Page 77 of Billionaire Devil

Olivia.

Five more from Bianca.

Another text comes through from Jemma but it’s blurry now.

I can’t say Sloane didn’t warn me.

DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT GIRL!!!!! THAT WOULD BE A HUGE MISTAKE!!!!!! HE IS THE KING OF HEARTACHE!!!!!! He’ll rip your heart out and eat it for breakfast!!!!!!

What have I done?

25

Saturday

En route to Malibu, California

“We need to talk about tomorrow.”

“What about it?”

We’re in a helicopter, on our way to L.A.

And I’m running out of time.

She’s been uncharacteristically quiet this morning. Possibly because we’re on our way to the wedding, which starts in a matter of hours.

“You’ll need a place to stay in New York and I want you to stay with me. I want you to move in with me.” A week ago’s version of me would have run for the hills if anyone had suggested I invite a woman to move into my apartment. But this is the new and improved versionof me. The one who’s so in love with this sullen little angel—mywife—I hardly recognize myself.

I didn’tplanto get married, of course I didn’t. Especially on the fly in Vegas. I was drunker than I should have been (but notthatdrunk). And when I saw that chapel and that Tiffany ring, wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away.

When I got down on one knee and proposed to her right there on the Vegas strip, people cheered. She laughed.

And she said yes.

None of it makes one iota of common sense. But common sense is rarely on the menu in Vegas. And when the girl on your arm is wilder than fantasies you never could have dreamed up, things are bound to happen.

“I already have an apartment,” she says, gazing out the window.

“In the Hamptons. And it’s the size of a broom closet. You need something in the city.”

“I’ll start looking for something on Monday.”

“I have five bedrooms, Lila.” I mention this because she’s obviously in a huff about something. Our hasty wedding, probably. Which, in the colder light of Saturday morning, was a fucked up thing to do. I have no remorse whatsoever—which is even more fucked up. The only downside I can see is that she seems to have a lot more remorse about the whole thing than I do. “You can have your own wing. You don’t even have to see me if you don’t want to.”

“Who gets to sleep inyourroom?” There’s a sassy bite to her softly-spoken question.

“You, obviously.” This has always been the issue between us.Other women.Who don’t exist. “What’s with the attitude?”

“Whatattitude?”

“I’m not sure what I did wrong this morning, angel girl. You liked me last night.” I try to take her hand but she slides it away. I notice she’s taken off her wedding ring. “Where’s your ring?”

“In my bag.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

It’s easy to see that she’s debating whether to tell me or not.

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