushing my chest.
"I'll cover for you," Charlie promises, reaching for my hand. "Tell them you're staying with college friends, figuring things out."
I squeeze his fingers, grateful for this one true alliance in a house built on strategic partnerships rather than love. "I know it puts you in a difficult position."
"No more difficult than they've put you in your entire life," he says with unusual sharpness. "Just... be careful. The Waynes aren't saints either. All these media families have skeletons."
I nod, but my mind is already racing forward, imagining a life where my ideas matter, where my voice is heard. Where I might finally become visible.
What begins as reconnaissance will become my salvation. I'll learn Wayne Publishing from the inside, understand their strategies, and either bring that knowledge back to prove my worth to the Newmans or—and this thought feels treasonous but exhilarating—build a new life entirely my own.
In the morning, Ariel Newman will disappear, and Ari Winters will apply for an entry-level position at Wayne Publishing. The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel something I haven't experienced in years: possibility.
* * *
The next morning, I filed the legal documents for the name change. Then I sent out the résumé—refined, sharpened, scrubbed clean of the Newman name and all its baggage.
By the end of the week, Wayne Publishing called me in for an interview.
The lobby of their headquarters was sleek and full of light—glass walls, real plants, the covers of their most iconic issues displayed like museum pieces. It pulsed with energy. Purpose. It felt like a place that meant something.
I sat across from Richard Wayne himself in a surprisingly modest office. No gold plaques. No ego. Just a bookshelf of classics and a framed photo of his late wife and son.
“You’re overqualified to be someone’s assistant,” he said, peering at me over his glasses.
“I’m not looking to fetch coffee,” I told him. “I’m looking to learn. To grow. I want to be close to decision-making. I want to earn every inch of success.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then he smiled. “Start Monday.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”
“Call me Richard,” he said. “Everyone does.”
As I stepped into the elevator, job offer in hand, I felt something loosen in my chest. Like I’d finally taken a breath after years of holding it.
I wasn’t the Newman daughter anymore. I wasn’t a pawn. I was Ari Winters now. And I was done waiting to be chosen.
I would choose myself.
Arranged to a Playboy
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