Page 105 of Forbidden Billionaire
How the fuck did I let her destroy me?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Seraphina
Somewhere in my apartment, my phone buzzes with a text notification. I ignore the sound, just like I have for the last three days since Xavier’s eyes burned through me, his voice a blade. “Want to explain yourself?”
Three days since I ran from his office, the glass walls closing in, his lack of belief in me a physical weight crushing my ribs.
Text messages from Lila and Tasha have piled up, unread, their little notification bubbles a silent demand I can’t face.
Yesterday I sent them a group text. Not feeling happy hour this week. Sorry. Then I turned my phone facedown and ignored it.
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Xavier—or worse, Uncle Walt, with his smug sneer—to send a notice to vacate this apartment. It’s his, after all. A perk of the job I don’t have anymore.
I should be looking for a new place, a new job, anything to claw my way out of this hole. But I can’t. My laptop’s buried under a pile of unwashed laundry, and job boards feel like a taunt. Who’d hire a traitor? The headlines from three years ago scream in my head: AMBITIOUS INTERN BETRAYS BLACKWELL ENTERPRISES. Now they’ll add: OOPS! SHE DID IT AGAIN!
And truthfully, none of that hurts as bad as the way the memory of his face haunts me. The way his jaw tightened, the way his dark eyes—those eyes I’d stupidly thought saw me—flashed with anger, hurt, betrayal.
Walt’s words were a poison dart, and Xavier drank them down without a second thought. He didn’t give me a chance. Didn’t ask. Didn’t listen. That’s what breaks me most—the fact that he believed I’d sell him out.
I pull my knees to my chest, the wineglass on the table empty. My eyes burn, but I’m too hollow for tears. I’m not the girl who stood in his boardroom at twenty-two, fearless, pointing out his fake projections. I’m not the girl who knelt for him, who burned for his touch. I’m nothing now. Just a ghost in pajamas, drowning in the memory of his hands, his voice, his kiss.
The doorbell buzzes, sharp and jarring. I flinch. No one should be up here. After all, the building has a doorman to keep people away. Which means… Is this it? The eviction notice? I grab a blanket and freeze, as if that will make the intrusion go away.
Another buzz. Then pounding. “Sera! I know you’re in there!” Lila’s voice is fierce and impatient, cuts through the fog. God. I should have expected something like this.
“Open it,” Tasha demands. “Or we’re kicking it in. And I’m wearing new boots, so don’t tempt me.”
So that’s how they got in. Because of her work in real estate, she’s friendly with the doorman.
Groaning, afraid of bothering my neighbors, I shuffle across the hardwood in fuzzy socks and pajamas that should’ve been retired two emotional breakdowns ago. I haven’t showered since Tuesday. My hair’s in a sad, messy bun. The mascara smudges under my eyes are less sexy slept-in and more crime-scene aftermath.
I unlock the door and retreat without a word. The cavalry doesn’t wait for an invitation.
Lila pushes past me, a paper bag of Chinese takeout in one hand, a bottle of rosé in the other. Tasha follows, balancing a grocery bag stuffed with chocolate bars, including a box of fancy Belgian truffles that I love but never splurge on.
Their perfume and energy fill the stale air of my apartment, and I wince, suddenly aware of how pathetic I must look.
“Jesus, Sera.” Lila sets the bags on the coffee table. Her eyes sweep over me, softening but not pitying. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Thanks for that. Just what I needed.” My voice sounds rusty from disuse. I slump back onto the couch, pulling a throw blanket over my lap like armor.
Tasha sits beside me. “We brought provisions. Kung pao chicken, lo mein, egg rolls. And enough chocolate to drown in.”
“And wine,” Lila adds, already twisting the cork from the bottle.
She pulls out disposable cups from the bag and fills them. “Figured you wouldn’t be up for washing dishes.”
Or much of anything else.
I push back a stray lock of hair as she hands me a drink.
“You’re wallowing, and we’re joining you. No arguments.”
I accept the wine. “You know I don’t want to talk about any of this.”
“Too bad.” Lila drops onto the armchair across from me, kicking off her flats. “You don’t get to shut us out. Not after you bailed on happy hour.”
