Page 72 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

I drag my fingers down her sides, tickling her, squeezing her. Her laughter rises in volume. "Stop." She gasps.

"Swear you’ll never do that to me again."

She slaps the arm of the sofa; tears run down her cheeks. "Swear. You win. Peace."

"Too late," I crow, tickling her under her armpits. She snorts, gasps, pushes at me. I duck, lose my seat on the sofa, and pitch over, onto the carpet. I lay there gasping, glance up at the ceiling. The skylight is open and light pours in.

She follows me down, throws herself next to me. "You are horrible."

"Says the Wicked Witch." I smirk, referring to our childhood nicknames for each other.

"All the better to eat you with." She makes a growling voice.

"Bet, that’s what Mr. Big Bad is saying about me, right now." The chuckle catches in my throat. It isn’t funny, not at all. I’d run out of the office yesterday at six pm on the dot, the official closing time for 7A Investments. I hadn’t spoken to anyone, just messaged Karma, and when she’d replied with the address she was at, I’d come here.

"Is he?" She tilts her head.

"Bad?" I trace the pink lighting up the edges of the clouds far above. "Yes.’

"And the other." She turns onto her front. "Is he?"

My cheeks redden. "None of your business."

"Aww. You’re blushing. So cute." She pats my cheek.

I shove it away. "Oh, get a life."

She coughs—on cue. Come on, don’t be uncharitable okay? She’s unwell. But her sharp thinking and general bitchiness makes up for what she lacks in the stamina department. Enough that sometimes I forget that she’s technically unwell. Then, of course, she pulls up her condition, and hell. I curl my fingers at my sides.

She coughs again, and her entire body shakes. "Jeez, thanks girlfriend, so blame me for living vicariously."

"Hardly, vicarious." I sniff. "Nothing happened."

"Something did."

"You mean other than what I already told you—?"

"About him proposing that you marry him, then invite our father who we’d presumed to be dead to attend the wedding, and plot his downfall—?" She counts it off on her fingers.

"Exactly." I drag my fingers though the carpet again. "By the way, this place is nice."

"Don’t change the topic." She surveys the sunny three-bedroom apartment. "It is, isn’t it? The car that brought me here was as nice."

"Oh?"

"The chauffeur helped me pack what I needed too. He drove me here, then told me I have an appointment with a specialist for tomorrow."

I wave my hand in the air. "And you agreed to... to all of this?"

"He had an official letter, all signed by Sinclair Sterling of 7A Investments, which is where you were going for an interview. He told me part of the deal is that you get company quarters."

Something he had neglected to tell me.

"And you believed him?"

"What’s not to believe?" She wrinkles her nose. "He seemed trustworthy, the signature on the note was legit. Besides, when I peeked out of the window and saw the Aston Martin..."

"You saw the car, and that was it, you forgot everything else."