Page 72 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
Didn't want to face my past.
But my gut had known. My subconscious had always been pulled here. In my weaker moments, those memories in the deepest, darkest corners of my soul had pushed through, made themselves known. Enough to let me know the life I left behind is still here.
I'd tried to turn my back on my past, but no more.
I'm here and now I have to face it.
I look out the window, my eyes glazing over with tiredness. Emotions long suppressed now pour through me, coursing through my veins, blurring my vision. Around me, the traffic ebbs and flows, as if with a life of its own.
We crawl forward. The car stops, starts, stops. Then we hit a highway and pick up speed, turning a corner from where I can see the bay of the Arabian Sea stretch out. It's fringed on this side by shanty towns and small, bobbing boats with fishermen bringing in the catch from the sea.
We hit a toll and then turn onto a sweeping bridge.
The taxi drives smoothly through the eight-lane highway. Muddy, dark-green water rolls below before giving away to a skyline of towers and soaring new buildings.
What a contrast. Like crossing from one world to the next.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts buzzing around it. But I can't stop thinking of my blood mother.
All these years and now? Why now? Why call me to tell me she's dying?
Why not have let me be with Jace?
In a way, the timing of the call couldn't have been better. And if I had been waiting for a sign to get out of there, this was it.
We turn off the bridge onto a road skirting the sea and then turn in, onto a side road.
We're close now. My heart slams into my ribs, my pulse pounding in my ears as if I've been running for miles. The sweat oozes down my forehead, and my breath comes in short gasps. I think I'm going to be sick. I almost reach out to tell the cab driver to stop, but by then he's drawing up in front of a small house. It's surrounded by soaring apartment-blocks.
But this structure, time forgot.
The driver unloads my bag and opens the door. I force my legs to move. Then I'm out of the car and looking at the bungalow.
It's two stories tall, gracious, built in a colonial style. The name engraved on its side says, "Napeansea Grange - built 1918."
The walls are painted white and sparkle in the afternoon sunshine. A porch runs around the front of the house. On it, a wooden swing creaks in the light wind.
Small shrubs spread out in one corner in front of a luxurious lawn that stretches along both sides of the driveway. A clear indication that, despite the boiling heat, they are well cared for.
The overall feeling is one of quiet wealth. Dignity, and a pace of life that is gentle, unhurried, very different from the world I know. An entire continent away from Silicon Valley. It's as if I have stepped off the flight and gone back in time.
Dragging my suitcase, I walk under a tall tree shading the driveway.
Small red and yellow flowers, unlike any I have seen before, dot the ground. I focus on them, drawing strength from the colors. One step, and then another.
Then I'm at the door and ringing the bell.
When it opens, I don't look up immediately. I can't. My eyes fall on the feet of the person standing there. Big feet, male feet, clad in open-toed shoes. Pale toenails set against light-ebony skin. Skin lighter than mine, of a color that hints at mixed heritage.
Unable to stop myself, my eyes run up the faded jeans, flat waist, the dark skin visible through the threadbare cotton shirt open at the neck, curved lips turning down into a frown, and dark blue eyes.
"Sienna?" asks the handsome man in his late forties. At my nod, he holds out his hand, "I'm Neil D'Souza, your mother's friend and lawyer."
He ushers me as a servant takes my bag from me.
"Your mother's inside," he says, leading me into a spacious living room with ceiling fans that whirl up the hot air.
I seat myself on the comfortable sofa. An older man materializes bringing me a cool drink.
