Page 41 of The Damaged Billionaire

I shake my head to dislodge the thoughts as I put the finishing touches on the monthly report. It is hard to believe I have already been working with Tennyson for over five weeks now, and looking at everything we have achieved, I am proud of the progress we have made. No more drunken one-night stands, no more paparazzi photos of him with a different woman or leaving a hotel in the morning, looking worse for wear. The press attention he is getting is all positive, with great photos and inspiring stories about his philanthropy, even touching on the good relationship he has with his brothers.

I add in the social media highlights and go through the email from my digital manager to ensure I haven’t missed anything, and that’s when I see a small note from her to check his messages. I save the file I am working on and jump into his Instagram, wading through the messages that come up—all from women, some from a few men, none of whom have any shame in what they are proposing. I am sure deleting and blocking them is a daily job for my team, unfortunately. I see a few left for me to review and I click through. I chew my lip as I see a familiar name, Katerina Newcomb. Clicking on the message, she’s reaching out this week asking to see Tennyson. That on its own is not anything to be too concerned about, as she made it clear a few weeks ago at the business dinner she was more than interested. But I see two more messages, each one sounding more desperate than the next. I delete them and make a mental note to talk to Tennyson about it. While I don’t love the idea of him talking to other women, especially now that we are involved, I am an adult. I can deal with it.

As I finish up, the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anything, but I rush to the door and see a delivery man waiting.

“Hello?” I say, opening the door.

“Willow Valentine?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s me.” I smile, thinking maybe Saide ordered something.

“Sign here, please.” I sign the digital screen, and he passes me a box.

“Thank you,” I say, but the man is already walking away, no doubt in a hurry to get to the next stop.

I look at the box as I close the door. It has my name on the front, but there is no other label that tells me where it is from. Walking to the kitchen, I rip it open to find a luxurious cream box with thick cream ribbon. La Perla.

My heart races as I pull it out and open it. Black lace underwear. A few matching sets in black and red and white, along with a beautiful lace nightdress that feels so heavenly soft, I am not sure I could even wear it. I look further and see a note and pull it out.

I want to rip these off you and kiss every inch of the beautiful body underneath.

As I feel the soft silk in my fingers, a smile comes to my face. I know I have done the right thing. I am done questioning it. It is happening. Tennyson and I are happening.

“Oh good, you're home,” Saide says, and I jump, having not heard the front door open. I scurry to put the note away, my palms sweating and my heart racing. How is he even capable of that when he is not even here? The front door slams shut, and I get everything back in the box before her luggage rolls on my floorboard toward me.

“Hey, welcome home. How was your trip?” I ask my standard question and clear my throat, my voice betraying me a little.

“He broke up with meeeee,” she whines, and I see my baby sister looking like a hot mess, tears streaming down her face, her eyes swollen and her face red and blotchy.

“Oh, honey,” I say softly, rushing over and hugging her, my mind now on her as my top is wet in an instant from her tears. I can’t say I am not relieved, but I hate seeing her like this regardless.

“Come, let’s sit and you can tell me all about it,” I say, keeping my arm around her and leading us to the sofa.

“What is there to say? He broke up with me because his wife is pregnant. He is going to be a father,” she wails, and even though I know she saw him often, I had no idea she was this serious about him.

“I am sorry that it didn’t work out, Saide.”

“No, you are not. l know you are dying to say ‘I told you so,’ so go ahead, say it,” she smarts, still looking miserable.

“No, Saide, I may not have approved, and it was always going to be a hard situation, but I never want to see you upset like this,” I tell her, and she starts wailing again. I hug her for a bit and let her get it all out before her tears slow and her sniffles lessen.

“Why don't you go up and shower and change. I am sure I have the ingredients for death by chocolate cupcakes to make us a batch.” That’s her favorite.

“Can you make two batches? I want to eat my feelings and sit on the sofa and wallow in self-pity for a while,” she says, her lips quirking up at the side, and it is then I know she is going to be okay.

“Sure, two batches, and maybe some red velvet as well.” She knows I would do anything for her. Including chaining myself to the kitchen for the next few hours to bake and ice her favorite cupcakes. She smiles and jumps up to grab her bag and starts walking to her room.

“Oh, and when I come back, I want you to tell me all about last night,” she says, giving me a cheeky look.

“Last night?” I ask her, pretending I have no idea what she is talking about.

“You can’t fool me, Willow Valentine. You have that post-sex glow going on, and I want to hear all about it,” she says, looking at me and waiting for me to refute her claims, but I remain silent, which tells her everything she already knows.

“And I also want to see what is in that box that has you so hot and bothered,” she adds, thinning her eyes at me. I can’t keep anything from her. She can read me like a book.

“It’s just some clothes…” I wave her off, pretending that it is nothing as my cheeks tint pink.

“I see cream ribbon. La Perla is not just clothes.” She looks at me accusingly.

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