Page 14 of Tempting the Billionaire (Billionaire Brothers #5)

Emma

Gripping my purse in my hand, I step out of the Uber in front of Ezra’s Beacon Hill townhouse.

I’d spent last night crying and therefore, this morning, trying to depuff my eyes.

The side of my face, just above my eyebrow is sporting a nasty, purple bruise from where Justin had slammed me into the wall.

I’d slathered it with concealer and had done a convincing job of hiding it. At least nobody at work had noticed.

I’d spent the day with a knot in my stomach that had lessened slightly when I’d gotten a text from Ezra asking me to come over to his place for dinner tonight.

Despite the stress of everything going on around me, the idea of seeing him sends a wave of calm over me.

Like, somehow, we could get through this together.

Even though, deep down, I know the only way out of this is through. Part of me wants to come clean, to tell him what’s been going on and simply let the cards fall as they may. But the image of that video Justin has looms over me.

My life would be absolutely ruined.

I walk up the steps to Ezra’s apartment and ring the doorbell. He buzzes me in, and I make my way up to the top floor like the last time I was here. When the elevator doors ding open and I see Ezra standing in his kitchen with a blue apron tied around his waist, the pit in my stomach vanishes.

A smile spreads across my face when his gaze meets mine.

“There’s my sunshine,” he says with a grin, placing a spatula on the counter and striding toward me to pull me against his chest. It’s so warm and comforting there, I feel like I might almost cry.

And that’s when it hits me.

I have to tell him.

The knot in my stomach is back, and Ezra turns away from me, back to the kitchen, unaware of my sudden shift in energy. I swallow, staring ahead. I don’t know how I thought I could get away with any of this. How any of this would have turned out alright .

But regardless of what happens with Justin and the video, I have to come clean. Ezra doesn’t deserve whatever Justin has up his sleeve. And I sure as hell won’t help him accomplish it. And it’s more than that.

After this last weekend …

Ezra is more to me than my hot boss. A fun time. He’s—

But I shake my head, afraid to put it to words. Because what if I tell him everything and he wants nothing to do with me? It’s definitely plausible.

“How was your day?” Ezra calls, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blink a few times, following him into the kitchen and forcing a smile on my face. “Good. Just normal work stuff.”

He nods, stirring what looks to be a pot of spaghetti noodles on the stove. He glances over his shoulder, staring at me for a long moment. “You okay?”

I nod, trying to keep up the happy facade. “Yeah, just tired.”

He leaves the stove, coming around the side of the counter to where I’m sitting on a stool. He leans down to press his lips against mine, kissing me softly. I lean into him, my eyes fluttering closed. After a long moment, he pulls back, looking down at me with a grin .

But then slowly, his brow furrows, and his gaze leaves mine. “What is this?” he asks, reaching out a hand to my cheek.

My eyes widen. I glance sideways to the mirror on the wall across from me. Fuck. The makeup I’d meticulously doused my face in this morning as worn off slightly, showing just enough purple to look strange.

Ezra licks his thumb, reaching out to swipe it across my cheekbone. His eyes widen, and I can only assume that the bruise is now perfectly visible. Probably even darker than it was this morning.

His mouth opens in shock. “Is this from this weekend? Did I …” Horror washes over his features, and he reaches out to gently cup my face. “Jesus, Emma .”

While we’d done a few rough things in bed, it definitely wasn’t rough enough to leave any bruises. I shake my head, opening my mouth.

“Christ,” he says, cradling my head as if it’s so fragile it could break, his expression one of pure and absolute remorse.

“No, no!” I cry, reaching up to place my hand over his. “It wasn’t you,” I tell him, feeling a soft lump rising in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it’s stubborn. “I—” I begin, but I choke on my words .

Ezra’s horrified expression turns to one of concern, and he crouches before me. “What happened?” he asks.

I bite my lip, unable to stop the flow of tears. “It … I—I have something to tell you,” I choke out.

He waits patiently, his forehead creased in concern.

I try to meet his gaze but find that I’m too ashamed to. “My ex, the one I told you about—”

“ He did this?” Ezra asks, his jaw tightening.

I nod, feeling more tears fall from my eyes.

“He came over to my apartment because—because …” I stutter.

“His parents jewelry business was shut down, he blames it on Bishop Jewelers, and he wanted to get back at you—lash out. He told me to seduce you, that it would ruin your reputation. And I agreed because …” I take in a shaky breath.

“He has videos of me—of us, doing …” A sob escapes my throat.

“He threatened to leak the videos everywhere if I didn’t do what he said. ”

Ezra straightens slowly, his hands leaving me and falling to his sides.

I stare up at him. While his eyebrows are still scrunched in concern, there’s a new emotion there.

Disappointment, sadness, hurt. At me . I almost want him to be angry.

To yell at me, to be furious. His anger would be easier to take than this.

Than this devastation I see in his eyes .

“I’m so sorry, Ezra,” I cry, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you, but I couldn’t let him share those videos—I just couldn’t. And as we got to know each other, my feelings were real—they are real.”

He looks away, unable to meet my gaze. I reach for him, but he holds up a hand, stopping me. “It’s fine,” he says, but it’s short, and it cuts me to the bone.

I swallow, trying to compose myself.

He looks back at me, staring me down for a long moment. “What’s his name?” he asks me.

“Justin?”

“His full name,” he clarifies, his expression hard.

“Justin Stoll,” I say quietly.

He nods. “Where does he live?”

I frown. “Why?”

“Where does he live, Emma?” he asks me, his voice dangerously low.

I swallow, hastily mumbling his address.

He turns, pulling off the apron he’s wearing and tossing it on the counter. He grabs his wallet from the entryway table, stuffing it into his pocket.

I get up. “What are you doing? ”

He doesn’t answer me, simply kneels down to hurriedly slide on his shoes. He stands, giving me one last, hard stare. “It’d probably be best if you weren’t here when I get back,” he says quietly, and it just about breaks my heart.

And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves the apartment.