Page 63 of The Billionaire's Accidental Legacy

She was using him. She was using him the way that she had always used people.

The way her father had taught her to.

And now that she felt things—more and more things—it made her ache.

She hadn’t meant to. She’d wanted so badly to get away from it. To get away from using.

She wanted her own life that she could have on her own terms. She didn’t want to use anybody. She really didn’t.

But she didn’t know another way to be either.

That made her feel indescribably sad.

Did that make her a better person because she felt sad at the thought?

How did you ever know if you were or weren’t using someone? She had used him that first night to lose her virginity. To experience pleasure. She had used him that second time for the same reason, but also to try and stop her heart from bleeding out, to do something to make her feel like she could hang on to a memory of him. And now she was using him to keep her safe. Using his money, using his power and influence.

Did people only ever use each other? Were they all like her father, just on different sides of the law? Did they use people with varying degrees of selfishness?

She had no idea how she was supposed to know.

This was why she didn’t feel. Or why she hadn’t historically. Because with feeling came worry. Trauma. Guilt.

She loved her sister. But the truth was, Maren was very easy to love. And Jessie had known her all of her life.

Maybe if she hadn’t, she would simply use Maren, too.

Or maybe she did. Because she needed Maren to tell her whether or not she was being a good person, and to set boundaries and parameters for her. Maybe she used Maren as her external conscience. Her cricket.

She did love her, though. She was certain of that. She really was certain of that.

She put some red lipstick on and decided that she looked like a very Parisian witch, so there was that.

Then she met him out in the living area. She had not been prepared for him. She never could be. He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing his spectacular forearms.

He had the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen. And she could remember every pair of hands she’d ever seen if she tried hard enough.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he said.

He gestured to the table. “I had an array of baked goods brought for you. I thought we might want to eat before we go get to the sightseeing.”

“So,” she said. “Is this primarily to make more splash in the press, to make my father feel like he can’t make any moves toward me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And here I thought you just liked me.”

He looked at her, his gaze cool and assessing. “You know you have a gold fleck in your right eye?” she asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“It’s an observation and a question. But I noticed that your eyes were different the first time we met. And I wondered if you had ever noticed.”

“I don’t spend that much time staring at my own face.”

“You should. It’s a decent face,” she said.

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