Page 1 of The Billionaire's Dalliance

Chapter One

Joshua

The headline read, “Owner of Collective Expectations, Joshua Adams to divorce gorgeous model, Laila Peters,” above drivelous paragraphs speculating about the nature of our separation—was it because of another woman or bickering at home or perhaps her desire to remain childless?

I snorted out a mirthless laugh. These ravenous journalists had left out the only possibility that wasn’t sensational, even if it was the truth: Laila and I had simply grown apart. Sure, Icouldsay that she’d become a greedy, manipulative woman and shecouldsay that I’d become a grumpy old man, but those words had only ever been exchanged in the heat of an argument.

No, the god’s honest truth was that we were getting divorced because there wasn’t any joy left in the relationship. Neither of us pined for the other the way we used to, and we hadn’t had sex in several months (it hadn’t actually occurred to Laila or me until we’d tried to remember the last time we shared a bed).

When we first discussed the possibility of a separation, I had told Laila that I was perfectly content to remain married since I already spent long hours at the office and had access to plenty of women with only a phone call. I’d said that I would continue to support her financially and that she could seek out any other relationships she wanted as long as they didn’t cause a scandal.

“Oh, Joshie, darling,” Laila had sighed, “you know I can’t keep living like this. I’m a creative spirit for Christ’s sake! When I start to feel caged, I simply can’t domy work.”

I had to keep myself from making a joke about her artistic aspirations then, because both Laila and I knew that there was nothing “creative” about posing for photographs while holding bottles of perfume or whatever brand was currently sponsoring my wife. So I let her ramble about feeling like a trapped bird in our loveless marriage and how I was suffocating her muse.

“I think I get the picture, Lai,” I’d interrupted, placing a hand on her knee and rubbing my thumb into the smooth skin there. “If it would make you happy, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers tomorrow.”

Laila had smiled easily then and in a breezy tone—entirely different from the frantic one she’d used thirty seconds ago—replied, “You’re wonderful, honey. Thank you for beingsounderstanding.”

From there, all we’d had to do was settle on a fair agreement and sign the files that my lawyer, Chris Thompson, had provided. But in the month that Laila and I had bandied about various clauses, nothing had actually been decided—the signatures were there but the papers remained on my desk, gathering dust.

So here we were, in limbo, and content to continue our cat-and-mouse game for the foreseeable future. I, obviously, was perfectly fine with this long process and Laila seemed to be as well, even for all her whining about her creative freedom. Would someone come into my life and change that mentality for good? I supposed the only way to know was to wait and see.

I hadn’t always been lukewarm toward my wife and maybe that was why we were having a hard time moving forward with the divorce. When I’d first met Laila ten years ago, I’d been the fresh face of entrepreneurs everywhere who made their start without the help of old money families. And Laila had been the golden child of modeling for “charitable” companies which plastered her face over ads for causes like eco-friendly fabrics while secretly pocketing every cent they made off her influence.

We’d met at a New Year’s Eve party amidst golden confetti and bubbly glasses of champagne with my best friend, Anthony Carlisle, introducing Laila with a sweeping gesture, “Here is the girl of your dreams, Josh!” And there she’d stood, in a silver gown that seemed to be made of moonbeams, offering a delicate, soft hand to me in greeting.

I’d been hooked from that very second, wasting no time in showering her with my affections and proposing less than three months later. Ours had been a whirlwind romance that the media fawned over, proclaiming, “Booming Businessman, Joshua Adams, and Model-of-the-Year, Laila Peters: Star-Crossed Lovers Determined to Make the World a Better Place.” Of course, the nature of our fame had allowed us to enjoy such publicity without too much effort; after all, Laila’s brand deals still ran on platforms of altruism and I had taken to donating a share of my profits regularly.

For a while, we’d been the power couple everyone adored. But like every romance that begins with a bright spark, ours soon began to fizzle out. It had started when Laila found out about the true nature of her work and we had an argument about the best way to move forward. I’d advised her to publicly denounce them and find more honest sponsors but Laila had replied that the ads she created really did have a positive effect, even if the money went right back into her investors’ pockets.

As strongly as I felt about maintaining our charitable influence, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Laila what to do, so I let her make the decision herself. From then on our disagreements only grew—how much I traveled for work, Laila’s desire not to have children, her indiscretions that almost cost us our reputation once or twice, the list went on.

And over the years, as Laila and I had come to merely tolerate each other’s presence, I’d slowly become the grumpy old man she had always claimed I was. The absence of love in my life had taken its toll and, in a way, I’d forgotten what it was like to be with someone who made my heart beat so quickly I could barely keep up.

Now, with the divorce hanging over our heads like a thunderous cloud, Laila and I found ourselves stuck in memories of what we had been, and the comfort that indifferent complacency brought us.

I was on the phone with Anthony while packing for my upcoming ski trip in Aspen. Laila had left for Switzerland five days ago and I was beginning to feel the loneliness creep in after spending so many nights alone in our mansion, so I’d decided to take a small vacation.

“Why not join her?” my best friend asked jovially. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—not really anyway—and you could do your skiing in the Alps instead.” I loved Anthony like a brother, but he had an annoying habit of trying to find ways for Laila and me to rekindle our relationship. It was well-intentioned and I appreciated his opinions but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only trying so hard because he had no relationships of his own to speak of—in other words, a pseudo-matchmaker with no experience.

“Tony,” I sighed, slipping my black button-up off my shoulders and replacing it with a blue, cable-knit sweater. “How many times do I have to tell you that Laila and I aren’t going to get back together? There’s a few details with the divorce that we haven’t figured out, but other than that, we aren’t married anymore.”

“It’s not over till it’s over,” Anthony replied, and I could imagine the knowing smirk on his face that no doubt mimicked the one I’d seen on his mother’s a thousand times. “Maybe she’ll think it’s a grand gesture? All the women I’ve known go crazy for stuff like that.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered distractedly as I refolded my gray pair of slacks to make them fit better in my suitcase. “Do you have any plans this weekend? Iliana down at the club was asking after you last night.” I hoped that by changing topics I could avoid his nagging, and my wish was granted at the mention of the girl Anthony had been eyeing for the past few months.

“I guess Idohave plans now,” my best friend chuckled. There was the sound of paper shuffling in the background—Anthony must have still been at work—and then, “well, enjoy your vacation, Josh. Let me know if you need company on the slopes.”

“I’m sure I can find a snow bunny or two to keep me warm,” I joked for the sake of preserving my waning youth. Truthfully, I was content to ski by myself for the entirety of the trip and enjoy my solitude, but I still felt that masculine urge of competition now that it sounded like Anthony had a date.

“Have fun! Call me when you get back.” I responded in kind and hung up, sliding my phone into my pocket before grabbing my suitcase. I had three hours to get to the airport that was an hour away and get through security, so I parked my luggage by the front door before reclining on the scarlet velveteen couch in the living room.

Across from me, in the simple floor-length mirror Laila had installed when we were first married and having sex in every room of the house, was my reflection. I peered into the shiny surface, sitting up straighter to comfortably cross my right ankle over my left thigh, and studied what I saw.

At forty, I still hadn’t lost the boyish charm my face had always carried, but there were small signs of aging beginning to show. There was gray stubble in the five-o’clock shadow I sported, wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, and a broadness to my frame that had replaced the lankiness of my teenage years.

Before me sat a man who looked old enough to know better but was still too young to care.

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