Page 12 of Marrying the Billionaire

I swallow heavily, shame settling low in my belly. “This is it.”

His brows raise the faintest bit, but he doesn’t question me further as he opens the door wider, letting me in. I hesitate at the threshold, not sure what to do with my belongings.

“I’ll take care of that,” he murmurs, easily hefting my bag toward a hallway on the far side of the apartment.

I follow him, catching sight of a matching queen-sized bed and dresser in the dimly lit room, decorated in neutral shades of cream and white.

“This will be your room. You can redecorate it however you’d like.”

“It’s fine.” Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Really, it’s not a problem. This should feel like your home too.”

I nearly tear up at his words. This is the same kind, chivalrous man I remember from all those years ago. I half thought I’d built him up to hero proportions in my mind.

“Listen, I was in the middle of something for work…”

“Oh, of course. Sorry. I’ll just, um, unpack.” You know, my one measly suitcase that all my possessions now fit into.

“I should be done in a few hours.”

I nod, already feeling like a nuisance. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

He leaves, and I stay on the bed for a few minutes longer, taking in my new room. White linen curtains cover a good portion of the east wall, and I pull them back, looking out at clouds and the bustling city down below. I can’t believe how high up we are.

I peek my head out into the hallway, the door two doors down from mine closed, the light on underneath. Archer must be in there.

The room to my right looks like a home gym with a treadmill, elliptical machine, free weights, mats, and a whole mess of other equipment I’ve never quite understood the purpose of, and I creep down to the other end of the hallway, discovering a massive master bedroom decorated in shades of black and dove gray.

Out in the living room, striking black leather and chrome furniture fill the area, yet the vibe is impersonal. There’s artwork on the walls, yes, but no photos, no knick knacks. It’s like a designer came in and styled it, but nothing has changed since.

I have a momentary pang in my chest for my living room plants in their colorful pots, my vintage French press I used to make coffee every morning, works of art I’d personally selected and taken pride in.

But that place doesn’t belong to me anymore.

My stomach gives a quiet rumble and I head into the open kitchen, a gorgeous granite counter spanning its length. Everything is top of the line in here, and it appears to be the one room in the house that’s actually lived in judging by the pan soaking in the sink and glass storage containers filled with food I find in the fridge.

My belly gurgles again, and I clutch at it, glancing around to make sure Archer isn’t near. I was too busy at my apartment getting kicked out to eat, and he did say it’s my home now…

I grab a homemade container of hummus and rifle through the cabinets till I discover a bag of pita chips, then hop onto one of the bar stools at the counter and dig in, nearly moaning aloud at how good it is. Who knew he was a phenomenal cook?

After a few minutes, I pause in my gorging to find Archer’s blue gaze focused on me.

Crap.

“Sorry,” I mumble through a mouthful. “I should have asked. I never had lunch-”

“You’re fine. Anything in there is yours. You live here now.”

A thrill runs through me hearing him say that, even if it is for show.

“I came out to give you this.”

He hands me a packet withArcher and Serena Phase Onewritten on the front page, and I open it to find a detailed listing of upcoming events with photographers attending, local restaurants and shops where paparazzi are known to hang out looking for shots, and ideas for ways we can play up our relationship on ThousandWords, his dad’s social media company.

Not that I do anything with my account. I gave Mr. Bishop’s PR team access to it back when I got engaged to Gabriel and haven’t touched it since.

“This is… thorough.”

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