Page 144 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

What? Am I supposed to be grateful or something?I purse my lips. Bring the note to my nose and sniff. Bergamot and leather… and a whiff of something intangible I label as testosterone. I chafe my thighs together. Place the note aside. Brush my teeth, shower in record time. When I return to the bedroom, I spot the dress he’s laid out for me.

I slip it on, survey myself in the mirror. It has a long flowing skirt and the blouse fits me so closely, I have to wonder. Did he have it tailored to my specifications? Does he know my measurements that well?

He knows my body more intimately than anyone else ever has. I fondle the soft material. The skirt is a dark red. How did he guess that it’s the color that sets off my coloring best? My pink hair flows around my shoulders, the blonde highlights in it seem lustrous, and my skin is a pearly effervescence against the fabric.

Once again, he’s unerringly figured out what is right for me. Does he always know what is best? Am I beginning to harbor some kind of secret crush on him, where I am beginning to acquiesce to his every single demand? No. I drag the brush through my hair, drop it on the table. I won’t wear any make up. After all, I’m not dressing for anyone. Besides, I don’t want to use any of the cosmetics he bought for me. The dress? Well, that is different. I have to wear something—though left to the alphahole, I bet he’d prefer me to go naked.

Don’t second guess me, Bird.

I scrutinize the room. The mussed-up bed where we’d spent the night, the table and chair at the far end, the comfortable-looking settee on one side of the fireplace. The furnishings are luxurious, but otherwise there is a sparseness to it that hints at... what?

Something more complex about the man than I ‘ve been giving him credit for?

Nothing to think about here. Nothing to unearth. He is a greedy, narcissistic,pompous prick, who thinks about one thing—himself. And how to amass more money. See? Puzzle resolved.

I slide on the ballet flats—made of the softest leather I’ve ever worn— then pivot and walk down the stairs. Walk into the kitchen and find a covered tray, with a note.

"Eat it all."

I stiffen. I should ignore the food, turn away, leave, right now, before this entire farce of a relationship backfires on me and I begin to harbor feelings for him. Too late. I feel something… already. Hate, yeah, that’s all it is.

I uncover the tray to find a massive sandwich. A plate of fruit, crisps. There’s another note stuck to the side of the plate.

"It’s gluten free. You’re welcome."

How did he know I am allergic to gluten? I’ve never mentioned it to him, and managed to ignore any food that could have traces of it so far.

Of course, he had to go and spoil it all with that know-it-all tone.

I crumple the note, fling it away,

The kettle clicks on. What the—? I hear the water boil. Did he set it on a timer? Some kind of sensing device that picks up when I’m in the room? I blow out a breath.

I walk to the kettle as it switches off. Make myself a cup of tea, and seat myself at the table. I’ve just finished the sandwich when the doorbell rings.

My heart begins to thud. Is he back? Did he decide he is going to work from home today? Better still, does he want to spend it with me? I am halfway across the floor, before I slow down. By the time I reach the front hallway, there’s a banging on the door. I fling it open.

Familiar features peer down at me.

"You?"

"Hello, Summer."

I glare at the man who is my father.

The bastard who’d abandoned me and my sister when we’d needed him the most. He’d never looked back, until he’d sensed the first whiff of a possible business gain, and then he’d come running. The asshole would sacrifice his family for money—oh, wait, he already had.

There’s a light roll of thunder in the distance—as if it is asking for permission. That’s British weather for you, just like our vocabulary. Apparently, we use the word ‘sorry’ more than any other country—up to 8 times a day. Yeah, sorry—not sorry. I frown, "I don’t want you here."

"Can I come in?"

It begins to drizzle outside, some of the drops blowing in to bead on his shoulder.

"Do I have a choice?" I jut out my chin.

"That’s my girl. Still got a spine, huh?"

"No thanks to you, and don’t call me your girl."