Page 43 of My Billionaire Casino Boss

My boss nods, a look of relief crossing her face. “Thank you for understanding, Ms. Adams. I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

I stand up, my mind already racing with plans and possibilities. I’m not going to let this setback define me. I’m going to find a job I love, a job where I can use my skills and make a difference. And most importantly, a job that has nothing to do with Thomas Ward.

As I walk out of Selena’s office, I feel a strange sense of freedom. Yes, I’m jobless. Again. Yes, I’m the subject of office gossip. Again. But I’m also free. Free to find a job I love, free to move on from Thomas, free to start over.

And as I pack up my things and say my few awkward goodbyes, I feel a little lighter. My future is entirely in my hands.

As soon as I step outside the office building, I’m accosted by reporters. There aren’t many of them, but they’re determined, and I realize they’ve been camping out here since the news broke, waiting for a chance to get a statement from me. I pull my jacket tighter around me, trying to shield myself from their prying eyes and intrusive questions.

“Lily!” one of them calls out, thrusting a microphone in my face. “Is it true that your engagement to Thomas Ward was a sham?”

I keep my gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge the question. They’re persistent, following me down the street, their cameras flashing and their voices loud and insistent.

“Ms. Adams, can you confirm the rumors that you were paid to pretend to be engaged to Mr. Ward?” another reporter asks. This stops me in my tracks briefly, but even in my shock, I’m smart enough not to answer the question, no matter how much it stings.

“Did Thomas Ward pay you to pose as his fiancée?” a third reporter presses.

The questions keep coming, each one more intrusive than the last. But I refuse to give them the satisfaction of a response. I keep my chin up and my expression neutral. I’m not going to let them see how much their words hurt.

Finally, I reach my car and quickly get in, slamming the door shut behind me. The reporters crowd around the vehicle, their cameras pressed against the windows, their questions still echoing in the air.

I ignore them, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. As I drive away, I can see them in the rearview mirror, their figures growing smaller and smaller until they’re nothing more than a distant blur.

I let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. This is my life now, I realize. A life of scrutiny and judgment, of whispered rumors and pointed questions. All because of Thomas Ward.

But as I drive home, I make a promise to myself. I won’t let this define me. I won’t let Thomas Ward or the press or anyone else dictate my life. I’m Lily Adams, and I’m stronger than they know. And no matter what they throw at me, I’m going to come out on top.

Halfway home, I decided to drive to my parents’ house without stopping at home first. I make a U-turn needing the comfort of their support as soon as possible. The events of the day and the past few weeks are replaying in my mind like a broken record, and nothing good will come of me sitting in my house alone.

By the time I pull into my parents’ driveway, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the front yard. I sit in the car for a moment, gathering my thoughts before I head inside.

As I step out of the car, I notice a bouquet of flowers sitting on the front porch. I approach them warily, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t need to see the card to know who they’re from.

I pick up the bouquet, my fingers brushing against the soft petals. They’re beautiful, a mix of roses and lilies. As much as I want to appreciate the gesture, all I can feel is a surge of anger. I pull out the card tucked among the flowers and flip it open. The message is short, just two words are written in neat handwriting that isn’t Thomas’s—presumably the florist,I’m sorry.

I stare at the words, my heart aching.I’m sorry.As if those two words could fix everything. As if they could erase the humiliation, the hurt, the betrayal. I crumple the card in my hand, the paper crunching under my grip.

Narrowing my eyes, I send a quick text to my neighbor, asking if there’s anything on my porch. She responds a minute later, and sure enough, he sent a bouquet there, too. He knows I spend a lot of time at my parents’ house, and he must have wanted to cover all the bases, so he threw money at it instead of putting in any real effort—typical.

I storm into the house, the flowers forgotten on the porch. My mom is in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and she looks up in surprise as I storm in.

“Lily, what’s wrong?” she asks, concern etching lines into her forehead.

I let out a bitter laugh, tossing the crumpled card onto the kitchen table. “Thomas sent me flowers,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Isn’t that sweet?”

My mom picks up the card, smoothing out the crumpled paper. She reads the message, her expression softening. “He’s trying to apologize, Lily,” she says gently.

“Well, it’s not enough,” I snap, my anger flaring. “He can’t just send me flowers and expect everything to be okay. He needs to do more than that. He needs to explain. He needs to…he needs to…” I trail off, my anger giving way to tears. I sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands. I feel my mom’s hand on my shoulder, her touch comforting.

“I know, sweetie,” she says softly. “But maybe this is his way of starting to make things right.”

I lift my head, meeting her gaze. “I don’t know if I can forgive him, Mom,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I obviously can’t trust him.”

My mom squeezes my shoulder, giving me a sad smile. “That’s something only you can decide, sweetheart,” she says. “But whatever you choose, we’ll be here for you. Always.”

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I don’t know what the future holds for me and Thomas, but for now, I’m grateful for the support of my family.

The weekend at home is exactly what I need—a chance to regroup and recharge. My mom and I spend hours in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. We make all my favorite dishes, the familiar scents filling the house with warmth and comfort. I find solace in the rhythm of chopping and stirring, the simple act of creating something from scratch.

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