Page 4 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“Well…well…there isn’t.”

“Whatever you say. See you around, Ardy baby.”

He gave me a mocking, two-fingered salute and sauntered off. Finally, fucking finally, leaving me alone. And not feeling great, in all honesty. As well as running late.

I made a dash for the station and made it just in time, leaping between the Tube doors the second before they closed, and then wriggling and squishing my way through a forest of armpits until I was able to wedge myself into a nook at the back of the carriage.

It wasn’t a long journey—only about fifteen minutes, if there were no delays—but I felt ridiculous looking back on the time I’d spent at One Hyde Park, believing I lived in London. That wasn’t London.Thiswas London. Long, dark tunnels, strangers diligently not looking at each other, and the scent of soot and sweat.

Maybe I was a complete weirdo, but I liked it more.

It was real to me in the way that Caspian’s cold, beautiful, sealed-off world could never be.

Although, I will admit, I missed being able to call him the moment something went wrong. Not because I wanted him to fix all my problems for me, but because having him on my side—knowing he cared about me and wanted the best for me—was its own magic. Like Queen Susan’s horn, he let me find my way through life, sheltered by the promise that help was always close by.

Though I hoped all I had to do with Boyle was ignore him. Count on my own irrelevance and the fact that Caspian was already well guarded from nonsense like this. I’d pretty much resolved on a course of resolute nonaction as I elbowed my way off the Tube, but then I remembered that I still had Finesilver’s business card in my wallet. He was the Harts’ lawyer, and from what I’d been told, he specialised in reputation management. Frankly, he was terrifying in this smiling, silk and steel kind of way. But he’d been nice enough to me on the one (also Boyle-related) occasion we’d met. And since this involved Caspian indirectly, maybe he’d be able to give me some advice.

I still had a few minutes before I needed to be in the office, so I nipped past the now-familiar statue of William Pitt the Younger and sat down on one of the benches in Hanover Square. I’d texted Caspian from here when I first got the job at—

Goddamn it.

Why was he everywhere? No wonder I loved the Tube so much. Some days, it felt like it was the only place he wasn’t. As if my memories of him had wrapped themselves up in the whole fucking city. And my love was a dog off its lead. Wandering by the roadside, getting ragged and thin, sniffing every street corner for just a trace of Caspian, trying to find its way home.

With shaky fingers, I dug out Finesilver’s card and dialled the number. Of course, he was too important to pick up his own phone, so I ended up having to introduce myself to an assistant and explain, not very coherently, who I was and what I wanted. Then, already convinced that this had been a terrible idea, I waited on hold for an uncomfortably long time. And finally:

“Mr. St. Ives.” Finesilver sounded very, very different on the phone. Sharper, colder, and a hell of a lot meaner. “How can I help?”

“Um, you remember that reporter guy? Boyle?”

“I’m aware.”

I flexed my fingers, horribly aware I was sweating over my phone. “Well, he’s been hanging around again. He wants me to sell my story.”

“I see. And I presume this call means you’re amenable to a counteroffer.”

“What? No—”

“You’re not amenable?” He cleared his throat. “Mr. St. Ives, I understand that you may be carrying some resentment towards my client, but any attempt to hurt him will cause far more damage to your reputation than it ever could to his.”

This was giving me serious déjà vu. Not only was it the second nebulous threat I’d received today, but it wasn’t even the first time I’d been accused of trying to spill Caspian’s secrets to the press. And it was unbelievably depressing to discover that you could apparently get used to it.

“I’d never do anything to hurt Caspian,” I said.

“And your circumspection will be generously recompensed, pending the proper legal assurances.”

“Legal assurances?”

“Just a few standard and nonintrusive nondisclosure agreements.”

The conversation was getting away from me—thundering off like an out-of-control train down unintended tracks. “You don’t understand. I don’t want money and I’m not signing an NDA, but it doesn’t matter because I will never,evergo to the papers.”

A very slight pause. “Then why are you calling me?”

“Because…because…Boyle? I thought you needed to know this stuff.”

A longer pause. “Arden”—Finesilver’s voice softened—“I cannot help Miss Hart unless she allows me to do so, and you are no longer under Mr. Hart’s protection.”

“But—”