Page 57 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

I haven’t thought about Jonas in weeks. I swear I haven’t. But this news still hits me like a swift kick to the backs of my knees.

I knew he’d stayed in touch with his high school girlfriend the entire time we were dating. I knew both that he claimed they were friends and that he made a point of having coffee, lunch or drinks with her whenever she was in town or he went home to Boston to visit his parents. I knew she came from an acceptably wealthy and socially connected background, whereas I did not. I knew he was either lying to me or lying to himself when he dumped me by saying he wasn’t sure he’d ever get married. I knew he’d moved back to Boston, where she lives.

Hell, I even knew that they’d started dating again.

But for the life of me, I never would’ve predicted that he’d ask her to marry him this quickly after acting like he was allergic to marriage when it came to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want him back. I’m a million times happier with Ryker than I ever was with him.

But it hurts. It still hurts.

Because I was a fool for ever believing that he was a) over her and b) capable of falling for someone like me.

The temptation is there to ask those universal questions that dumped former girlfriends have used to torture themselves with for millennia:

Why her and not me?

What’s she got that I haven’t got?

But I already know the answers to those questions, don’t I? She’s got money, class and, most importantly, a family background that doesn’t belong on TV with Dr. Phil or Maury Povich.

“I thought you would’ve seen it by now,” Bellamy continues while I stand there, stunned. “It’s all over social media. I was going to call you earlier, but I got sidetracked. You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay.” I rouse myself and try to produce a carefree laugh, but it’s not that easy with my chest suddenly locked down tight. “I’m so over him.”

“I don’t believe you, but I don’t have time to talk about it now,” Bellamy says. “Call you later. Love you.”

I hang up and discover Aunt Gilda watching me with the kind of grave and pitying concern that the occasion warrants. I open my mouth, prepared to hit her with the obligatory I’m okay, but the glass door whooshes open before I can say anything.

In sweeps Rebecca with her sunglasses on and her bags (shopping and designer handbag) nestled in the crook of her elbow, bringing her glamour into our neighborhood bakery like Beyoncé visiting the local Target.

“What a great little shop, love,” she says, pulling off her sunglasses with all the frigid flare of Miranda Priestly doing the same as she exits the elevator during her first appearance on screen in The Devil Wears Prada. “I don’t know why I haven’t stopped in here before. I’ll take the peppermint hot tea to go. Thanks.”

By now, with my day and my mood all shot to hell, my features feel wooden, as though my skin has been replaced with a slab of oak. Still, my pride requires me to smile and remain polite and welcoming with a paying customer, so that’s what I do.

“My pleasure,” I say, smiling as I reach for a cup and the tea.

I remind myself that she’ll only be here for a few minutes at most and that she can’t stir up trouble if I don’t let her. I remind myself that Ryker and I are happy together. He’s not going back to her. If that’s what he wanted, he could have done that way before I arrived on the scene. More than that, I’m a hardworking and self-made woman who has every reason to hold her head high. My job doesn’t matter. My clothes and shoes don’t matter. She can’t hurt me.

I almost believe it. Until she opens her mouth and blindsides me one more time.

“I have a couple of other white dresses you’re more than welcome to borrow if Ryker invites you to the ball,” she says silkily. “If you like, I can get them to you next week for you to try on. I’ll just give them to Ryker for you. We’ve got lunch scheduled for Wednesday, so I’ll see him then.”

---