Page 298 of The Billionaires

“Us sleeping together isn’t a good idea?” I hear myself demand, though I’m not sure why I’m punishing myself this way.

He draws back. “I’m sorry. I had hoped we’d talk about this later. Calmly.”

Calmly? There’s no way on this earth I can think about this calmly. Not after I stupidly started to believe that last night meant something. That I could have hope for the two of us.

My stomach turns into a stone, and a wave of nausea rolls over me.

How could I be so naïve? So very virginal? I should’ve remembered that having sex is like a good sneeze for a rake like him. But even then, why would he deny me something so meaningless to him as a sneeze?

Then it hits me, and I’m glad I’m on the bed because my legs feel too weak to support my weight.

“You think last night was a mistake?” I half state, half ask. He must. That’s what this is about. He’s a hot billionaire playboy, and I’m a plain Jane who was probably a boring lay on top of that. Having sex with me for him was probably like having one of those half-sneezes you sometimes get when your nose is itchy—completely unsatisfying.

In fact, it’s a marvel he stooped to having sex with me in the first place. It was probably due to his self-enforced celibacy, combined with his rakish nature and the romantic atmosphere of the wedding.

Or maybe he was more calculating in bedding me. Maybe he’s going to make it so the bloody sheets end up in the hands of some paparazzo, ensuring that the world knows our marriage was consummated, à la medieval times. That would be worth an unpleasant sneeze. Or maybe he was concerned they’d check my hymen at the hearing to make sure our marriage wasn’t a sham. Or?—

He gently props up my chin with his fingers. “Last night was not a mistake, but if we keep being intimate, we’ll find ourselves in a real relationship, and those often end. If that were to happen, where would it leave Piper’s hearing?”

Another ice-cold bucket right in the face. Now on top of rejected, I also feel like a selfish brat. That little girl deserves to have a father as awesome as Adrian in her life, while all I’m worried about is my fragile ego and overactive libido.

But still. If he felt this way, he shouldn’t have GD’d me in the first place. It’s unfair. He treats his dog better than this—he told me so himself. Something about not being able to miss sex if you’ve never had it.

“You’re right,” I say. “We shouldn’t do that again.” I wish I could add that it’s because I wouldn’t want to anyway, but I’m not that good of a liar.

Is that a glimmer of regret in his eyes? No. That’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Suddenly, I feel much too naked, so I drag the blanket all the way to my chin and say, “Can you give me some privacy?”

With a sigh, he gets off the bed, giving me an unadulterated view of his out-of-this-world body. Then he grabs a robe and hides it all, which feels like a crime against nature.

“Here.” He tosses another robe my way, then turns his back to me.

Must not sniffle. That would be worse than being naked in front of him again.

I put on the robe and struggle to get my turbulent emotions under control.

Acting as if he didn’t just shatter my world, Adrian proceeds to order in a gourmet room service breakfast. I go into the shower, and when I re-emerge, the food is already here. It’s pretty and smells great, but it tastes like straw laced with sewage—possibly because of the knot of tears stuck in my throat. The conversation during the meal is pretty much nonexistent, due to that same knot. I’m not sure what his problem is, but whatever. I’m going to treat our relationship, such as it is, as purely a work arrangement, so there’s no need for us to banter.

Who knew that my awkward interactions with Mrs. Corsica would come in handy? As soon as the breakfast is over, I ask Adrian when we’re headed home.

“Whenever you wish,” he says.

I press my lips together. “How about we go now?”

Even though we’re officially married, Adrian doesn’t carry me over the threshold when we arrive home. Instead, we go our separate ways and don’t have lunch or dinner together—all my choice, and I stand by it.

That night, I cry myself to sleep. The next day, when we come across each other, we again talk about the weather. It’s the most civil interaction I can manage, and even that is taxing. I continue to avoid him as much as living in the same penthouse allows, and several days pass in the same tense yet civil manner.

Then, on Thursday, Adrian walks in while I’m reading in his library and tells me that Queen Charlotte has come out on Netflix, and that we should watch it together.

“No, thank you,” I say firmly.

He thinks we can be friends again? Fat fucking chance!

He cocks his head. “It’s a Bridgerton spin-off. I thought that was your favorite series.”

“I want to read the book first. They haven’t released it just yet.”

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