The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  “You can’t do this to me!” she screams, apparently oblivious to Declan’s mood.

  Is this another ex-girlfriend? How come her security code still works?

  “Who is that?” I ask. God, I love watching real-life drama. Now I wish I had a tub of popcorn.

  “My…sister, Ella,” he grinds out.

  “That’s your sister…?” Wow. I thought any sibling of his would be absolutely gorgeous. Maybe God ran out of gorgeousness after he got done with Declan. Besides, she isn’t outright ugly. It’s more like a complete lack of any sort of attractiveness.

  The frothing at the mouth doesn’t help. Maybe God also ran out of “normal and sane people” genes, too.

  “Half-sister,” Declan says.

  Oh. I think half means they have the same father. Or is it the same mother? I can’t remember. Regardless, nobody would believe they’re even half related. “So how did she get in?”

  “I climbed over the wall! This is important!” she yells.

  “Isn’t that illegal, no matter how important ‘this’ is? What’s she really doing here?” I ask Declan.

  “Stop talking to me, bitch!” She speaks like she’s the one who owns the mansion, jabbing her finger at me.

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I thought that was super clear.”

  “It was,” Declan says with a sigh that tells me he’s torn between murder and screaming. But there’s also a hint of amusement.

  Regardless, I hope he opts for screaming. Murder is complicated, even with the best attorneys. I don’t think I can be his alibi, either, because Hae Min’s lawyers will be pissed if I perjure myself. Plus, Declan doesn’t pay me enough for perjury.

  “Who the hell are you to talk back to me?” Ella screams, apparently focused on me for some reason.

  “My name is Yuna, and I’m Declan’s assistant.”

  I glance at the latte in my hand. I could throw it at her—coffee stains are a bitch to get out. But Ella’s Versace is from a collection that debuted three years ago. It’d just give her an excuse to update her wardrobe.

  “Do you know who I am?” Ella says.

  “I do now.” I wouldn’t want her to think she wasn’t special and start crying. Crying crazy women are harder to deal with than frothing crazy women.

  “Are you Declan’s latest skank?”

  “What is it with the people around here? I don’t think this Dior radiates skank vibes. It’s a classy piece from the latest collection.”

  Ella takes a better look at my clothes, then swings her attention to Declan. “I cannot believe you bought that dress for her but can’t spare a little bit of money for my wedding!”

  “He didn’t buy it. I did,” I say, but I don’t think she hears me from the way she’s breathing. It’s like she’s just climbed Mount Everest in heels. Mr. Choi, when I’m back in Korea, I’m going to give you a pay raise.

  “You bitch!” Her face mottled with anger, Ella rushes at us. Which isn’t easy to do in high heels and a tight skirt.

  Declan spreads his arms like a wall, standing between me and her, while I watch in lurid fascination.

  Ella runs right into him, and ends up bouncing off and sprawling on the ground. Why didn’t she slow down or stop? Did she think Declan would blink and move out of the way? I mean, that would’ve been hilarious, too…as long as I moved with him. Because she would’ve slammed right into a heavy potted palm and probably knocked herself out.

  Man, this is like American football! Except you do it in a mansion and in nicer clothes.

  I clench my teeth to try to contain my laughter. But a small giggle escapes anyway.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Ella starts to push herself up, then changes her mind and lunges on all fours. Her hand slashes out, and then she starts wailing. “My nails!”

  I feel a stinging sensation on the side of my ankle. Ow. I take a few steps back. It better not get infected! Actually, forget infection. It’s a minor thing. But if there’s a scar? Ugh. I’ll nail her face to the wall with my stiletto.

  “Stop hiding behind him and face me!”

  “Just stop,” Declan yells.

  “No,” I say almost at the same time. “I don’t face mad dogs on my own.”

  “Mad dogs?” Ella says.

  “Mad, rabid, whatever,” I clarify in case she’s dimwitted. “You’re literally drooling.”

  “I deserve more money for my wedding!” Ella wails. “I need the dress of my dreams!”

  “Why the hell would I pay for your dress when I don’t even plan to attend the ceremony?” Declan says.

  He isn’t going to his sister’s wedding? Granted, she’s a half-sister, and she’s embarrassing, but I’m sure some sedatives will help control the excesses. In Korea, you would only fail to attend a sibling’s wedding if the other person was dead to you. And based on the tight set of Declan’s shoulders and his flinty voice, it looks like Ella’s deader than an ancient Egyptian mummy.

  Ella’s face turns red, then white, then back to red. “Because… Because if you don’t, I’m going to sue this bitch!” She points at me. “She broke my nails!”

  Is she serious? “You broke your nails scratching my leg. And I’m going to have you charged with assault,” I say with all the contempt I can muster. Eugene might have taken Ms. Kim and Mr. Choi away from me and frozen my account, but if Mom and Dad hear about the attack, somebody’s head will roll. Definitely Ella’s and maybe Eugene’s as well.

  “What?” Declan immediately turns to me. “Are you all right?”

  “Not particularly.” The lawyers at the Hae Min Group trained me well over the years. Always overstate the damage. “She attacked me viciously enough to break her own nails off. Look at her frothing.”

  “Get the fuck out. Now.” Declan’s voice is as hard as iron as he grabs one of her arms and drags her toward the gates like trash about to be tossed into a Dumpster. “I’m calling the police and filing reports for trespassing and assault.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Declan

  After tossing Ella out, I return to my place, extremely pissed off.

  I didn’t know how Yuna would react to Jessica, but was relieved when she handled herself so well. It was the same when Ella showed up. Actually, I marveled at the way Yuna pushed all the right buttons to drive my half-sister insane. She should be writing a screenplay, not Benedict. Hers would be fun, snappy and hilarious.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with Ella or anybody assaulting Yuna physically. Fuck. I should’ve thrown that bitch into a pit of vipers.

  Yuna’s seated on a couch and sipping her coffee, her legs out. “Hey, you’re back. All good now?”

  “She’s gone.” I crouch in front of her and examine her legs for wounds. Whatever Ella did must have been pretty vicious if she broke her nails. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Here.” Yuna twists her left leg.

  A red gash runs about an inch or so above her ankle, across otherwise flawless skin. The sight of it further stokes my temper. Ella isn’t fit to touch Yuna, much less put a mark on her.

  Yuna looks down at it. “It’s not that bad.”

  “You made it sound like she took a cheese grater to you.”

  “All just part of the drama.”

  She’s studying her ankle like she’s observing something that happened to somebody else. I don’t know how she can be so clinical about it. Any of my exes would’ve been hysterical. And Yuna’s had a far more sheltered and privileged life than they have.

  I take a closer look. One or two tiny beads of blood have appeared along the red line. “She did break the skin.” And the fact that Ella did that makes me want to go after her and… Well, physical violence isn’t really an option. I’ll have to find something else.

  Yuna shrugs. “As long as it doesn’t scar… I don’t think it will, do you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Her being so blasé about it makes me feel worse. Yuna doesn’t strike me as the type who got into fights gro
wing up. Not that she’s some delicate flower who can’t survive outside the greenhouse, but it’s obvious from her demeanor and background that she grew up away from the rougher side of life.

  I go to the medicine cabinet in the closest bathroom and take out the small first-aid kit I keep there. Then I lift her calf up, placing her foot on my knee, and apply antibacterial ointment to the gash. She inhales slightly, and I scowl with a fresh wave of anger at my worthless sister.

  There are foods that give dogs amazing diarrhea. Cheese is good. I could probably rent a hundred Great Danes and release them on the beach where she’s planning to have her wedding the night before the ceremony…

  Yuna inhales again. “Stings a little.”

  “Sorry. Almost done.”

  Ella should be thrown into a dungeon for a decade for the capital crime of marring Yuna’s skin. A sudden urge to kiss along the red line grips me. Like somehow kissing her leg will make it better, although I’m not sure if it’s me or her I’m trying to comfort. Or maybe I just want to put my lips on her, to feel that soft smoothness under them…

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to throw this at your sister,” she says, holding up the coffee, as I place a Band-Aid over the wound.

  I glance up. “You should have. Right in her face.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. It’s the least she deserves. In fact, as your new boss, I order you to throw a cup of coffee in her face if you ever see her again.” The image of her covered in brown fluid pops into my head, making me feel a hundred times happier. “It’ll serve her right.”

  “Wow. You really don’t like her, do you?”

  I shrug. “Why should I?”

  “Because…she’s your sister? Unless she tried to steal the love of your life or something. Then I totally understand.”

  “You don’t understand. But here, I’ll show you.”

  I pull the video up on my phone and flip it around so it faces her. The video starts, showing a suburban street at night. A car is stopped at the curb. The door opens, and a small dog is tossed out onto the pavement. It turns and immediately tries to jump back into the car. It almost makes it. One hind paw bicycles in the air as the dog tries to pull itself up onto the car seat. A woman leans out of the car, pushing the dog back onto the asphalt and making a shooing motion. I freeze the video—the woman is clearly Ella.

  Yuna puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God…”

  I start the video again. This time, the dog—you can see that it’s a Pomeranian—has been pushed far enough that Ella has time to shut the car door. She drives off. The puppy gives chase for a few yards but then gives up. It stares after the car as a woman’s voice near the camera says, “Can you believe that? Some bitch just abandoned her dog out here at three a.m.!”

  I stop the video.

  Yuna’s mouth is hanging open—the same reaction I had when I first saw it. “How did you find out about this?”

  “The video went viral, and whoever filmed it got Ella’s license plate. So she got doxed, and I heard about that.”

  “Why on earth did she throw that poor dog away?”

  “Because it was just too much work to take care of. As embarrassing and terrible as the story is, I figured it’s best you know who you’re dealing with.”

  Yuna’s eyes are wide. “Wow…” She drags the word out, as though she’s trying to give herself time to process. “Now I wish I had thrown the coffee.”

  “There’s always next time.” Although hopefully there won’t be. My lawyers should keep Ella occupied. Chantel’s going to be upset, which I don’t like, but I’m not going to go soft on Ella. If I do, she’ll get even more out of control.

  “Oh, trust me. I will,” Yuna says, looking at the cup she’s holding. Then her gaze slides beyond me, and she perks up. “Wanna have some cookies? Nothing like a little sugar to clean a bad taste out of your mouth.”

  Not really, but I can’t say no to such a hopeful face. “Sure. Just one.” I’ll eat maybe half. And run an extra mile tomorrow.

  I realize I’m still crouching with her foot on my knee. The position isn’t particularly comfortable, but I don’t want to move, because that would mean I’d have to put her foot down…

  But she wants me to pick a cookie, and I can’t stay here forever. So I gently lower her foot to the floor, get up and bring the package over. It’s an assortment of organic cookies and must be Benedict’s, since I don’t eat these. Only three left—one sugar, one chocolate chip and one oatmeal raisin, which is disgusting. I’ll have him expense a new bag when he comes back.

  I sit down next to her, close enough to feel the warmth from her soft, feminine body.

  “Take your pick,” Yuna says, gesturing at the cookies.

  “Ladies first.”

  “No, no. You’re the boss.”

  Her mouth is set in a stubborn line. And she gave in about the door. I start to reach for the chocolate chip, then stop. Maybe she wants that one. Women love chocolate.

  My fingers hover over the oatmeal raisin for a second, but I can’t make myself eat it because oatmeal doesn’t belong in cookies. Some of my exes loved it, saying it was healthier…which is part of the reason they’re exes.

  I pick the sugar cookie. That’s probably the least preferred among women, so hopefully not something Yuna likes.

  Sure enough, she rips a corner off the chocolate chip cookie and puts it in her mouth.

  Score one for the home team. I feel good that I was right.

  I have a single bite and put my cookie down. Yuna eats only about a quarter of hers and stands up.

  “You can finish the rest,” I say. No reason for her to watch her carbs just because I’m refraining.

  “I kind of don’t want to. American cookies are way too big.” She smiles. “Besides, I don’t want to interrupt your schedule. According to the calendar app on the phone Benedict left for me, you have to go over some scripts because you’re having lunch with your agent tomorrow. So let’s get started.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Declan

  I wake up and check the time. Six thirty, which is a little early. But going back to sleep is impossible. My mind is whirring. My body feels tight and hot.

  Hello, morning wood.

  Usually my dick doesn’t get like this when I’m up earlier than normal. Usually I just want to pee and go back to sleep.

  But that isn’t happening today.

  So I get up and shower. Yuna’s coming in a couple of hours. Thinking about her makes me even harder.

  “I’m not jerking off to my assistant,” I say to my dick. “If I’m going to come, I want to come inside her.”

  It remains mute. And hard.

  Fine. I’ll think of something disgusting. Like…Tim and Melvin making out.

  In the nude.

  It works. Tim and Melvin are in their late fifties, and I do not need to see them naked, ever, in my imagination or anywhere else. Especially if they’re making out.

  I shave, stretch out and do some light calisthenics. Then put on a silk V-neck shirt and some slacks. A slightly upscale look for my lunch with Tim.

  I go to the kitchen, start the coffee machine and dump some egg whites into a bowl to make a scramble. I don’t know why you have to beat egg whites together—I mean, they’re all just white—but a celebrity chef at a party told me once you need to beat them anyway.

  Yuna arrives by the time I’ve poured myself a mug of coffee. The eggs are almost finished, too.

  “Want some?” I ask, in case she’s hungry. She might’ve tossed my card out, but I’m not a total bastard.

  “No, thank you. I don’t like egg whites.”

  “What do you like for breakfast, then?”

  “Coffee and abalone porridge topped with a little bit of sesame seed oil and seaweed flakes. It’s one of my favorites. My parents’ chef makes the best abalone porridge. Better than what you can get at some five-star hotels.”

  I’ve never had that particular dish, bu
t it doesn’t sound appetizing. “Isn’t abalone, like, seafood?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you put it in a porridge?”

  “Uh-huh.” She beams happily.

  Who eats seafood for breakfast? Well, maybe caviar. But even caviar is pretty weird for breakfast. “I didn’t know hotels had porridge for breakfast.”

  “They do in Korea.” She looks at the lone egg bagel on the counter. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “Hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Then I’ll have that, toasted. With some cream cheese if you’ve got it.”

  I give her a look. How did she jump from something as odd as abalone porridge to bagels?

  “Oh, right,” she says. “Sorry! You’re the boss, I’m the assistant. I’m supposed to be serving myself.” She reaches for the bagel.

  She thought I was giving her a funny look because she asked for the bagel? Jeez. Maybe her family’s really high-handed and snotty with their assistants.

  This is probably why she hasn’t succumbed to my face and body yet. She thinks I’m an asshole. And some levels of assholeness are beyond redemption.

  I grab the bagel before she can get to it. “No, no, you sit down. I’ll deal with this. Just enjoy this coffee.”

  I pour her a mug, cut the bagel in half and toss the slices into the toaster. Within a few minutes it’s done, she has a plate of her own with a tub of whipped cream cheese and I have my egg whites and berries. We sit at the kitchen counter and dig in.

  “Two for two,” she says, munching on the perfectly toasted bagel.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve fed me two meals in two days. I’m trying to decide what to make of it.”

  “Is there a reason to make anything of it? I mean, other than to think, Gosh, I have the nicest celebrity boss, ever. I want to kiss him and have his baby?”

  She widens her eyes in mock amazement. “It’s possible to have a baby just by kissing somebody in America? That’d be a heck of a medical breakthrough.”

  “Kissing is the prelude. Or maybe the food is.” Most dating seems to follow that pattern—wining and dining, maybe a movie, kissing and sex if everything goes well. Not for me, of course, but for most guys. That always seemed to be the case with my friends in high school, anyway.