Page 55 of Owned By a Billionaire

“Mm… Yes, how did you guess?”

“Oh, they have a way.” I exhaled, trying not to sound bored, which, of course, I was. All I wanted was to return to Merivale and sink into Ovid with a fine bottle of single malt by my side.

The bride continued to be surrounded by a bevy of gushing females, marveling at her diamond ring and stroking her skintight, sparkling wedding gown like it was some miraculous work of art.

“Back in a moment,” Caroline said.

I decided to step outside for a cigar, an activity I enjoyed on occasion. As I walked to the door, Serbian phrases rang through the air. I might have been at a World Cup match. Not that I followed football. Tennis was my only interest when it came to sport.

As I lit my cigar, I heard my name, and I turned to find the groom standing by the fountain.

“That must have taken some getting used to,” Reynard Crisp said. No ‘How are you?’ or similar pleasantry.

“What do you mean?” I stepped away from the fountain, where instead of Bach or Debussy, the Serbian national anthem blared. Caroline had been so dismayed when we arrived that she called Manon to instruct her to turn off the scratchy-sounding anthem by midnight.

“That’s taking patriotism a little far, wouldn’t you say?” I pointed to the fountain.

He sniffed. “My darling wife is beholden to her origins. Nothing wrong with a little nationalistic pride, wouldn’t you say? Unless, of course, one is trying to escape theirs.”

He shot me a piercing gaze.

Instead of walking away, which I would normally do to avoid succumbing to animal instincts and smashing a glass over his head, I couldn’t help but ask, “What must take getting used to?”

“Your name.”

Amidst countless colliding thoughts, I chose silence.

“So tell me about this fellow, Markus Reiner.”

My legs weakened, and his grin widened.

I sucked on my cigar like a man condemned.

“I went to Australia last year,” Crisp continued. “Melbourne, for the Grand Prix. An interesting place. The rabble have an almost unhealthy obsession with sport, which they consider culture.” He chuckled. “But Sydney is nice. Girt by the harbor. I liked Sydney.”

He also liked the sound of his own voice because I stopped listening at the mention of Australia.

My former home.

The home I ran away from.

He eyed me. “I must say, you’ve done away with that unfortunate accent very nicely.”

“What do you want, Crisp?” I stared him in the face while the grip on my glass tightened like it was his neck.

“I know who you are, and how you charmed your way into the Lovechilde inner sanctum.”

“My relationship with Caroline is none of your business.”

“But it is.” He wore the victorious grin of someone holding an unbeatable poker hand. “You see, I own Caroline Lovechilde. She’s become weaker since you arrived. Imagine her shock at learning that she’s in love with not just a poseur but also an imposter.”

I grabbed him by the scruff of his collar. “Enough of your fucking insults.”

He stepped away and laughed. “Ah, Markus Reiner has finally made a show in all his Teutonic brutishness. I think I like him better than the fop with all his bookish frippery.”

“What do you want?” I asked gruffly.

“Leave her. Find any excuse. I’m sure you can come up with something. You’re gifted when it comes to bullshit.”

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