Page 65 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
I've booked my flight to Bombay. My bags are packed. I'd hoped to leave without meeting Jace again. Just sidle out without warning, being the coward that I am.
No such luck.
One minute I'm asleep, and the next I shoot upright, my heart hammering in my ears.
Then I hear it: someone pounding on the door to my bedroom. I'd locked the door to my room to make sure Jace couldn't come in.
"Sienna."
Jace's voice is loud enough to make me start.
"Open the door. I know you're in there."
I don't move.
Jace pounds on the door again.
"Goddammit woman," he roars. "Open. The. Damn. Door!"
Before he's completed the statement, I'm on my feet and at the door. I fling it open.
Jace's hand is poised to bang on the door again, the other thrust up against the door frame for support. He stands motionless, silver-green eyes wide and more opaque than usual.
His jacket is muddy, his tie half off. I wince on seeing the cut on his upper cheek.
All of which, of course, only makes him look even more appealing. A slow tug pulls at the base of my stomach. I take a deep breath to squash down that melting feeling.
"You're biting your nails," he says, voice husky.
"What?" I start guiltily.
Dropping my hand to my side, my fingers curl into a fist. I'm still wearing his ring. I shove my hand behind my back.
He brushes past me, holding himself stiff. Movements controlled. Jace takes one heavy step, and another.
The sharp reek of alcohol hits me.
He’s drunk out of his skull. Even as I think that, he trips over the carpet and goes sprawling.
What the—?
I leap toward him and sink to my knees next to his fallen body.
"Dammit. Did you hurt yourself?" I ask, my hands hovering over him.
When he doesn't move, I begin to fret in earnest. It's not like Jace to be so docile, so submissive. Unless...he's injured.
Worry twists my gut. Gripping his shoulders, I urge him to turn. When he’s on his back, I lean back on my heels and stare down. His eyes are still closed and his arms stretched out. The smell of alcohol hits me afresh.
"Did you roll around in a pool of booze?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"Stag night," he says, his voice hoarse.
He swallows, and I notice the redness around his throat.
"You get into a fight as well?"
His eyes flutter open, barely enough for a gleam of silver to shine through. "Yeah."
