Page 52 of “Not” Engaged to the Grumpy Billionaire

“We need to talk,” I say, my voice firmer than intended.

Her brow arches slightly, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “About what?”

She doesn’t stop moving, walking around the room as if I’m not even there. She places a book on the nightstand, adjusts a picture frame, folds a blanket. It’s infuriating how unaffected she seems.

It’s then that I notice the bag in the corner of the room, half-packed and waiting. My stomach sinks.

“Are you leaving?” I ask, my voice is quieter now.

She glances at the bag, then back at me. “Not yet. I’m just packing ahead. I’ll be moving to Bryan’s house at the end of the week.”

I already knew this. It’s been the plan all along. But hearing it now feels different. Final.

“Bryan isn’t back yet,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “What’s the rush?”

She pauses for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I thought I’d wait until he got back, but I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s best if I leave sooner.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I can’t do this. I can’t let her walk out of my life without understanding why she’s running.

“Liz,” I say, stepping closer. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Her jaw tightens, and she looks away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

I reach out, gently turning her to face me. The touch feels like both a relief and a curse, and I have to fight the urge to pull her closer. “Don’t lie to me,” I say softly. “Please.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see it—the vulnerability, the hurt, the fear she’s trying so hard to hide.

“I don’t want to be a hindrance to your family,” she says finally, her voice trembling slightly.

I frown, confused. “What are you talking about?”

She pulls back, her eyes flashing with anger now. “Don’t pretend, Nate. I know you’re still seeing Becky.”

The accusation blindsides me, and I step back, stunned. “What? No, I’m not.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Stop the act, Nate. Stop playing with my head.”

“I’m not,” I insist, my voice rising slightly. “Liz, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and it breaks something in me. “Last Saturday,” she says, her voice cracking. “I called you. I wanted to help with the project. But you didn’t answer. Becky did.”

The memory hits me like a freight train, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

“She said you were at her house,” Liz continues, her voice growing quieter. “She said you were busy. And she made it clear that you were spending time together as a family.”

I shake my head, trying to piece it together. “Liz, I swear, I never got your call.”

“Because Becky answered it,” she snaps, her composure crumbling.

My mind races, and then it hits me. Saturday morning. I’d stepped out of the office to grab breakfast, leaving my phone behind. When I returned, Becky had been there, sitting behind my desk like she owned the place.

“She must have answered it,” I say, my voice low with realization.

Liz laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “Right. Convenient.”

“I’m serious,” I say, stepping closer. “I had no idea she did that. Liz, I swear to you, I wasn’t with Becky. I was at the office all day.”

She looks at me, her eyes searching mine for the truth. “Why should I believe you?”

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