Page 4 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

"I can't help you," I tell her honestly.

Her hand presses firmly against the door. "I have nowhere else to go."

Chewing on the inside of my lip, I do something unexpected and step out of the way, giving her space to enter. I don't know why I do it, why I give in, but something about the look in her eye tells me it's my only option. "Let's talk about this inside."

Her face softens in the slightest as if she's as surprised as I am that I gave in.

I shut the door behind her, closing us into my apartment, the area feeling strangely too small suddenly. This is wrong, I shouldn't have just invited a random beaten woman into my apartment. What if the cops come? I don't know who's working this shift and don't want to deal with bribing someone to put this all behind me.

It's then that I realize the screen on my computer is still lit up. I march over, leaving her at the door, and hit the button to turn on the screensaver. My task can wait until I don't have an audience to finish.

"Were you watching porn?" she asks, the question and the cadence of her voice catching me off guard.

"No." I shake my head, way too seriously, and turn toward her. "I was working."

She glances around, almost skeptically taking things in. "What do you do?"

"I'm in tech," I respond with the generic answer I give most people who ask because it doesn't usually prompt any follow-ups.

"What does that even mean?" She focuses her attention on me, and I hate the way it feels like a giant spotlight just appeared out of nowhere in my dimly lit apartment.

Even from the distance between us, her eyes are bloodshot and droopy. She wasn't lying about being exhausted.

I slide my phone off my desk. "You said Silver sent you?"

The woman crosses her arms over her chest, one bigger than the other, telling me there's some type of bandage under the oversized sweatshirt she's wearing. Her outfit makes her seem even more frail than she already is, like she's a kid playing dress-up in their father's clothes. But that's the point, isn't it? To maintain some level of anonymity when you're on the run.

"Yes." She clears her throat. "Why do I get the feeling you had no idea about this?"

"Because I didn't."

She licks her lips and nods. "Ah. Okay. Well, that explains your response." She draws in a breath and tucks a strand of stiff hair behind her ear, displaying her discolored cheek even more.

Whoever hurt her wasn't messing around.

It's not your problem, I remind myself.She isn't your problem.

But isn't she? Sheisstanding inside my apartment.

I dial Silver's number and press my phone to my ear. "I'll get to the bottom of this." The line rings, and rings, and rings some more before his voicemail picks up. "Give me a call when you get this," I say onto his machine. "It's urgent." I don't bother telling him who it is, because if what she's saying is true, Silver morethan likely was expecting my call, which tells me he purposely didn't answer.

That's probably why he didn't inform me of any of this to begin with, because he knew I would shut it down before it even happened. I would have insisted he find someone else, I would have gone somewhere and not been home, I would have done anything to avoid the awkwardness of whatever the fuck is happening right now.

"He didn't answer," she says, and I can't quite make out if it's a question or a statement.

I tap my phone against my chin and consider my options. I want to tell her that I don't want her here. That I don't want anyone here. I want to insist that she leave and find someone else to help her. I want anything other than to deal with this.

Why can't people understand and respect that I want to be left alone? What's so hard with respecting boundaries?

When I left the life three years ago, I thought I made it clear, but apparently fucking not.

Couldn't Silver have asked quite literally anyone other than me? Why couldn'thehave helped her? Clearly, her situation was dire enough that he sent her away, which begs the question, who is she running from? And why? But if I start asking those questions, I'll start to uncover a reality that I cannot escape from, and if I don't want to be involved in this, then I have to stay out of it.

Not. My. Problem.

"Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to say something?" Her tone is snarky and makes me regret answering the door.

I fold my arms over my chest and lean against my desk. "I'm trying to figure out what to do."

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