Page 141 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

"Tell her yourself." His jaw hardens.

"Oh?" I take in his features. "What happened? You two not talking?"

"There’s nothing between us," he mutters.

"That’s not what I asked."

He scowls. "That’s all I’m going to say on the matter."

"Hmm." Whatever there is between the two of them, it is going to turn out to be bloody entertaining to watch as it plays out. Meanwhile, I have my own shit to sort out. Namely, one gorgeous, green-eyed, dark-haired, curvy sprite to whom I have a lot to make up. I place my cup on the island, then walk past him toward the door.

"Hey," Arpad calls out, "what are you going to do now?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago."

46

Julia

I drag the needle across the surface of the clay, smoothing away some of the excess material. My hair falls over my face and I shove it out of the way. I need to get this done if it’s the last thing I do. After that horrible debacle of a wedding that shouldn’t have been. Thankfully, I don’t have a ring from it to remember him by. Of course, he hadn’t gotten a ring. Why would he? The biggest douchebag rock star in the world, and I had to fall for him. On the other hand, I have nothing to remember him by. Which is good, right? It means I can go on with my life.

Luckily, the press hadn’t known who I was. They’d tried to come sniffing around after the press conference Damian had held at the hospital—or so Isla and Karina had informed me. Karina had made sure I had the maximum security possible, and even then, a journalist had been caught snooping in the corridor outside my room. She’d made sure to hustle him away, then helped me disguise myself and leave the hospital. I’d wanted to go to my apartment, but she’d told me it wouldn’t be safe. The press had gotten wind of it and had parked outside. So, I’d agreed to return to Damian’s apartment at The Shard. Only for the time-being, and only until this entire sordid scandal blows itself out. Oh, and this was only after she'd confirmed to me that the camera in the flat—yeah, the one in the mirror, as I had suspected—had been disabled.

As for the scandal involving me and Damian, the articles which mentioned my name were taken down almost as soon as they went up. That must have cost him a fortune... Good... I hope it cost him a lot more than the money he'd offered to pay me when we'd first met. The later articles in the media don't mention my name.

Of course, the guests and the press who'd been invited to the wedding know who I am. They know it's me that the media is talking about every time there's mention of ‘the woman’ Damian had married and broken up with in the space of a few hours. A few very intense hours, during which time, he’d vowed to take care of me, to cherish me, protect me, to love me…

He loves me. He’d confessed that right before he’d walked out. And I know it’s true. That ass. My fingers tremble, as the sculpting needle slips from my hand, marking the surface of the likeness I’ve been working on. Argh! I can’t do anything right, can I? I slap the sculpting tool down on the work-surface, then glance around the space. I am in Damian’s apartment, surrounded by the memory of how he’d fucked me, working on his bust, and I think I am going to get over him here? Ha! Fat chance. I’ve set myself up for failure, as always. I cover the piece I am working on.

I head to the bathroom to wash my hands. Then grab my purse, and coat, change into my sneakers, and march out of the apartment. I leave the building and keep going. I need to simply get away from everything that reminds me of him… Need to move out as soon as possible. Need to… Forget how he kissed me, touched me, shared his secrets with me… Told me how he’d loved his daughter… Allowed me a glimpse of how he mourns for her.

Jesus, the man had taken the passing of his daughter to heart when he hadn’t been fully over being kidnapped as a child himself. Still, none of that forgives what he did to me. It doesn’t. So why the hell am I still thinking of him?

I stalk past the homeless man on the sidewalk who calls out to me. "Hello there, young lady."

"Hello," I mumble back.

"I have something for you."

"Not interested," I snap.

"I promise, it’s something you need to see."

"I promise it's not anything I need in my life right now."

"It’s from Damian."

"Eh." My feet skid on the pavement, I stumble forward, manage to steady myself, then turn around. "What did you say?"

"It’s Damian." He holds out his phone to me. "You should see this."

I stomp back, grab the phone—guess homeless people do own phones, right? I’m not being judgmental or anything—open my mouth to ask, but he tips his head to the screen. "Don’t miss it," he says.

I glance down, catch a glimpse of Damian on the feed of his social media account, huh? When did he reactivate that? He's in what I recognize as his greenhouse. I peer at the screen, taking in the shrubs, the flowers…the yellow daffodils that grow in profusion from the pots, the hanging urns, the trough in the background. It’s early in the year for them, so how did he manage to coax them to blossom from almost every available surface?

He stares into the screen and I swear it’s as if he’s glancing straight at me, into my eyes, my soul.

"This is for you, Riley." He strums his guitar, then begins to sing.