Page 67 of The Mysterious Billionaire
She also rises, and her forehead creases as her brows draw together. “I wasn’t reporting back.”
“Sorry, explain how that wasn’t you reporting back?”
“Well, I suppose I was, but not in the way you’re thinking.”
“When did this happen?”
She meets my gaze evenly, and I can see her bristle a little. She doesn’t like being quizzed, but I think it’s understandable considering the circumstances.
“This morning,” she replies eventually, folding her arms, her shoulders hunching.
Her defensive posture makes me doubt myself. I’d literally just been thinking about how I trusted her when the text came through. She’s not going to openly criticize him because he’s her grandfather, but it is possible she’s as much a victim of his scheming as the rest of us.
“I thought my grandfather was asking how his granddaughter was doing,” she says. “That’s why I messaged back and said what I said to him.” She takes her phone out of her back pocket, brings up the text, and turns it to show me.
I don’t take the phone, but I do glance at the screen. Tom’s message saidHow’s the trip going, sweetheart? Everything okay? Making any inroads?It ends with a ‘Face with Stuck-out Tongue’ emoji that makes it sound as if he’s been cheeky.
Maddie’s reply says,He’s not sold on Verdant, but my soil restoration model impressed him. We’ve been talking about ways we could integrate it with his system. I think he’s coming around to the idea of us working together in some way. We’re having a good time, he’s a nice guy.
None of it is a lie. The model did impress me. We have been talking about whether we could integrate it with our system. I have been contemplating how we can work together. It’s not said in a way that implies she was communicating behind my back. It does just look like a girl replying to her grandfather.
But the movement of the deadline proves that he thinks I’m softening. And that must be due to the text. It feels like a betrayal, even if she didn’t mean it that way.
She lowers the phone and puts it on the table. “I know how it looks,” she says calmly. “It’s up to you, Caesar. You can choose to be angry and accuse me of doing all this”—she gestures around the cottage—“on purpose to encourage you to agree to the partnership. Or you can accept that I wouldn’t prostitute myself for my grandfather and our company, and believe that my feelings for you are genuine, and that my grandfather wouldn’t use his own granddaughter like that. It’s up to you.” She looks down, her jaw set.
My stomach’s in a knot, but as I look at her standing there, barefoot, her hair mussed from her snooze, I can’t bring myself to believe she’s not the ditzy, funny, gorgeous girl I’m already half in love with. Or maybe I just want it to be true. How do I tell the difference?
She genuinely doesn’t believe Tom would use her like this. Is she just being naïve? Or am I being too cynical? Is she an innocent party, or a willing participant in his Machiavellian scheme?
I close the distance between us, tuck a knuckle beneath her chin, and lift it, forcing her to look up.
“Tell me you’re not lying to me,” I say, my voice rough with emotion, looking into her violet eyes.
Her cheeks flush a bright red. But she keeps her eyes on mine.
“I had sex with you at the ball because I like you,” she states. “Because I wanted you. I still do. I’m not lying about that.”
I want to believe her so much, but it’s not a direct answer. I search her eyes for lies as if I’m looking for treasure in a dusty attic with a flashlight. I can’t shake a feeling in the pit of my stomach that there’s something she’s not telling me.
But she doesn’t look away. She keeps her gaze fixed on mine as she says, “If you want me to drive you back to the airport, I understand.” Her eyes look huge. “But I’d rather stay.”
My chest heaves. “I want to believe you. How can I be sure you’re not lying?”
“You can’t,” she says. “You have to trust me. I’m sorry.”
She’s right. We can never be sure of someone else’s feelings for us. We always have to take what they say in faith and trust our instincts.
I feel a wave of frustration. I’m tired of being manipulated. By my ex, by Tom, even by my father, who’s threatening to take the company away from me if I don’t do as he says. I feel impotent in so many ways. I want to take back control of my own life.
I should pack my things and demand Maddie take me back to the airport. The thought fills me with a deep, lonely ache, but what option do I have?
She lifts a hand and cups my face. “Caesar,” she says softly, my name a whisper on her lips. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“Why?”
“You lost your cynicism for a bit. And now it’s back.”
She brushes her thumb across my cheek, and I have to fight not to react to it. “For a moment,” I say, “I really thought we had something good here. I feel like an archaeologist who thought he glimpsed gold beneath the soil. But now I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
