Page 95 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

And then we were in the lift, the doors closing on the grey expanse of the car park and the flickering charcoal sketch of Nathaniel’s shadow as he walked away.

Chapter 32

Caspian took me straight up to his penthouse. It was exactly as I remembered, too much space and cold light, and this sense of emptiness that had nothing to do with the furnishings. I guess I’d expected Nathaniel to have had more impact—his home was so lovely I couldn’t imagine him being any more comfortable here than I was. Anyway, I didn’t have enough emotional bandwidth to think about that right now. Or even what had happened between them in the car park. Which was kind of my fault. But sorry, Nathaniel, my guilt was needed elsewhere. Join the fucking queue.

Part of me didn’t want to uncling, but when Caspian lowered me onto one of the sofas, I forced myself to let go of him. It was pathetic to be seeking comfort after what I’d done. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I deserved to be comforted ever again. By anyone.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he asked. “Something to eat?”

“No. I have to…” I started trembling and couldn’t stop. Had no idea how to put into words the magnitude of what had happened. So I just blurted out, “It’s my dad.”

Caspian’s brows pulled tight. But his only other reaction was to tell me, “A moment please,” before he vanished and came back, a handful of seconds later, with a blanket.

Once he’d wrapped me up in it, he went down on his knees beside me, something that always unhinged my world a little bit. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

So I did. Starting with Jonas turning up at my work because of that godawful article. It wasn’t a long story but it felt like it took forever to relate, maybe because it contained so much of my selfishness and stupidity. By the time I was done, my mouth was dry and my voice was hoarse, and I could hardly look at him. Terrified that his face might reflect back at me the condemnation I thought it should.

He took my hand, which was somehow cold and wet at the same time, and frankly very gross, and brought it to his lips. Kissed my fingers with the same archaic courtesy he’d sometimes shown me when we were dating—only this time his maiden fair had pretty much wandered into the dragon’s mouth going “tirra lirra” because I was a fucking idiot.

“We’ll find him,” he said. “I won’t let him hurt your family.”

“But…but what if you can’t? What if he does? What if he—”

“Arden. You have seen only a fraction of the resources I can bring to bear if needed. Very few men are beyond my power. Your father is most certainly not.”

“I know, but—”

“Enough.” His voice was soft, and yet still full of an unassailable intent. “Will you trust me?”

He’d asked me that once before. In a very different context. And the answer was the same as it had always been. “Yes.”

“Then believe the situation will be taken care of.” He rose, controlled as ever, to his feet.

Okay, that sounded great. And also a bitWill no one rid me of this turbulent priest?I swallowed. “By…taken care of…you don’t mean in a murdery way, right?”

He looked startled. “I hadn’t planned on it. Although it could be arranged if it became necessary. Or if you—”

“No. No. Please don’t.”

“If you weren’t clearly distraught”—he gave me the faintest of smiles—“I’d be a little concerned at how casually you assumed I’d resort to assassination.”

Okay, yeah. When he put it like that. “Sorry, my head is fucked.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He reached out and very lightly touched the mad multidirectional medley that was my hair. “I’m going to make some calls. And you try to rest.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Like that’s going to happen.”

“I said try. I have no conviction of your success under the circumstances, but if you can, it will help.”

“Okay.”

I did, actually, sort of rest? If you could call it that. It was more of a nonconsensual unconsciousness that crept over me from time to time, though I never roused from it feeling refreshed. The hours were long and slow and crappy, and my body couldn’t seem to figure out whether it was too hot or too cold and, sometimes, contrived to be both at once, which was pretty special. Caspian was mostly in another room—I could hear the clicking of him typing, and the low murmur of his voice occasionally—but he checked on me fairly regularly. Sent me to have a shower. Brought me tea.

“I know you aren’t particularly fond of it,” he said, putting the cup down next to me, “but I understand it’s generally considered a consoling drink.”

“I don’t want to be consoled. I feel terrible and I should feel terrible.”

“You should not. This isn’t your fault.”