Page 8 of Playboy Billionaire's Fake Marriage

Instead of putting me off her, her attitude has only stoked my desire for her. Tempting me to capture all that crackling fire beneath me. To feed it with mine and take us both to a place where we can both crash and burn. Then do it all over again.

I pick up my phone and dial her number. It rings off. Of course. Stubborn woman. The last time she picked up my call was on the morning of Brooke and Xavier’s wedding. That was five months ago. A lifetime ago.

My phone vibrates with a text. Although I shouldn’t be looking at the screen during my headaches, I can’t help thinking it’s Stella responding to my missed call. But it’s only a text message from Wyatt, one of my friends.

Are you still coming out, or is it past your bedtime yet, Ryboy? Cathy and a few others are here. And we all know who they’re hoping to catch a glimpse of. Wouldn’t look at the rest of us mortals.

Fucking hell. I may have agreed to hang out at the club tonight. With Xavier off the market, the boys have recruited more single guys into our group. We’ve talked about having the originals, or OGs, show up on clubbing nights to encourage the rest.

Another wave of headache hits, but I manage to type a quick response:

Bed.

I throw the phone down in disgust and walk into my dark bathroom to rummage for my Zomig spray.

A couple of sprays up my nose and within minutes the vice-like grip around my head and sharp pain behind my left eye eases into a dull throb. Still, with the lights off, I strip and step into the shower. I set the nozzle to full power, mostly because I need the hot spray to massage my skull until it stops pounding.

By the time the water cools, the headache is completely gone but I’m exhausted. I crawl into bed, ignoring the incessant beeps. Most likely it’s my friend Wyatt cursing me out for bailing on them again.

I’ll deal with all of it tomorrow. Starting with that sexy, stubborn, green-eyed witch who won’t pick up my calls.

Whatever else she is, Stella is a businesswoman. And this offer, she’ll most likely be unable to refuse. I just need to get her to see me first.

Chapter Four

Stella

My foot taps on the worn gray carpet of the waiting room of the child welfare agency. As usual, my nerves are threatening to ruin everything again. Despite my many visits here, the pervasive silence and grayness never cease to unsettle me.

My anxiety also stems more from the fact that I never come out of these meetings with the Administration of Child Services with a positive outcome. Something tells me today won’t be different.

I failed the last apartment inspection because the elevator in the high-rise building I live in chose that day to break down again. And of course, my ever-leaky kitchen faucet decided to rear its ugly head.

“Miss Marsh?”

My head snaps up, and I flash a tremulous smile at my niece’s caseworker before rising to follow her into the small office.

I smooth down the simple green dress I chose for today. I’m usually more comfortable in tank tops and jeans, but I need to make the best impression. I thank her and sit stiffly in the proffered chair.

“Right, Miss Marsh,” Anita Brodkin begins, shuffling papers on the desk. “I know how passionate you are about adopting Harriet, but there are some realities we must consider.” She pauses while I brace myself for rejection. “Given that she is already settling in with her foster family, and compared to the setup you have right now, it seems sensible to let things remain as is.”

My heart sinks at her words, but I’m determined to push for what I want. Harriet is my only family, my late sister’s daughter. Her deathbed wish was that I raise Harriet as mine.

“But I’m her aunt. Her only family. Surely that has to count for something?”

“Family isn’t always enough in the eyes of the law, especially in this case,” Anita states, not unkindly.

She goes on to list the financial stability and housing requirements. The real kicker, which Anita is too kind to mention, is that Harriet’s current foster parents, the DuPonts, are a young, affluent married couple residing in the Hamptons, epitomizing stability.

I, on the other hand, juggle styling and makeup gigs, event planning, social media influencing, with attending night school. I can see how I measure up—or don’t measure up—to the DuPonts.

I huff out a sigh of frustration as I stand to leave. How the hell do I compare with that, with my meager savings and unpredictable income as a stylist and social media influencer?

Ever since Brooke moved in with Xavier, I’ve had to pay the whole rent myself. She didn’t get why I couldn’t just find a cheaper studio apartment. I couldn’t tell her it was because I was hoping to get Harriet in the second bedroom.

I haven’t told my friends about Harriet. If I do, I’ll also have to talk about my sister and what happened to her the day she turned eighteen.

What I let happen to her.

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