Page 8 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

Press forward.

Caspian’s door loomed. I took a deep breath, pushed it open, and stepped boldly over the threshold.

Or, at least. That was the plan.

What actually happened was that I contrived to trip over, well, nothing. I tried to catch myself but to absolutely no avail. And one startled yelp later I was facedown, arse up, on the ground.

“Arden?” Oh God. That was Caspian. I hadn’t spoken to him for months and yet his voice—so familiar with its upper-class vowels and its secret promise of warmth—pulled at me like an unfulfilled geas.

Footsteps.

Then someone reaching for me. And I let myself be helped before I realised it wasn’t Caspian.

You see, I knew his hands. Knew their strength, their elegance, and their restless vulnerability. They’d touched every part of me. Claimed me, in both pleasure and pain.

But these were a stranger’s hands. And a stranger’s touch. And it was almost impossible to imagine that such cool, perfectly manicured fingers—the fourth circled by a milgrain platinum band—could ever falter or flinch or reveal too much.

I made it back to my feet. Looked up.

And died in Nathaniel’s honey-golden gaze.

“Are you all right,” he asked, with the easy solicitude of the victorious. “Did you hurt yourself?”

I opened my mouth and waited for words to happen. They didn’t.

George stepped forward, her body briefly blocking mine. “Your assistant said you were free. We’re here about the interview.”

“Darling”—Nathaniel cast a look of amused exasperation in Caspian’s direction—“I thought you cancelled that?”

He frowned. “So did I.”

“Well,” said George, “you didn’t. And I’m a very busy woman, so can we get on with it?”

Holy shit. This was basically the bit in a Mafia movie where all the characters started pointing guns at each other and yelling. I mean, apart from the guns and the yelling. We were too British for that.

But some pretty frosty looks were happening, let me tell you.

Nathaniel aimed his at George. “Do you talk to your all subjects like this?”

“Only the very special ones.”

“I must apologise.” It was odd to hear Caspian being conciliatory but, I guess, someone had to be. “The thing is, I…that is…I’m afraid I’m no longer an appropriate topic for this particular article.”

“What do you mean?” Oh. That was me. In the world’s smallest voice.

He’d been standing behind his desk, crisscrossed by silver-edged shadows. But now he stepped forward, his hand coming up self-consciously so he could adjust his tie when it didn’t need adjusting. And there it was: a dull gleam on his fourth finger. A ring to match Nathaniel’s.

“I’m…we’re…”

“Engaged,” I said.

“Bellerose should have told you. I mean, your magazine.”

My world was a platinum circle. It was manacles on my wrists. A vise around my heart. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Arden.” Nathaniel, soft-footed, came to stand beside Caspian. Took his arm. “A shame about your wasted trip.”

They already looked like a magazine cover. Caspian, exquisite in dark blue pinstripes, and Nathaniel, tastefully casual. A perfect match, equal in beauty, poise, and sophistication.