Page 5 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

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I stride down the front row to my seat. Fuck, it’s loud in here.

Fashion week isn’t normally my scene, but I come for Erica.

I’ve been so many times now that I’ve lost count.

I’m never entirely sure if she appreciates it or not because she scolds me every time.

But then she gives me that gorgeous smile—the one she never uses in public—and it feels like all is forgiven.

My knee knocks against a woman I recognise, but I can’t recall her name. She scowls, her gaze jerking up to me, but when I smile and whisper an apology, warmth fills her face, heat rising to her cheeks. “Oh, Seb.”

Shit.

I’ve slept with her, and I can’t remember her fucking name.

I inwardly cringe, hating myself. I don’t do it deliberately; I’m not that much of an arse.

It’s difficult for me to retain information about the women I sleep with; the things they tell me filter through my brain like rainwater through a sieve.

Sometimes, the sex is blurry too. It could be the fact that my nights out are fueled by alcohol and the occasional drug-taking, but I suspect it’s deeper than that, and I don’t want to dig because I’d probably uncover a black void of shame that would swallow me whole.

No, thanks. I’ll keep my shit buried.

On the plus side, I’m always honest that I’m not interested in anything serious.

I keep it casual and consensual, and everyone’s happy.

Sort of. Most of the time, afterwards, I’d prefer to rewind time and go home and fuck my fist instead, because there’s only one woman in the whole world I actually want.

Erica Lefroy .

Sadly, my feelings aren’t reciprocated. It’s painful, knowing she doesn’t care the way I do, but I’m prepared to numb it with an array of other women.

It’s not healthy, but I can’t quit because leaning into my playboy image invites fewer questions.

I can’t possibly be in love with my best friend if I’m sleeping with other people, can I?

Besides, Erica would prefer to focus on her career than anything else, and who am I to stand in the way of her goals?

I first saw her in a high street clothing catalogue the housekeeper accidentally left on my kitchen island seven years ago.

She was wearing a forty-quid beige jumper and jeans, and that was it.

Her image lodged itself deep into my psyche, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But it wasn’t just her face or her body—both of which are fucking fantastic and appeal to me on every level—it was her eyes.

There was something in them that resonated with me…

a sadness that jumped off the page. And all I could think was, how could someone so beautiful ever be sad?

It was a question I needed to know the answer to.

We didn’t meet in person until two years later, by which point, her career had taken off. The girl from the catalogue was world famous, and I would have knelt at her feet and kissed her toes if I didn’t know it would make me seem unforgivably odd.

Instead, I got blind drunk and tried to impress her. I must have succeeded to some degree because here we are, five years later. Friends .

“Good to see you again,” I say to the woman whose name I can’t remember, tilting my chin as I move past. I knock her other knee. “Sorry.”

“Of course,” she mutters, gazing up at me as though I’m entitled to barge past her. As though I could spank her six ways to Sunday and all she’d do would be smile and say ‘thank you’.

The adoration in her expression makes me feel fucking guilty. I need a sign around my neck— or my dick —that reads, ‘Emotionally unavailable. Proceed with caution’.

Her gaze lingers on me as I continue to my seat, but then another woman grabs my hand.

This one I do know the name of. Harriet… something . The daughter of one of those old aristocratic English families. Freckles on her nose and cheekbones, and hair the colour of straw.

“Seb, hi,” she whispers, her face lighting up.

I nod and smile— nod and smile— as I keep moving.

“Call me,” she mouths.

I add a wink to the smile because, why not ? She looks delighted by it, which goes some way to soothing the guilt I feel at not remembering her surname.

I catch sight of my brother, Nico, further down the row, leaning forward in his seat to watch my progress. He shakes his head, disapproval etched across his face. Shame slithers somewhere deep and uncomfortable, but I roll my eyes like his opinion is nothing but a minor inconvenience.

“How many women in this row have you fucked?” Nico hisses as I take my seat beside him. On his other side sits his fiancée, Kate.

The question riles me, but I don’t let it show. I tug on the lapels of my jacket and loosen my shoulders. “A gentleman never tells.”

Nico glares before flipping his phone from his pocket and flashing the screen at me. There’s a picture from last week of me stumbling from one of our clubs, Martini Gems, with a woman under each arm. I’m kissing one of them, gripping the other’s breast over her shoulder with my opposite hand.

“You look debauched,” Nico hisses. “Dad’s not happy.”

I wave a hand to dismiss the comment and lean back in my seat, affecting my most nonchalant posture for Nico’s benefit.

He can sit there all smug with his perfect fiancée, but we both know he wasn’t that much better than me a couple of years ago.

A bit more discreet, sure. I don’t think there are any photos like that of Nico in circulation.

He cares more about appearances than I do.

And he’d probably make the photos disappear if they existed anyway.

“I don’t give a fuck what Dad thinks,” I mutter. Nico side-eyes me and I know what that look means. It means, ‘Don’t be an idiot. We have to care what Dad thinks’. “And neither should you. You’re the CEO now.”

Nico’s expression hardens. “I might wear the crown, but we all know who’s on the throne. The board is in his pocket. He won’t give it up until he’s six feet under.”

“Old bastard should know when to step back,” I mutter.

Nico emits a dry laugh. “Ha. It would take an almighty scandal to dislodge him. But that’s hardly the point.

If you keep messing around, it fucks with business.

” He subtly points across the runway, where an older man is seated with a young blonde girl.

“That’s Antonio Marchetti. Dad’s trying to do a deal with him so we can build the mega hotel.

Whatever you think about Dad, we have a front to maintain, and it does not include being the dick who fucks anything that moves. ”

I’m not in the mood for being reprimanded, even if Antonio Marchetti is sitting right opposite us.

Dad’s been trying to win him over for access to that land for years, but honestly, I couldn’t give a shit about the plans for business expansion.

It’s not as if we don’t already have hotels all over the world.

But then, Dad is a greedy fucker. If he could own every hotel in the world, he would.

Amy Moritz, legendary pop star and one of Erica’s closest friends, leans around from Nico’s other side, giving me a view of her bright pink hair. “Thought you were going to miss it,” she hisses, saving me from responding to Nico.

“He’d never miss Erica,” Nico states without looking at us.

He’s focused on the runway, and there isn’t a hint of mockery in his voice.

He might not be teasing me right now, but I know he’s found my crush on Erica amusing for a long time.

I’ve always played it down, maintaining that I don’t feel anything special for her, because there’s nowhere it could go anyway, and I’m not about to let anyone in on the hopelessness of my situation.

We’re friends, and that’s it. But Nico thinks he knows me better than that, and, as much as I hate to admit it, he’d be right.

I just wish he wasn’t so condescending in his amusement.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that Erica doesn’t want me, because she would unwind me.

Take me apart, brick by brick. Not that I haven’t tried to let her do exactly that.

When we first struck up a friendship, I tried.

Really tried. She said no. And now, I joke about it, asking her out now and then, to prove I'm totally okay with rejection. If she ever said yes, I’d probably keel over and die from shock.

Apparently, my image doesn't work for the perfect English Rose. She outright rejected me with some marketing bullshit spiel about my ‘public persona’. I can still remember exactly how the conversation went down.

“We’re friends. Let’s not ruin that.”

“Who says it would ruin anything?”

“Seb. Please don’t push me on this. Aside from the fact I don’t want to date you, I could never do it because your reputation would damage my brand.”

“What reputation? I’m pretty eligible. Actually, I’m a fucking catch.”

“Sure. But not for me. You have that whole arrogant playboy thing going on, and it just doesn’t work with what I’ve built. Mum and I have carefully managed this brand for years. Erica Lefroy is elegance, sophistication, and purity. It’s not random sex on a Friday night with a hot dude in a suit.”

“Hot dude?”

“Yeah. You’re a hot dude in a suit who likes to party and have casual sex. We don’t match. I’m sorry. Let’s just be grateful for what we have.”

Cut and dry. Erica Lefroy was choosing her career over me. And maybe she was right to do so because she’s risen to become the most famous model in the world. Britain’s most lucrative export, after the Royal Family. She certainly had her eye on the prize, and it wasn’t me.

While rejection quietly devastated me, I was grateful for whatever she would give me.

Movie nights on the sofa. Drinks at parties.

She’s always the one I gravitate to in a room, and our social lives overlap a fair bit, so there’s been no shortage of opportunities to get to know each other.

She probably wouldn’t say the same, but Erica Lefroy is my favourite person in the whole damn world, even if she’s determined to control the circumstances of our every meeting to make sure her business doesn't take a hit. Fuck knows what will happen to me when she finds someone she actually wants to be with. I’m not sure I could handle becoming the third wheel in that relationship.

I’d probably have to step away entirely.

“Where were you?” Kate whispers, a worried expression on her face as she drags me from my somewhat unpleasant thoughts.

“Wishing Erica good luck,” I explain.

Kate shakes her head. “You’ll distract her.”

Amy, on the other side of Nico and Kate, pokes forward again. “Erica doesn’t get distracted.”

I roll my eyes. Don’t I know it.

Amy leans across and grabs my knee with a claw-like hand. Kate and Nico tilt back to give her access, amused expressions on their faces as they share a glance. “You’re so adorable,” Amy coos. “I wish I had a fan like you in my corner.” She scrunches her nose as she smiles at me.

I’m pretty sure they’re all laughing at me. Fuck it.

I settle in my seat as the models stream out; orderly, rhythmic, evenly spaced like aeroplanes lifting off the ground. Choreographed. There’s a predictability to it that pleases me.

When Erica appears at the end of the runway, my breath stalls somewhere between my lungs and my throat like it does every fucking time I see her.

She’s impossibly beautiful. More so in real life than in any static image.

Her face is everywhere now, on posters around the city, rotating on billboards at bus stops for whatever perfume she’s the face of.

Erica Lefroy . World famous for her perfect face, her cheekbones, her eyes…

all of which are seared into my mind. If our friendship ever went south, I’d be haunted by visions of her face.

She doesn’t even look my way. Not that I’d expect her to.

She’s a professional, her gaze fixed on the mid-distance.

She begins the walk, all toned legs, high heels, and shimmering tulle skirt, so short it’s barely there at all.

Everyone in the room is looking at her; the other models become completely inconsequential because Erica’s presence takes up every ounce of space.

She might think she’s channelling grace, elegance, and purity, but there’s a lot more going on.

Each step emanates feminine power as she strides down the runway in time to the music like some otherworldly beauty who’s deigned to visit the lowly humans, only to take up residence as their queen.

Erica Lefroy .

The one woman I can’t have, and the only one I truly want.