Page 10 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

ERICA

T he door closes, and I sit in a stupor for a second, hoping against hope that Seb will come back. Any second now, he’ll knock on the door and walk in again.

The longer I sit there, the clearer it becomes that he isn’t coming back. He’s gone to the hotel. To the woman with the naked photos. I pushed him out. I sent him straight into her arms.

Good riddance. How dare he come and sit on my sofa and pretend to give a shit about me, when he’s half hard because of some woman in a hotel room?

But I can’t convince myself I actually feel angry when I don’t. I’m devastated that he couldn’t have concentrated on me for one evening. That I couldn’t have been enough for him, just this once.

But I’ll never be enough for Seb Hawkston. Not when he has women throwing themselves at him like that, and he’s not shy about taking them up on what they offer. And me? What can I offer? If he got his dick out, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

A horrible urge to cry cramps my throat and it has nothing to do with the ache of my sprained ankle.

I pull out my phone and put his name into the search bar.

It’s a stupid thing to do, and yet I can’t stop.

Picture after picture comes up of him with different women.

Sometimes two of them, sometimes three. A gaggle.

And he always looks so happy… like he hasn’t a care in the world.

That handsome smile and his little dimple…

The ache in my chest increases, and my breathing hitches.

I type in Erica Lefroy and Sebastian Hawkston, and a bunch of pictures of him carrying me down the runway pop up.

I quickly scroll past them, but what remains is sparse.

There are hardly any pictures of us together.

Of course there aren’t, because I made sure there weren’t.

When we hang out, it’s in private. At his place.

At mine. Seb Hawkston, lothario, Casanova, ultimate player, does not look good with Erica Lefroy, and I tend to my reputation so carefully.

If he knew how deliberately I avoid being seen with him, I’m sure he’d be devastated.

Sure, we meet at parties and public events, but when it’s just the two of us, I’ve always made sure it’s private. I had to, to keep my mother off my back. I’d rather spend my time with Seb than anyone else, but now, looking at him and all the women, I know I was right to do it.

Erica Lefroy, the UK’s top model and soon-to-be movie star, is not one of those women.

She could never be one of them, casually hanging out with Seb Hawkston, his arm slung around her shoulders, laughing as they leave a club together.

She doesn’t do that . And she certainly doesn’t get romantically involved with men like Seb Hawkston.

But she is me, and I am her.

So why the hell do I feel like I want to wrap my hands about her neck and throttle her until she dies?

I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. Crap . I have actual tears. Maybe it’s the disastrous fashion show. The ankle. Dominic being so disappointed in me.

It’s all too much.

But it’s okay. My ankle will heal and I can make this right with Seb. If he’s off having sex, which he almost always is, then that’s his business. It shouldn’t bother me. I’m not that judgmental. Am I?

Why are you saying that like it’s disgusting? Like me having sex is disgusting?

Argh. He was right. I said it with utter disdain. I don’t even know why I sounded that way. Is it because I don’t want him to be out sleeping with people? Or maybe it’s just that I feel so trapped by this whole persona I’ve created that I don’t even know how I feel versus how Erica Lefroy feels?

I smash my hand into the cushion next to me, letting out a strained, frustrated sound that ravages my throat. At this rate, I’m going to splinter my soul into pieces that I’ll never be able to put back together again.

Maybe I should call him. Tell him I’m sorry. I scroll to his number, letting my finger hover over his name.

He’s probably there by now. At the hotel. In her room. Touching her. Kissing her… getting undressed…

Fucking her.

A distressed whine leaks from my lips. I can’t call him. What would I say?

Agony tears through me, and I curl over my chest, clutching my phone. This is my fault. I’d rather stay here with you . He said as much and I still forced him out.

If he spends the night with her, it’ll be because I all but gave him my blessing.

Regret doesn’t even begin to cover it. I feel so pathetic, sitting here alone in my tracksuit, ankle throbbing.

I try to remind myself of Erica Lefroy and all she’s achieved.

Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful. My dreams have come true one by one, toppling like dominoes as Mum and I ticked them off the list. Be grateful.

But I don’t feel grateful. I feel trapped.

My phone buzzes, and my heart shoots against my ribs like it’s on a G-force rollercoaster. It’s him. It’s going to be okay.

But my leaping heart crash lands when I see a message from Amy flash on the screen.

Amy: You okay? I’d come and check on you myself, but I’m flying back to the States tonight.

Me: I’m okay. Thanks.

Amy: Saw Seb rescue you. That man is sex on legs. And he clearly adores you. Tell me again why you aren’t screwing his brains out already? I bet he’d know just how to give a lady a good time.

My gut ties itself in knots at the sight of his name on my screen. I can’t escape him. And in this context? The worst. Because she’s right. He would know. He’s probably doing it right now.

Amy: My advice? Bang him bang him bang him. ASAP.

I let out a groan. I wish she wouldn’t talk like this, especially seeing as now I know he’s been in the same room with her while she’s been banging someone else.

She’s always been more sexually free than me, and she’s fascinated by the fact I’m not out there having sex.

She lost her virginity on a one night stand when she was drunk at a party ten years ago.

Fifteen . So young. I can’t judge her though.

I very nearly did exactly the same. The only reason it didn’t happen was because the guy didn’t have a condom, and he cared more about himself than I did about me.

I’d have let him fuck me bare my first time and hardly have remembered it.

I don’t think I even knew his name. I didn’t give a fuck about anything apart from escaping Mum’s strict rules.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed at home, stinking of booze, makeup smeared down my face, suffering the hangover from hell, all of which were made a million times worse by the fact that Mum was sitting on the end of the bed, watching me.

And boy, was she furious that I’d snuck out.

Even back then, she was adamant that any action I took could come back to bite me on the arse when I got famous, which was absolutely, definitely , going to happen.

Erica Lefroy was a brand before anyone ever knew her name.

After that night, Mum controlled every aspect of my life, including who I dated, with an even firmer grip.

Me: He’s my friend. Friends don’t do that.

Typing the words and sending the message makes me ache, and I don’t know why, but Amy’s response only makes it worse.

Amy: Friends could do that.

Me: Not me.

She sends a succession of laughing-so-hard-they’re-crying face emojis.

Amy: Of course not you. ROFL. Ice Queen. It’s probably best you don’t, because if you did the deed, your mum would crawl in there and sew your hymen back together.

Me: That’s disgusting.

Amy: You know it’s true.

Me: It’s not.

Amy: It is. Erica Lefroy doesn’t have sex. No man is worthy of such perfection. Mummy’s guarding the entrance.

I scrape a hand over my forehead. This Ice Queen nickname has been haunting me in the press lately. It’s like the whole purity thing went too far, and rather than pure and chaste, they think I’m aloof and frosty. I might need to take action if it’s spread so far that even Amy is using it.

I sit there staring at my phone for a few minutes before another message pings in.

Amy: You there? I’m kidding. Chill out. But I do think sex would be good for you. Loosen you up a bit. MELT YOU! Hahahaha.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She thinks she’s so damn funny. It’s annoying, but I smile anyway because I love her. I still don’t know how to respond though.

Amy: Are you angry with me?

Me: No. But you’re a pain in the arse.

Amy. *Blowing-kiss-emoji* Love you.

I’m about to respond in kind when the sound of keys click in the lock of my front door. And there is only one other person who has keys to my apartment.

Shit .