Page 36 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

I don’t know what’s happening between us. But whatever it is, it started to feel inevitable until that day when she suddenly changed. I wish I knew what happened to …

***

The house is quiet, the kind of stillness that comes late at night when the world outside is asleep. A dim lamp flickers in the corner, casting long shadows over the walls and the scattered remnants of the day’s work. Buddy sprawls on the rug, letting out a soft snore, his paws twitching like he’s chasing something in a dream.

I should be sleeping too. Instead, I’m here, picking through an old box of Grandma Gracie’s things, fingers trailing over worn photographs and trinkets that still smell faintly like her, lavender, cinnamon, a hint of the sea.

I tell myself I’m just restless. That it’s just something to do. That it has nothing to do with her.

Emma had gone to bed hours ago. I’d heard the soft creak of the stairs as she retreated to her room, the sound lingering longer than it should have. I don’t know why I keep noticing things like that. Or maybe I do. For some reason Buddy stayed with me. Maybe in that sweet dog-brain of his he knew I needed him near.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply, then push aside a stack of old recipe cards, an embroidered handkerchief, a tiny ceramic cat she’d kept on the kitchen windowsill. That’s when I see it. A letter.

The envelope is yellowed at the edges, the ink slightly faded but still strong, still unmistakable.

To Bryan and Emma.

My stomach knots. Grandma Gracie’s handwriting.

I hesitate for a second, my pulse picking up. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I break the seal, fingers clumsy, heart hammering as I unfold the paper inside. Her words are simple, but they hit like a punch to the ribs.

This house is yours to mend … yourselves too. Love matters most.

The air in the room shifts, heavier now, pressing against my chest. She knew.

She knew before we even stepped back in this house, before the will, before any of it. This wasn’t just about property or old memories.

She planned this. I swallow hard, gripping the letter tighter. The words blur slightly, but I don’t need to read them again. They’re already burned into my mind.

Emma’s laughter flickers in my memory, soft, unguarded, from this morning in the garden. The way her eyes lit up when she saw what I’d done. The way she ran her fingers through the soil, like she was touching something sacred.

The way she still looks at me sometimes, like she wants to say something but stops herself. My hands shake as I fold the letter back up.

She’s still Emma. Still the same girl who used to curl up next to me on this very couch, barefoot and sun-warmed from the beach, talking about nothing and everything all at once. And she’s still the same girl who left me without a word.

A muscle in my jaw tightens. I shove the letter into my pocket, my fingers curling into a fist around it.

I push to my feet, needing something, anything to clear my head. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I twist the cap off with too much force, taking a long swig. The bitterness does nothing to dull the unease curling in my gut.

The sound of a floorboard creaking upstairs makes me freeze. My grip tightens around the bottle as I glance toward the staircase.

Emma. She’s awake.

I hold my breath, waiting. Listening. Will she come down? Will she find me standing here, with this letter burning a hole in my pocket? For a moment, everything in me wants her to.

But then the house settles again, and I exhale, long and slow, pressing the heel of my hand against my chest like I can push back the ache there.

I take another drink, staring out the window at the dark waves rolling toward shore. Tomorrow, I’ll pretend like I never found it.

Like I’m not standing here, breaking all over again.

***

Sunday arrives. The smell of grilled burgers and smoked ribs thickens the warm Ocean Bay air as laughter rings through Nate and Liz’s backyard. The late afternoon sun slants low, golden light filtering through the trees, casting long shadows over the picnic tables and the kids darting around the yard.

Max shrieks with delight, dodging between Buddy and Nate’s dog Scout, a football clutched tight in his arms. Pip, the tiny terrier, yaps furiously, his little legs barely keeping up.

I tighten my grip on the six-pack in my hand as Emma and I step through the open gate. I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have come.

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