Page 33 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

My breath catches. Jen’s voice follows, a laugh in her tone. “Ouch. And here I thought she had a chance. ‘It's just business’... his words, not mine.”

The air drains from my lungs. There it is. Confirmation. Stella watches me, eyes sharp. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. It’s stupid how much it hurts.

I knew what he thought. He said it himself. But hearing it from someone else? Knowing he told Old Man Pete that I’m just his past, nothing more? Shows he wants to make things clear to everyone.

It feels like a fresh cut, bleeding out slow. Jen snickers. “Poor girl.”

I squeeze my fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. I don’t know how long I stand there, spine stiff, every inch of me screaming don’t let them see it hurts.

Because it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. It was one kiss.

“A mistake.” His words. So why does it feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched?

Stella’s jaw clenches, but before she can say anything, I force out a breath. I won’t react. I won’t let them win. I straighten, smoothing my face into a calm mask. “Forget it.”

Stella’s eyes flash as she tells me that I don’t have to pretend to be fine. “Yeah, I do.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Because I am.”

She doesn’t believe me. But she lets it go.

A soft whimper catches my attention, and I turn toward the kennels. A small, trembling dog barely more than a puppy huddles in the corner, its thin frame curled tight. Somethingabout the look in its eyes, the fear, the uncertainty hits too close to home. I push everything else aside.

Bryan, the gossip, the stupid ache in my chest. None of it matters. I kneel in front of the kennel, my voice soft. “Hey there, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

The dog hesitates but doesn’t back away. And as I unclip the latch, focusing on what I can control, I pretend that I’m not breaking inside.

***

The house is quiet when I step inside, the dim glow of the old lamp in the corner casting soft shadows across the half-painted walls. The scent of fresh paint still lingers, mingling with the salty breeze sneaking through the slightly open window.

Buddy lifts his head from the rug, tail thumping lazily before he stretches and pads toward me, nudging my leg in greeting. His warmth is a small comfort, but it doesn’t touch the sting in my chest.

Mia’s voice still loops in my head. "Just Business."

I drop onto the couch, my body heavy with exhaustion that has nothing to do with the long hours at the shelter. My clinic sketches sit on the coffee table, but I can’t focus. I stare at them, the lines blurring, my mind trapped in that bathroom stall, replaying every word.

Bryan told Old Man Pete it was just business between us. The ache deepens, sharp and humiliating. I knew he regretted the kiss, I knew he wanted distance but hearing it from someone else, knowing he said it so bluntly, as if I was just some fleeting mistake that he had no intention of repeating…

It hurts more than it should. I grip the edge of the couch, nails pressing into the fabric, willing myself to let it go.

I don’t get the chance. The front door opens, and Bryan steps in, dropping his keys onto the entryway table. His gaze lands on me instantly.

I know what he sees, stiff shoulders, clenched jaw, the rawness around my eyes I can’t seem to shake no matter how much I will it away.

His brow furrows, that quiet, perceptive concern in his face that used to make me feel safe. That used to undo me completely. “You okay?” His voice is low, steady.

I force a shrug, keeping my gaze locked on my sketches. “Fine.” The word is flat, brittle.

A beat of silence. He doesn’t buy it.

He steps further in, slow, cautious, like he’s trying to read between the lines I don’t want to give him. His presence pulls at me, his cedar scent wrapping around me in a way that makes my stomach twist.

I hate that I still respond to it. Hate that even after everything, after hearing exactly how he feels, some ridiculous part of me still wants him close.

Buddy sits on the floor beside me, resting his head on my knees. I stroke behind his ears absently, using the motion to ground myself.

Bryan sighs, running a hand through his hair before moving toward the couch. He hesitates, then sits down next to me, leaving just enough space between us to make it clear he’s keeping things neutral.

“Something’s up,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Talk to me.” The words make my heart twist painfully. Because for a second, it almost feels like before. Like the Bryan who used to care. Like the boy who used to listen to everything, who’d pull me into his arms and let me spill whatever was weighing on me without judgment.

---