Page 7 of The Next Door Billionaire's Deception

Again, silence settles heavily in the room. She stares at the fireplace while I focus on the amber-colored walls. From the corners of her eyes, I catch Celine stealing glances at me. I say nothing. The rowdiness of the city suddenly makes its way into the apartment. The squealing of brakes, the ping of crosswalk lights, the whoosh of speeding buses, and the blaring of horns all blend into a perfect cacophony.

“I just wanted this to be a nice relaxing evening,” I whisper.

Celine nods. “I just had to say it.”

“I know.”

Her phone buzzes. She mutters a curse and taps her phone screen. Then she empties her glass and grabs her purse. The folds of skin on her forehead have relaxed.

“I'll have to run,” she says, reaching for a hug with wide open arms.

After the brief hug, I let go of my grip. She holds on to me and whispers, “I can’t guarantee that the next man will be Mr. Right. But I know that you deserve a life outside your career. You deserve love, and you have to open your heart to it.”

It’s easier to assign duties to employees and sit in a room with people twice my age than to follow Celine’s advice. She’s been saying the same thing for a long time, and, despite my resistance, she never stops.

“Is that it, Celine?” I ask, angling my head.

“Is that what?”

I want to answer her, but a sharp knock on the door interrupts. Someone's at the door.

“Expecting someone?” Celine asks.

I shake my head. No one else knows about my new apartment.

Who the hell is at the door?

“Maybe it’s one of your neighbors,” she says with a glint in her eye.

I don’t share her enthusiasm.

“I’ll go check it out.”

I force my feet to move. Inhaling deeply, I push the door open. Silence greets me, accompanied by the morning breeze.

It's empty.

“No one’s here.” I turn to Celine. “Maybe it was the wind.”

She nods, frowning. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Chapter 3

Richard

Myheadthrobswithoutmercy as I shuffle to the kitchen. I can't say if it’s the leftover of the migraine I had earlier in the week, but it was so horrible that it kept me in bed till nine this morning. Every move I make seems to shatter my zonked head into tiny shards. The more I lie still, the better it gets. But I can’t remain in bed all day. My assistant will be here soon.

Anna doesn't work on weekends, and even when she does wish to decongest her workload ahead of the new week, I let her work from home instead. Not today. Today, I want her to report right here in my apartment.

When I could stretch far enough to grab my phone on my oak bedside table, I phoned Anna by 8:45. She was still stuck somewhere in traffic.

“She should be here by nine-thirty,” I mumble, taking a sip of my coffee.

Out of the kitchen, I slump into the brown sofa in the living room as the first sip from my mug of steaming coffee journeys down my throat, and I become more awake. The cold subsides, with my almost shivering frame inside a thick wooly white robe, it still has an airtight grip on me. Pure black coffee is the perfect way to shoo it off. It’s been my elixir for many years.

An almost inaudible screech from a car hijacks my attention. I lean on the pane of my half-open window to get a fair glimpse of the car before it swerves into the garage below. It’s a black Chrysler, the newest addition to the building's garage. It belongs to my new next-door neighbor, Melissa Durham.

Images of her slender frame race through my mind in quick succession. Her sharp nose. Her raven-black hair. Her captivating fragrance. Her sauciness. Four days have passed, but I'm yet to get over the thoughts of our first meeting in the hallway. She reminds me of the deceptive abilities of appearance and looks. She's admirable from a distance. A force in her own right: the youngest CEO to head over Emerald, the youngest female CEO to make the cover of the biennialAmazon in Businessmagazines.

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