Page 61 of Misdeeds of a Billionaire
Jesus H. Christ.
An hour later, the only sound calming me was the constant beeping of her heart monitor. She lay in the hospital bed; her face was pale, but her chest rose and fell rhythmically. The movements brought me comfort, right along with the beep, beep, beep of the machine. I could breathe again. It was the sign she was alive. She was still here, with me.
She had a concussion. Likely a result of hitting her head on the pavement after being hit by the car. But she’d recover. She would need rest and to take it easy for a few weeks.
I’d take care of her.
The bloodied sonogram photo crumpled in my hand. I gripped it like my life depended on it. Maybe it did. I needed answers. Confirmation. Assurances.
The door to the room opened softly and the doctor entered the room to check on Odette’s vitals again. Her movements were quiet. Efficient.
She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. I usually remembered names of anyone I spoke to, which meant I hadn’t spoken to her before.
“She’ll pull through,” the doctor assured again.
“And the baby?” My voice was hoarse with the pent-up emotions swirling inside me. I almost broke at the pity in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, the baby didn’t make it.”
It was the last fragile thread connecting us, and it was being ripped from me. Our baby had been ripped from me.
When Odette woke up, she was done with me. She didn’t want me. She’d called us a mistake. Her biggest mistake.
Fuck, I should have brought her back to my home and made her give us a chance. I should have fought her, convinced her I was everything she desired and forced her to stay with me until she saw how good we could be together.
But I didn’t.
I needed to move the fuck on. It had been six fucking years. Screw her and her tempting body. That gorgeous mouth. Incredible brain.
Shit! Stop it, man.
“What’s got into your ass, Byron? A dildo?” Kristoff mused, studying me.
I twisted my face in disgust. If he knew my sour mood was related to a woman, he’d never let me live it down. It didn’t help that I pulled his leg when he was pining for his beautiful secretary. Of course, he was a happily married man now. Head over heels in love, working for baby number five or six. I’d lost fucking count.
“The fact that that word even came out of your mouth tells me you’re doing some freaky shit with your wife.”
He shook his head. “You need to get laid, dude.”
“I fucking agree,” I muttered. Except there was only one woman who could get me hard. Six fucking years. I needed her back in my bed.
“So, what’s stopping you?” he asked casually, leaning back into his seat and bringing the scotch to his mouth.
“One single woman.” I reached for my own drink. “If you can believe it. I can’t get it up without her.”
He frowned. “What woman?”
I shook my head, sipping my drink. “And she fucking says I’m nobody important.”
Kristoff gave me a puzzled look. “Who?”
“Do you fucking listen to me at all?”
Kristoff smiled, amusement flashing in his gaze. “Honestly, you haven’t said much, so you must be having a conversation in your head.” He picked up his phone and checked for messages. “I’m sending my wife a message that we’ll be late for dinner. You obviously need mental support.”
He had become so damn dramatic and supportive since getting married.
“I don’t need mental support,” I muttered under my breath, before taking another sip of my bourbon.
