Page 6 of Enticing My Off Limits Billionaire

"It's okay to feel that way," my mom reassures me. "But you need to find something that makes you happy on your own, too. You can't rely on Kylie to give your life meaning."

"Architecture gives my life meaning," I shrug, but the words sound sterile from the get-go.

"Maybe a boy?" she asks. "Or girl. I wouldn't judge you…"

"I'm not gay, mom," I laugh. "I just...I've been busy with school, and I think...I think you always seemed happier on your own than you would have been if Dad had stayed. It's not easy to trust men when the one who was supposed to be there for you..."

How do I even finish my sentence?

When he bailed and barely saw you as a kid?

When he came back into your life and promptly married your best friend?

My mom is starting to say something else, but my stomach lurches, and my anxiety starts to rise. This has been happening on and off lately; my sense of who I am and what I do is totally unmoored. "I think I'd better go, Mom," I say. "I'll let you get back to work."

"Are you sure?" she asks. "I'm worried about you, Maddie."

I close my eyes and center myself, rallying my voice to sound as happy as I can. "Yeah," I say. "Good night, mom. I love you."

"'Night—love you, too."

I hang up the phone and stare down at the screen as the TV drones on in the background. There's a part of me that says maybe I should spend the next few hours swiping through a dating app, maybe find someone to give my life meaning like my mom said. That, of course, seems absurd, especially coming from the woman who's spent most of her life convincing me that love is dead.

But another idea occurs to me.

I stand up and pad over to my bag, searching through makeup tubes, old receipts, and change to find a tiny slip of paper. There it is—a woman's name written in a messy hand, with a phone number underneath it. I stare at the therapist's name—Andrea Nguyen—and I remind myself that this was Quinn's whole plan.

You go back to the party and be brave...and you plan to fix things when you get back home.

I go back to the couch with the business card and fold my feet underneath me. It's not too late in the day; it would be good to call, just for the sake of getting this all off my chest.

But I don't do that.

Instead, I flip the card over and look at the glossy black text embossed on the front.

Quinn Young

Producer and Creative Director

There's a number underneath it, probably for his work...but I find myself dialing it anyway, then composing a text.

You up?

I send it and immediately smack myself in the forehead, shaking my head. Seriously, Madison?

I'm still staring at the phone in horror when I get a text back.

Who is this?

Madison, I text back.Is this your work number or do you give out your cell to every drunk girl at a party?

Three little dots appear on the screen. I hold my breath.

It's my work cell. You okay?

Would it be wrong of me to tell him I'm not? It wouldn't be a lie.

I take a deep breath and text back.

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