Page 1 of My Ex’s Dad (Scandalous Billionaires #1)

Chapter one

Amalphia

“ I have to tell you something.”

Reginald is twenty-two years old, and it’s these moments that often remind me why women don’t usually end up dating men younger than them. We were never supposed to be anything more than a one-night stand. It was my fault for wanting more. The moral of this story?

It’s not that you shouldn’t have emotions. Emotions are great. I believe in healthy, reciprocal relationships. My parents have one, and their love is lovely. I’m not one of those women who doesn’t believe that it’s possible.

The lesson here is that one should never confuse good sex with emotions.

That night with Reg was the first time in my life that bedroom play had ever been above the subpar line. I got addicted to the unpredictable, fun side of him.

Lesson number two? Wait.

I thought four months was long enough after breaking up with my ex.

To him, the world and everything in it was sad and bad.

He was constantly a downer, and what did I think?

Classic mistake. I thought I could fix him or at least help him to see that life could be beautiful and fun and happy, but you know how it goes.

You don’t pull the other person up. You end up on the bottom, dragged down.

When I met Reginald at a book club one of my friends dragged me to in order to help me “reconnect with the finer sides of life,” I was immediately struck by how fun he was. He seemed like a miracle in comparison. The way he saw the world was so refreshing.

Six months later, I realized fun-loving meant never being able to take anything seriously. His immaturity had already started to show, but by then, he’d already insisted that we move in together.

That good sex I was so addicted to?

I guess there’s this curve of newness, and then everything else is straight downhill after.

“Amalphia. I. Have. To. Tell. You. Something.”

“You’re in trouble.” I know because he’s got that look. The sad, scolded, kicked puppy expression that says nothing in the world is ever his fault.

He’s also doing this thing with his hands, raising them up all funny. They’re shaking like he’s doing some parody of an even stranger dance. His left ear also wiggles when he’s got extremely bad news.

I might sigh in order to feign calmness so I don’t cause extra hysterics, but on the inside, I’m starting to sweat. If internal sweat is even possible, it sucks. It’s a lot like what I imagine having to wear a full-body suit made of that pink, itchy insulation would feel like.

“Okay. Just tell me. All of it. All at once.”

“I can’t. It will break you. You’ll get mad.”

I close my eyes and do my meditative breathing. The one bonus of this relationship? I’ve learned how to approach a fight without things devolving into Reg running scared. Playing the blame game doesn’t work with him. He’s a master at turning things around and making everything my fault.

I can tell from his face that this is bad, and you know what?

I’m sickeningly relieved. For months, I’ve been trying to find the right words for a breakup without sending him into a horrible spiral.

I didn’t want to be the one to ruin someone else’s life.

The monster heartbreaker. I was waiting for him to discover for himself all the ways this wasn’t working out. I thought I might be waiting forever.

“I…I cheated on you.”

“Excuse me?” I physically reel back. Two steps.

I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m shocked at how dead I feel on the inside. Deader than a damn doornail, whatever that actually means. I think it might have to do with medieval carpentry.

The cheating thing is about as relevant to me as that doornail is to today’s world. I keep expecting it to sink in and hurt, but the only thing I feel is a rush of paranoia about having to get tested.

“When?” I choke.

“Uh, when what?”

“When did you cheat?”

“Last night.”

“On your work trip? No, wait. Let me guess. There was no work trip.”

His eyes widen in a way that says, “Oh, shit, I’ve been discovered. How on earth did you ever guess?” His mouth gapes open like a baby bird waiting for a juicy worm from his mother.

Ugh, his mother. She’s another reason I’ll be so happy to end this relationship. I’ve never met a more self-centered person. Err, well, Reg might be in close competition. I learned quite a while ago that his outgoing personality masks a wealth of insecurities and emotional deficiencies.

Grow up? I’m not sure he ever will. His mom certainly hasn’t, and if he’s taking his cues from her, I’m not holding my damn breath.

She’s the only human being on this planet who would cry over someone else getting a cold and looking like hell because it’s just “all so terribly awful.” Typically, other women are more understanding about the time of the month issues, but leave it to Candice to actually ask me, not once, not twice, but seven times , if I needed advice about waist trainers because I was looking bloated.

She’s spent the entire time I’ve known her dropping hints about plastic surgeons.

Literally. After the first time Reg took me to her house for dinner, I found a brochure in my purse with rhinoplasty options circled in red. Several. Aggressive. Circles.

“Well, thank god I don’t have to get tested.”

His face is doing that face thing again. His hands go from pulsing in some weird strobe mode to full-on flappy chicken arms.

“Are you kidding me?” Normally, I’d moderate the decibel level of my screech, but fuck that. “How many times?”

“I…it might have been err…well…from the start?”

I blink. “What?!” I stomp toward him like a fire-breathing dragon, only that it’s a shitty apartment I’m defending and not a pile of gold. Never mind. This is totally an issue of honor. That’s what I’m fire-breathing about. “You what ?!”

Reg whips his phone out of the back pocket of his baggy jeans. The ping as he starts recording a video is loud in the sudden silence. “I’m recording.” Captain Fucking Obvious over here. “Chill, Malfie. If you attack me, there will be evidence. I’ll press charges.”

“Mmm.” Rich. What did I expect when I dated a thoroughly self-absorbed content creator?

“I…I have something else I have to tell you.”

“Fascinating.” I hold out my nails for inspection like all my fucks have been used up, but now I’m just bored. Honestly, most of them have been used up.

Except for this one. This one is of the last shredded nerve variety.

All this time. All this time, he’s been double dipping. You’d be lucky if it were double, my brain tells me. Triple? How many? How many and how many times and—

I can’t go there. Meltdowns are for later.

Right now, I have to hold it together. He wants to record this?

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of me pulling out a full Karen on his ass.

I can act when I have to. I’m probably shit at it in reality, but I can control myself, and control myself, I freaking will.

“I wasn’t at a work thing this weekend.”

“That’s not news, Reg. You just told me that. You were banging some chick who wasn’t your girlfriend. Congrats on being a total manwhore. I expect you’ll have your things moved out in the next few hours. Please and thank you.”

The phone wobbles in his hand so violently that there’s no way the video is going to come out as anything but a blur.

“I went to this underground fight thing. There might have been some gambling, and I might have made some bets I couldn’t cover.

I…I’m sorry, but I withdrew some money from your account.

Transferred it, I mean. I might have borrowed a little bit from your parents and your grandma too. ”

My jaw unhinges painfully. I’m so floored that I’m giving the carpet a run for its money. I was wrong about the meltdown happening later. It’s coming out now. Full stop. Ten seconds, and I’m going to go full werewolf on this guy’s irresponsible ass.

I lunge for his phone and grab it from his hands. His palms are so slick that it practically slides right out like it’s been greased. I hold it up, pointing it right at him.

“My what? My…my parents? My grandma? How the…what…how did you do that? What are you even talking about? Go on. Tell me. Tell this video here how you committed a crime.”

I force myself to calm down. He has to be joking . There’s no way he can get money out of my account or anyone else’s accounts. Not without being some kind of hacker or…

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Not without knowing my bank info.

He doesn’t . He can’t . I’ve never shared that with him.

I change my passwords regularly, and so do my parents.

This has to be for his video. Maybe everything he’s saying is false, and he’s just trying to get a reaction on film.

I wouldn’t put it past him. Most videos are faked, but Reg takes the shallow, farcical content to an entirely new level.

But then, why isn’t he moving to snatch his phone back from me? Why is he shaking like a wet, giant, boneless noodle?

“The money I took wasn’t enough to cover even half of what I owed. I told those guys that you were rich. They let me go, but they’ll be coming for you.”

I can’t even speak. He can’t be serious. This can’t be a thing.

I keep waiting for the smile and the gotcha foot to drop.

But he’s not cracking anything, not so much as a lip twitch. His phone isn’t even directed at me. The screen is facing the floor.

Okaaaaayyyyyyyy, so maybe he is worried I’m going to snap and commit a first-rate felony on his ass.

I realize that before now, I had never understood the comedy of errors saying. I’ve never known anything so bad that it could be considered funny. This isn’t. No one’s laughing, but I’m going to have to because what else is there to do at this point?

“You…you…there aren’t even words for you right now,” I rasp.

“At least I’m not named after an eighties cartoon character.”

“Your name is Reginald!”

“That’s a legit name!”