Page 9 of Sexting the Billionaire

I shower at Olivia's, borrowing clothes distinctly not my style—ripped jeans and a crop-topped vintage band tee. Anything isbetter than yesterday's dress, which now feels like it's soaked in expensive champagne and disappointment.

"Are you ok to drive this morning?” Olivia asks.

Right. Details from last night are still foggy, but I vaguely recall driving to Olivia’s house.

"Yes. And I owe you," I tell her. "Big time."

"You can repay me by stealing his favorite coffee mug," she says with a wink.

The drive to my—toCamden's—apartment feels surreal. Has it really been less than 24 hours since I left here, excited about our anniversary dinner, blissfully unaware that my relationship was already over?

My key still works, which is something. I half expected Camden to have changed the locks overnight, as if my existence needed to be erased immediately.

The apartment is silent as I enter, exactly as we left it. The minimalist furniture. The strategically placed art pieces. The complete absence of comfort or personality.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mia:

“How are you holding up? Need help moving? I can skip class!’

I send back a quick

I'm okay. Don't skip class. Love you

.The last thing I need is for Mia to see me falling apart.

Camden's voice echoes in my head:The fashion industry isn't exactly known for its stability.As if my helping Mia withtuition was some frivolous indulgence rather than supporting her undeniable talent. Just one more way he'd made me doubt myself.

I head to the spare bedroom, the silence oppressive after two years of careful coexistence. Our apartment—my apartment for a few more minutes—feels smaller somehow, like the walls are closing in with the memory of all the nights I lay awake wondering why things felt so empty.

I'm in the closet in the spare bedroom my makeshift studio where I stored all of my clothes, loading the duffel bag. Thats when I hear it—a sound from the master bedroom around the corner. Like someone clearing their throat.

Or moaning.

My blood turns to ice.

Then more movement. Sheets rustling. A feminine gasp that definitely isn't mine.

My heart drops to the floor.

Oh no. Oh god. No.

Time stops.

My heart stutters. "Camden?" I call out, confused. He should be at the office. It's barely 10 AM on a weekday.

No response, but there's definitely movement from the bedroom. Great. He's ignoring me now? After dumping me at our anniversary dinner?

Anger propels me forward, my hangover temporarily forgotten. I march toward the bedroom, ready for round two of telling Camden Sullivan exactly what I think of him.

I push open the door without knocking.

Time stops.

Camden is there, alright. Very much there. And he's not alone.

He's in our bed—the one we bought together at that pretentious home store where he insisted on testing fifteen different mattresses while the salespeople hovered nearby.

He's in our bed with a woman.

---