Page 22 of My Fake Billionaire Damaged Boyfriend

She balls herself tighter into a cocoon of silk sheets and bad memories, “Yeah, so what? I wasn’t adopted. Big deal. They sent me to get adopted, but I aged out of the system. Right before I was about to be kicked into the world with all the shillings of an unadopted pariah, I got a call from the police department.”

I sink into the chair at the desk, engulfed with her even more than before “Yeah, and what did they say?”

“I don’t really see how this is significant to taking down Alek.”

“It’s not, I guess. But it’s important to me, Izzy.”

“Why is that exactly?”

“Because you are important to me, okay?”

Although understandably taken aback, she simply turns her back to me in bed, hiking the covers up over her bare back where I can see the faintest hints of tiny scars. The light, almost luminescent sight of her scars is enough to make my stomach hurt, and while I want nothing more than to rip her out of bed, hold her caringly, anddemandshe tell me what tragedy in her life has made her so standoffish, I don’t.

Instead, I take a moment to relax and call my chef, making it a point to put the call on speakerphone.

“Hey, man. Can you swing by soon? I’m thinking of having lunch with a guest and could use your help.”

“Sure, boss. What are you in the mood for.”

I purse my lips to one side, wondering what I could get away with, “Maybe some old anchovies, if you have them laying around.”

Karl, my Michelin Star chef, seems perturbed by such a request, “Wait, you want anchovies, boss?”

“Yeah, will banana peppers. Just something you can throw in a pot with some broth—oh, maybe add a pig’s nose in the mix with—”

“I like burgers,” Izzy grumbles at last, annoyed with my antics.

Speaking into the phone, I dim down the sound of my chortle, “Never mind, Karl. Burgers will work just fine. Maybe some fries too.”

“Sweet potato fries,” she utters to herself.

“Sweet potato fries, Karl. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, okay, boss. A-are you okay?”

“Just fine. I’ll see you here in a bit.”

The line ends, and I toss the phone into the mess of covers nearby. Leaning forward, I feel like a tacky cop in an old detective movie with my elbows planted firmly against my kneecaps, while my hands are connected before me. At first, I slide them together to hopefully create enough friction to get the words out of my mouth, but instead, I interlace my fingers and take a long, deep breath.

“I’m not going to push you to say anything you don’t want to, Kitten,” I breathe.

“Good, because you can’t—and I won’t.”

“Will you at least clear this up for me, then?”

She shakes her head, still using her back covered in blankets as a wall to the ammunition of questions I’m firing towards her delicate body, “No, I won’t. I moved to get away from that life, Dimitri. I don’t need it following me here.”

“It already has,” I bite. “Alek is selling your information to the highest bidder and by all accounts, we can assume that he’s doing it to everyone in the system of his software. If you tell me this now, I’ll never ask another personal question about you again, and we can move on to Alek, okay?”

She perks up, leaning on her arm while the covers slide over the helm of her shoulders and down to her back. She looks like Venus, draped in white cloth while her lightly tanned skin dazzles under the lights of my apartment that don’t nearly do her enough justice. Her eyes are light, the soft cracks of a frown prevalent on a face that doesn’t deserve such heinous markings.

Then there are the scars.

I can see them now, whipped up and down her spine like a carless branch in the wind has licked her more than once. She carries pain and pride like no woman I’ve ever met; other women are either too willing to spread their trauma on this world and seek redemption, or never encounter trouble in their life and expect the world to bow to their feet.

“I was given up as the seventh child of my parents. They were reaping government benefits until I came along. The oldest has aged out of benefits, and they lost a lot of money in welfare over it. So, they found out that they could seek more services for families with five or less minors. They gave me to the fire department, and I didn’t know my parents, or my siblings until I was sixteen.”

My heart is knocking on hollow trees that sprout roots into my stomach, and tower logs through my chest. Still, I remain unphased, and try to keep my curt opinions to myself.

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