Page 77 of “Not” Engaged to the Grumpy Billionaire

My stomach drops.

“No, I haven’t told him about you,” she continues, her tone dripping with irritation. “Do you think I’m stupid? If he finds out, the money’s gone. Just give me a little more time.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice as the pieces click into place. This was all a game for her. A scheme.

She pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other end of the line. Then she laughs—a cold, calculated sound that makes my fists clench.

“Of course, I still want you,” she says, her voice softening. “This is just a temporary inconvenience. Once I get what we need, we can leave this miserable town for good.”

Rage bubbles up inside me, sharp and hot. It’s not just the betrayal. It’s the sheer audacity of it. She’s not just playingme; she’s playing with everything I’ve worked so hard to build, planning to again use Max against me.

I step closer, the floor creaking under my weight. Becky whirls around, her phone slipping from her hand and landing on the bed with a soft thud.

Her eyes widen when she sees me standing in the doorway, my face carved in stone. “Nate …”

“Don’t,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t even try.”

She stumbles over her words, scrambling to recover. “I was just—”

“Save it,” I snap, stepping into the room. “I heard everything.”

Her face pales, but she quickly tries to mask it with a nervous laugh. “You’re misunderstanding.”

“I’m not misunderstanding anything,” I cut her off, my voice rising. “You lied. You manipulated me. You used Max.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. For once, she has nothing to say.

“You think you can waltz back into my life, spin some sob story about memory loss, and what? Play house until you bleed me dry?” I take another step closer, my fists clenched at my sides. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

She finally finds her voice, though it’s shaky. “Nate, please, let me explain.”

“I don’t need your explanations,” I snap. “What I need is for you to pack your things and get out of my house. Tonight! And out of this town.”

Her eyes fill with tears—real or fake, I can’t tell, and I don’t care. “You don’t mean that.”

I take a deliberate step closer, keeping my voice low and calm—the way you speak when you’re dealing with someone dangerous. “Oh, I mean every word. You’re going to pack your things, Becky, and you’re going to leave this house, this town, and my life. Do not test me.”

She freezes, her eyes darting to the suitcase she hasn’t even bothered to unpack. “You’re being unreasonable,” she says, her voice breaking.

“Unreasonable?” I repeat, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “You lied about losing your memory. You manipulated your way back into my life, back into Max’s life. And you think I’m being unreasonable?”

Her tears spill over, but they don’t move me. Not anymore. “I had no choice,” she says, clutching her chest as though she’s the one who’s been hurt. “You don’t understand what I’ve been through.”

“No, Becky, you don’t understand,” I snap, my patience finally gone. “You don’t understand the damage you’ve caused. To me. To Max. To Liz.”

The mention of Liz’s name is like a spark to a powder keg. Becky’s face hardens, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “This is about her, isn’t it? That girl has you wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she?”

I step back, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “This isn’t about Liz. This is about you, and the fact that you’re incapable of telling the truth. You’ve done nothing but take and manipulate and destroy. But it ends here, Becky. Right now.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off, my voice like steel. “If you’re not out of this house in thirty minutes, I’ll make good on my promise. I’ll make sure I use all the resources at my disposal to destroy you. Do you understand me? And that includes the police, the IRS and anything else I can think of.”

For a moment, she just stares at me, her mask cracking under the weight of my words. Then, with a defeated sigh, she turns away, her shoulders slumping.

I stand in the doorway, watching as she packs her things. The room is silent except for the rustle of fabric and the occasional thud of a suitcase being zipped shut.

When she’s done, she straightens, her hands trembling as she grips the handle of her suitcase. “You’ll regret this,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I step aside, my expression unmoved. “Goodbye, Becky.”

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