From Fame to Ruin

By Jina S. Bazzar

As the heir to Montenegro Enterprises, Carol has to leave behind her comfortable life and take control of the corporation.

Soon, her inheritance turns out to be more dangerous than she thought, as she receives a frightening letter from an enemy she didn’t know she had. Desperate and out of options, Carol turns to the man she hurt and vowed never to approach again.

Ricardo is past spending his nights playing rock music and his days enjoying his fame. He’s forgotten the woman who betrayed him and buried any leftover feelings for her deep within. So when Carol reaches out with a wild tale, he’s not exactly inclined to help her.

Memories of the past, startling revelations in the present, and the promise of a future neither believed possible, moor them to each other. But can they put their differences aside long enough to escape the danger and make right what once went so wrong?

A story of fame, love, greed and betrayal, Jina S. Bazzar's 'From Fame to Ruin' is a standalone romantic adventure, set between a stunning seaside resort in Southern England and Rio de Janeiro.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jul 7, 2023

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rio de Janeiro, Present Day

The Stalkers

They lurked under the shadow of a tree and the mouth of a nearby alleyway and watched. Another jogged nearby, but the blonde with the short bob never noticed her stalkers. She hadn’t paid them any attention for the five weeks they’d been following her.

Within two of those five weeks, they’d gathered all the information there was to have about her wretched existence. They knew that she lived alone in a small house at the foot of a hill, at the very edge of a favela. That every morning, just before dawn, she turned on the lights, even on weekends. That she went out for a run fifteen minutes after that and came back forty minutes later. That she set her coffee to brew while she showered and had her breakfast watching the morning news.

They knew that she left for work at seven-thirty every morning, and came back around five, give or take a few minutes. That every Friday evening, she went grocery shopping, and never left the house on weekends, preferring to clean and bake as she listened to crappy music. They knew she wasn’t friends with her neighbors, wasn’t seeing anyone, and had no family nearby. Aside from her boring routine, they knew everything else about her—her forgettable name, Maria da Silva, her date of birth, her identity card number, her last three addresses, and even the sum of her meager savings. She was less than ordinary and had nothing worth writing home about. Not that she had anyone to write to. Her parents were both deceased and her only sibling, an estranged brother, lived far south at the border to Uruguay.

They knew that if Maria was to disappear, only her employer would notice, and only because she’d fail to arrive in the morning.

They knew that on Mondays and Thursdays, she’d come to the park and stay for an hour and a half. They knew she took her job as a nanny seriously enough because she didn’t befriend any of the regulars, no doubt so she wouldn’t be distracted from her charges. She was punctual, they had to give her that, always arriving at the park around ten o’clock in the morning, depending on traffic, then packing up and leaving at eleven-thirty.

Today was Monday, three minutes past ten, and there she was, like clockwork. The jogger adjusted his course to cross by the bench where she usually sat. He’d been here doing laps every day for over a month, no delay, no excuses. The regulars had seen him enough times that they stopped seeing him. The guy at the mouth of the alley left his post for the first time since he began his surveillance.

Today was the day. They were nervous and giddy with excitement; everything was going according to plan.

They’ve been riling her for two nights in a row. Yesterday, they broke her front window by throwing rocks. Tonight, they threw a bunch of firecrackers in her garbage bin—the racket had been so loud, even the neighbors woke up. The police questioned everyone, determined that kids had caused the prank, but they’d accomplished their goal. The dark shadows under her eyes and the inward curve of her shoulders confirmed she hadn’t gotten much sleep. After the police left, they tampered with her electricity, so she had to forgo her shower and coffee. They made sure her front tire had been low, so she took the bus to work, and probably for the first time in her life, arrived late.

Fifteen minutes after she arrived at the park, she sat on the cement bench—another of her habits—where she watched the three-year-old children alternate between the glider and a swing. The guy from the alleyway approached and thrust an ancient-looking map at her and asked for directions to a non-existent business near the city center, startling her. They’d anticipated she was too pathetic to understand the lines of a printed map. And when she pulled out her phone, they were proven correct. Her surprise to find she had no internet connection was comical.

While the guy from the alleyway distracted the woman, the jogger, now with a cute little poodle in tow, began his fifth journey by the park. They’d been counting on the little boy to jump off the swing and dash to pat the dog, the same as he’d been doing for weeks. They were not disappointed. His nanny half stood. When she caught sight of the familiar short, generic jogger patiently running in place as the boy showered the dog with attention, she sat back again. She scanned the playground for the little girl and found her playing with two other familiar boys. Satisfied her charges were where she expected them to be, she returned her full attention to the map and the squiggly lines, clearly confused.

The moment she looked away, the jogger put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, stinging him with the hidden contraption within his palm. It signaled the all-clear for the woman standing in the shadow of the tree. When the nanny next checked on the boy, there was no one there. Had she looked behind her, she’d have seen the woman, dressed in similar attire as her black slacks and a crisp white button-down, and a blonde wig the same color and length as her hair, pushing a stroller away from the park. Perhaps she’d have even recognized the boy’s red shoe peeking out. There were risks, the stalkers knew that, and the man with the map was ready to inject the nanny with the barbiturate. But it didn’t come to that.

The nanny proved to be as slow as they’d expected. Yet to be alarmed, she glanced to the left, found the jogger sprinting away, dog in tow, no child. Her attention moved to the playground, where the redhead girl was still playing with the two boys. Then she scanned the swings, the gliders, and the seesaws. But the boy with the dark mane of hair was nowhere to be seen. Finally realizing something was amiss, she rudely dismissed the man still asking for a better route to his destination. She got up to search for the little boy, now being placed in the backseat of an unremarkable vehicle, just across the street from the park.

Carol

Carol sat in her executive chair with a triumphant smile, unaware that a few blocks away, her son was being kidnapped. Eyes closed, she soaked in her success. Her office took up half of the fourth floor of the building she owned, situated near enough to Flamengo Beach that, when the windows were open, one could smell the salt in the air. They weren’t open at the moment, but the cacophony of busy traffic—horns, squealing tires, the thumping bass of funk music—filtered through the glass panels in the windows. They framed a picturesque view of Pão de Açúcar, or Sugarloaf Mountain as the tourists called it. It wasn’t the gorgeous view out her window or the expensive building that had her mentally celebrating, however.

It was the deal she’d just closed.

The job for the Swiss company had far exceeded her expectations. Even the beverage and appetizers had been a success, bless her cook’s culinary skills.

Her creative team had outdone themselves. This had been, so far, the best job and the most lucrative commercial the advertising firm had created to date. Marco, her accountant and friend, had walked out with the farmland and Swiss company representatives, assuring them that by tomorrow, the commercial for their weight loss product would feature in two major channels cross-country five times a day for a month, followed by a five-second abbreviation for the following two.

A fifteen second-commercial would air on the radio starting next Monday and continue for the next three months. Otto, the head of her graphic design team and friend, would keep a motion picture variation of the TV and radio commercial spreading online: on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and countless other platforms. The keychains, pens, and slim-shaped mugs were ready, the flyers and adhesives would finish printing today, and a representative of F & S would come early tomorrow to pick them up.

With a self-satisfied smile, Carol mentally patted herself on the back. This job was the door they needed to broaden their work, to bring in new clients. It wasn’t even noon yet, and she still had two more promising meetings today. Her dream job was realizing right in front of her, with all the bangs and sparkles and much more shine than she could have ever imagined.

Now, that’s a smile to make a smart man tuck tail and run, Marco said, taking the leather chair across from Carol’s executive desk.

Would you?

Of course not. I’m too weak-minded for that kind of self-preservation.

Carol laughed. Her mood was high. You guys did a wonderful job. I could never have asked for a better team.

You worked hard yourself, he said, leaning back on the chair.

Nothing compared to what you guys did.

It was the complete package that had those Swiss representatives hooked. Each job alone wouldn’t have been as impressive.

Carol nodded. It was true.

Why don’t you come over tonight for dinner? she asked. I heard there’s shepherd's pie in the freezer to defrost.

That sounds yummy, Marco said, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. You should’ve been a chef.

I know. I think my talents are wasted outside a kitchen. She sighed. Alas, I can work and have no time to cook a meal or stay home and starve from lack of groceries. It’s a paradox.

Marco chuckled, then the mirth died from his eyes. I can’t tonight. I’ve been summoned.

Carol hid her wince. I take it you’re going?

I have to. I’ve been putting it off for months. Tio Elias called me himself this morning.

Carol studied Marco intently. His angular face had lost all humor; his brown eyes were somber. I’ll be sad to see you go, she said, rearranging some papers on her desk. But if you choose to go, I won’t hold it against you. Neither would it affect our friendship.

Marco nodded, then shook his head. I don’t want to work for him. I’m comfortable here, doing what I’m good at, what I enjoy the most. Tio Elias … taking his place … it’s not something I want.

But it’ll be something you’ll have to do, sooner or later.

I’d give it all to you, Marco said, and Carol didn’t think he was joking.

God forbid. She waved her hands as if to ward off evil. I’m perfectly happy here. Why would you wish me such heartache?

Marco didn’t smile. I mean it, Carol. When I have no choice but to take the big chair, I’m giving back to you all that you’re owed.

Carol folded her arms over her desk and frowned at him. I thought we discussed this already, Marco. I already got all I wanted from your uncle.

Marco clenched his jaw. His protection shouldn’t have come at a price.

It didn’t. I was going to lose that case either way. Your uncle took over Montenegro Conglomerate fair and square. And I want nothing from it. Seeing the stubborn look in his eyes, Carol raised her hand. Marco, I never wanted that legacy. If it wasn’t for my grandmother, I’d have never come back in the first place. I have everything I want here. My life is simple, my needs are simple. Whatever it was your uncle did, I’m no longer afraid, looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to strike me. I’m happier here managing a small business than I’d have ever been tied to the Montenegro empire. Don’t you see? I own my firm, my house, my car. I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here.

Chapter 2

London, Almost Four Years Earlier

Ricardo

Ricardo Jonson Santos, mostly known as RJ Santos, walked into Heathrow Airport fourteen hours ahead of time. He kept his head lowered, hands tucked inside his pockets, and pondered the wisdom of boarding a commercial flight. He promised the band he’d charter a plane to São Paulo, but the earliest he could find available was for tomorrow afternoon. Ricardo found he couldn’t stomach staying longer than necessary.

Yes, he was aware only sixteen hours separated his flight from a chartered one.

Yes, he was aware if he was recognized, chaos would ensue, especially after his insane trial a few hours earlier.

But he needed to go. He’d never wanted to leave his motherland more than he did today.

The media had been hounding him for months. They crowded him, suffocated him, and Ricardo was an edge away from exploding. Police had to escort him to and from the courthouse, practically beat a path to his rental. One would think every media outlet in the world was parked there in front of the Central London County Courthouse, mindless of the hard downpour and freezing temperatures.

His fans had been there too, holding soggy supportive and encouraging banners, shouting their love and undying devotion. He'd given them a halfhearted wave and driven away, his teeth welded and his grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He’d caught some tails but shook them off easily enough. Still, he drove straight to the rental company and exchanged the blue Audi for a black SUV and patted himself on the back for a job well done. But when he neared his hotel, there they were again, sprinkled everywhere like colored confetti.

Some of the more reasonable were parked across the street, waiting inside their vans with black tinted windows. Some clustered in groups under huge umbrellas, smoking or drinking from steaming cardboard cups; others stood, hunched in their coats, rubbing their gloved hands, looking as miserable as Ricardo felt.

He drove past the hotel, past the paparazzi without a sideways glance, and considered booking into a different one. Deciding against it, he headed straight for Heathrow and sat inside the warm cab of the SUV while browsing for the closest available flight to São Paulo. The earliest flight he found was to Rio de Janeiro, so he booked a seat and strolled into the airport. He kept the bill of his baseball cap low—no need to tempt fate. If he were recognized, he’d rent a conference room and wait away the time boxed inside four walls.

He got himself a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun from McDonald’s since he’d skipped breakfast in the morning. His stomach had been too raw for any kind of food. Then he strolled to Terminal 5, sipping and munching. The pretense of normalcy helped more than he’d expected. The tension in his back and the pressure of the past few months slowly unspooled and dissipated. It was refreshing to be amid a crowd and not draw attention. It was a foreign sensation, this feeling of invisibility.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed solitude; his life had been one chaotic rush ever since the release of his first album, Garage Dorm, four years ago. He’d been twenty-one, a law school student, and between his studies and all the tours, he’d yet to pause and take a breath. The band had visited countless countries, giving thousands of autographs during every concert and posing for countless photos. Fans swarmed their website, the lobby of whichever hotel they happened to be in and ran after their limo. It had been all he, Nicolau and Noel wanted—their fantastic dream come true. One that began during their senior high.

Ricardo cherished those memories, cruising down the clogged, busy streets of São Paulo in his father’s Chevy, while they sang along with the radio. Despite all that, there was this restlessness in Ricardo that had never gone away, never abated.

They’d picked Nelson, the guitarist, during their first year of college. They’d often meet in his parent’s garage, or Nicolau’s garage, doing small gigs in bars and pubs and college dives. By junior year, they’d rented a small, soundproof storage room. By then they were doing nightclubs, parties, and small festivals in and around São Paulo.

When their album hit during their senior year, it hit hard. Because of their rambling schedules, it took Ricardo another three and a half years to finish law school and pass the OAB exams, widely known as The Bar. Hell, he’d just been sworn in the ceremony a few months back. His degree still shone, bright, new, and unused.

The gateway was still empty—and no wonder. No one in their right frame of mind would opt to sit fourteen hours to wait for a flight. He chose a seat at random in the first row, finished his cinnamon bun, and played CSR with the remaining ten percent of his phone’s battery. Once dead, he pocketed the device, sipped the now cool coffee, and people-watched for a good long while. Some strolled, some hurried, others ran.

The place was jammed, the sounds too loud. Yet, no one spared him more than a passing glance. It was thrilling—no, it was nostalgia Ricardo felt, for the anonymity of his youth, something probably forever gone. Ricardo frowned, considering his dark thoughts. He wasn’t a pessimist, never had been. It was leftover stress from the trial, he was sure.

He was still sipping the cold coffee when his wandering eyes spotted her. She moved briskly, her strides purposeful, dragging behind a small suitcase. She had a carry-on looped over one shoulder and a determined air that stated she didn’t take bullshit kindly.

Ricardo would remember later it was the hair, a waterfall of glossy red cascading down her back, that first captured his attention. It made him take stock of the woman, of the way the red contrasted against her porcelain complexion, complimented the pink hue of her high cheekbones. She was dressed in dark dress pants with a matching short jacket, the color offset by the beige camisole she wore underneath. A long black coat dangled from her arm. Her shoes were dark with no heels, and sensible wear for long traveling.

When her tawny eyes, direct and piercing, met his, Ricardo experienced a shocking sensation. Something inside him wiggled and jimmied. The world stopped spinning, all the sounds muted and the crowd faded into the background. Then, his system jolted, and the world resumed its beat. And just like that, Ricardo was aware something in his world changed. It could have been something as small as how he liked women to dress, the way they moved, their hair color, or his preference in general. Whichever was true, Ricardo knew he’d always remember that moment on that frosty day at Heathrow Airport.

Carol

Carol took the seat nearest the window and stared, unseeing, at the first snowflakes falling to the tarmac. Grimly, she pondered the past thirteen years of her life. It wasn’t a great number, but it was more than half the years of her existence. In retrospect, it seemed so little, despite all she’d done. She’d built her life here from nothing, and she’d vowed never to give up what she had, never to return to that sterile, dry reality. She’d told her grandmother as much on her last trip to Brazil three years ago. And here she was, her life packed in carefully labeled boxes, with nothing but memories left behind.

She was going back home.

Home? Was it really that?

She hadn’t lived in the sprawling family mansion since she was a scared eight-year-old, haunting the vast halls, skulking in the shadows, afraid to be seen, but wishing someone would.

Shipping her off to a boarding school across the ocean had been the best thing her family had ever done for her. In the beginning, she’d gone back to Rio for every holiday and extended weekends, then only for the summer and winter breaks, but even that stopped when she’d turned sixteen and realized she had the power to refuse to go back. Her family couldn’t—or wouldn’t—demand her return, and Carol had been happy to oblige. Since then, she’d spent her vacations rotating between three friends. The sense of belonging had never come, but it had been better, way better, than spending her time in a house where even the maid didn’t see her unless ordered to.

She’d lived by her vow, breaking it only once during her freshman year at Oxford, to attend her father’s funeral. That had been three years ago.

And now that her grandmother, her last remaining relative, had kicked the bucket, the burden to keep Montenegro Conglomerate at a steady run had fallen onto Carol’s shoulders.

It wouldn’t have been so bad had her father not left such a mess before he died.

No, not a mess, Carol thought with a mental snort. Mess was such a simple, mundane word for the cluster fuck of chaos her father had left for her to clean.

According to the attorney, Caesar Dunbar, from Dunbar, Foster & Fonseca, the conglomerate had been falling apart, a deliberate fall, ever since her mother passed away fourteen years ago.

Her father, bless his cold heart, had blamed his wife’s murder on his parents’ refusal to pay her ransom. Carol remembered the grieving man he’d become, but she couldn’t conciliate that image with the man who’d carefully and meticulously plotted and implemented his revenge, slowly bringing on the demise of Montenegro Conglomerate. The knowledge of what her father’s grief had caused the family had come too late to her grandmother, taking its toll on her heart a month ago.

Carol didn’t attend the funeral.

Like a rotten cherry to top it all, her grandmother had claimed Carol’s father to be mentally unstable and sued Elias Trajano, their top competitor, for funneling money off the family business—for thirteen years.

Now that there was no Montenegro left but her, Carol was supposed to return to that empty home in Rio, pick up the Montenegro reins and keep the chariot from plummeting down the cliff.

Hi.

Startled from her pity party, Carol glanced around. The airport was packed full of travelers trying to get home for the holiday season, but the gateway was still empty, save for the guy who’d been seated when she’d first arrived.

She gave the man an absent hi and checked the time on her phone, relieved there were still eleven hours to go. She’d arrived way too early, but she had nothing to do that she hadn’t already taken care of the previous week when her flight had been originally scheduled. Her life in Europe was over, her friends had left for their winter vacation. She’d given her furniture away and emptied her flat of personal belongings.

She had nothing and no one left here. She’d come close countless times to begging her friends to come with her, and the fact they’d already put their lives on hold for her was the only reason she never voiced her plea. They’d been scheduled to leave the previous week, but Carol had contracted a bacterial infection, and the doctor had told her to postpone her flight until she was well. Livy, Helena, and Joanna had canceled their trip to stay with her, bringing their overnight bag to Livy’s—the only one in their group who owned her flat. They’d fussed and fussed until Carol had had enough, but she was grateful she’d gotten that extra week with them. When the doctor announced she was fit to travel, she’d shooed everyone off. Helena and Joanna had left the previous night. Livy couldn’t find an available flight, so she’d bought a ticket for the noon train to her parents’ estate in Cardiff.

Because staying in the empty flat alone had felt unbearably lonely, Carol had hitched a ride with Livy, since she’d drive near enough to the airport. When she’d gotten a funny look from Livy, she’d claimed she didn’t want to get stuck in traffic. It wasn’t a lie, just an embellished truth. With the snowstorm expected later in the evening that had half of Londoners in a tizzy, traffic would be a nightmare. And now here she was, at the crossroad between two lives: the past she wanted, and the future she did not. Another glance at her phone told her that Livy had boarded, and her last thread to the world she loved stretched thinner. The urge to stand and run until she could no longer think was strong, but she stayed put.

At least, if something happened and she missed this flight, no one could say she didn’t try. She was dropping out of school during the last semester of her senior year, for crying out loud. The thought brought a pang of despair and fear, the latter overwhelming. Her future was an unknown slate and it frightened her to no end, knowing her life had been tossed to the whims of fate.

Chapter 3

Rio de Janeiro, Present Day

Carol

At exactly twelve o’clock, forty-five minutes after the boy disappeared from the park, an envelope was delivered to Carolina Montenegro’s office near the city center.

It took Carol another fifteen minutes to notice it. Inexplicably, just the sight of the name she no longer used made her catch her breath, her heart to thud. Her past was something she seldom visited, and she’d done everything she could to keep others from bringing up reminders. She’d changed her name, she’d faked documents, and she felt no guilt, had no regrets that she’d lied and broken the law to make it possible.

She was sure, staring down at the envelope, whatever it contained, it was nothing good. Without touching it, she buzzed her assistant.

Yes, Dona Carolina?

Aware that the formal title meant Natalia had customers in the lobby, Carol went straight to the topic — not that she’d have tried pleasantries with her stomach doing cartwheels. There’s an envelope on my desk addressed to Carolina Montenegro. Who brought it?

A pause. "A delivery boy. You were in the bathroom, so I put it on