How to Belong with a Billionaire

by Alexis Hall

  “So”—I made it all the way back to the booth without spilling anything—“what are you knitting?”

  “A shawl.”

  “Is it for you?”

  Oh yay. Another Bellerose Look TM. Just what I wanted. “Under what circumstances would I wear a shawl?”

  “For your Elinor Dashwood cosplay?” When he didn’t respond—not even a smile—I had to go on. “Who is it for?”

  “It’s not for anyone.”

  “Then why are you knitting it?”

  “Because I like knitting.”

  I suddenly had this vision of Bellerose living in a house full of unwanted shawls. “Couldn’t you make something for you?”

  “I like shawls.”

  “What’s so good about shawls?”

  He paused for a moment, apparently seriously thinking about it. “The construction is interesting, they’re fairly quick to knit, and I find there are many opportunities for colour.”

  “It’s really pretty,” I offered. “Like a sunset.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Doesn’t it make you sad, though? Creating something that won’t get used?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.” His hands stilled and I noticed they weren’t quite steady, the nails bitten almost to nothing. “Knitting is the thing I do for myself.”

  Oh God, I was out of my depth already. I’d never really interacted with Bellerose outside of a context that wasn’t defined by Caspian, so I had no idea who he was the rest of the time. And the thing was, I was sort of getting the sense he didn’t either.

  “Look”—I took a huge gulp of beer, and immediately regretted it because the sharp ginger aftertaste gave me hiccoughs—“is it (hic) okay if I ask what happened with (hic) Caspian?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I asked him if he believed Nathaniel could truly make him happy.”

  This gave me a bunch of awkfeels because, on the one hand, I was the tiniest bit thrilled Bellerose thought that way—not least because it validated my own relationship with Caspian—but this was supposed to be about him, not about me. “And he (hic) fired you? What the fuck?”

  “It’s not my place to question him.”

  “What? Ever? Like (hic) you’ve never said, would you like a cup of coffee or can you fit in an extra (hic) meeting on the (hic) twenty-third?”

  “Arden, the next time you hiccough, I will give you fifty pounds.”

  I stared at him wide-eyed and absolutely unable to hiccough. “How…how did you do that?”

  “I’m magic.”

  “You are.”

  To my surprise, he went a little pink. “I have some facility when it comes to solving other people’s problems, even when they are profoundly superficial. And as regards Caspian, of course I don’t mean I’ve never literally asked him questions. But he certainly didn’t invite my trespass into his personal affairs.”

  “It wasn’t a trespass. You were looking out for him.”

  “I serve. I don’t second-guess.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” I said, in my very outsidest voice. “You were his executive assistant, not his slave.”

  No reply.

  And I was only human, so I couldn’t quite resist asking, “Did you mean it, though? About Nathaniel?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that Caspian was different when he was with you. There was a lightness in him I hadn’t realised wasn’t there before.”

  “Oh…” I guess I’d been hoping to be further vindicated. But no. This was just depressing.

  “I even heard him singing in the office once, when he thought I’d left for the day.”

  “Caspian can sing?”

  “Most assuredly he cannot.” Bellerose put his needles on the table and his hands on top of them, his gaze directed downwards so I couldn’t read his expression. “I would have done anything to help him hold on to that peace. But it wasn’t in my power.”

  To my dismay, I caught the gleam of moisture against his cheek. “Hey now.” Wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how he’d take a touch, I reached out and patted his knitting gently. “Nobody has that kind of power in someone else’s life. While I can’t say I’ve been entirely thrilled with Caspian’s decision making over the past however-many months, he’s still responsible for his own choices.”

  “And I,” whispered Bellerose, with a depth of sorrow I wasn’t remotely prepared for, “am useless to him.”

  “Believe me, you are the least useless person I’ve ever met. You are so not useless that if you look up useless in the dictionary, it says, ‘antonyms: see Bellerose.’”

  He snuck a glance at me, his eyes hopeless, and shiny with tears. “I was made for Caspian.”

  “Uh. Made?” Maybe he was actually a robot. It would explain his hyper-competence and eerie perfection—and at this point, I wouldn’t put anything past Google.

  “It”—he blinked—“it’s a long story. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you sure? I’m good to hear a long story, if you want to tell it.”

  “I…not at the moment.”

  “Okay. But listen.” I rested my elbows on the table and shuffled in closer. “Firstly, you said yourself this was temporary or whatever. Caspian won’t want you to leave.”

  “Perhaps, but I must. I don’t know how to help him anymore. And without him, I don’t—I am nothing.”

  I was starting to regret the beer because my head was spinning. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

  “I’m an addict and a whore.” He spoke without rancour—without any particular emotion, actually. “If Mr. Steyne hadn’t seen something in me he could use, I would most likely be dead by now.”

  That name was pretty much guaranteed to ruin my day. And my day hadn’t been much to write home about to begin with. Fuck, I should have known Bellerose would have some messed-up connection to Lancaster “BDSM Svengali” Steyne. I mean, he’d given Caspian a bespoke bondage dungeon. Of course he’d also given him someone to put in it. And I had no idea what to say because Would you like to go into more detail about your emotional trauma with a known abuser? just seemed kind of…not okay.

  “Well,” I said finally, and only slightly pathetically, “I’m really glad you’re not dead, Bellerose.”

  “Ilya. My mother called me Ilya.”

  “And you’re sure you want me to use it too?”

  “You said you felt uncomfortable with Bellerose.”

  “I’ll deal. It’s your name—you get to choose.”

  “I don’t like choices.” He picked up his knitting again. “I never have.”

  This left me faffing helplessly with the label on my Blandford Fly. “What will you do? I mean, if you don’t think you can work for Caspian anymore?”

  “Mr. Steyne will be expecting me back.”

  “Do not”—I said fiercely—“do that.”

  Ilya gave a faint smile. “I wasn’t intending to.”

  I de-hackled. “Oh. Okay then. Good.”

  “What he found in me was always there, and I’m grateful. What he did to Caspian was wrong, and I shall never forgive him.”

  Apparently I wasn’t capable of moderation when it came to Lancaster Steyne. “I’ve got to tell you, from everything I’ve heard about the man, if I learned he’d saved a kitten from a fire, I’d be inclined to think it was for his own fucked-up purposes.”

  “Yes, of course.” The click of Ilya’s needles seemed disconcertingly merry given the topic of conversation. “But the kitten would still be broadly better off.”

  “If that kitten was me, I’d take the burn to the death option.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been on fire.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but then realised I didn’t actually have a counterpoint. Largely because he was right. “I’m sorry,” I said instead, “your life has taken you to such shitty places that you needed Lancaster Steyne.”

  “I have no regrets. Salvation and destruction can be remarkably similar experie
nces, and I much prefer the way I live now to the way I did before. In any case, you don’t need to worry. I will not return to him.”

  “And he’ll let you go?”

  “Of course. He has no interest in me whatsoever.” Ilya gave the slightest of shrugs. “He only cares about Caspian—to a definition of caring that most would find alien.”

  My stomach roiled unhappily. “Why the fuck isn’t he in prison?”

  “Because that’s not what happens to people like him.”

  “I hate everything.” I plonked my head down on the table and lay there for a little bit.

  Ilya reached out and stroked my hair in a slightly mechanical way. “There, there.”

  “What…um…what was that?”

  “I’m comforting you. I think.”

  I couldn’t help giggling at his uncertainty. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not really part of my skill set.”

  “It’s okay. And none of this is about me. So”—I pulled myself upright again—“I should really stop whining.”

  He gazed at me solemnly. “Not on my account.”

  “I’m good. I promise.” I mean, I wasn’t good. I was sad and fucked up and angry on behalf of a lot of people. But I wasn’t quite selfish enough to expect consolation for it.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Long day. I had to interview Caspian and Nathaniel for Milieu, though honestly it went about as well as could be expected, considering. I just”—a yawn pounced on me out of nowhere—“gosh, sorry. I just didn’t sleep so well last night because I was worrying about it.”

  “Understandably. And I shouldn’t keep you.”

  Urgh. Why did people say stuff like that? I could never tell if they meant “I would really like to hang out with you longer but I feel self-conscious about taking up your time,” “this has been lovely but I have other things to do,” or “this has been awful and now I am trying to get to rid of you.” Anyway, I was still a little scared of…Bellerose? Ilya? So in case it was Option 3, I nodded. “I’m really glad you agreed to meet me, though.”

  “Yes, I”—a bemused expression crossed his face—“haven’t entirely hated it either.”

  “I aim to please.”

  I grinned at him in what I hoped was a winning fashion, but he sort of flinched. “I don’t have much interest in my own pleasure and I’d prefer it wasn’t a concern for others.”

  “Sorry.” I can’t say I was all that okay with the idea, but it was a world of not my call. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to do anything against your comfort on my behalf. But if it helps, you pleased me.”

  It was the first time I’d really seen him smile. And, God, what a smile it was, as heart-stoppingly perfect as the rest of him. “Thank you.”

  We left our booth, eased our way through the crowds and out into the street. I wasn’t entirely sure how to say goodbye—it didn’t seem like we were in hug territory yet—so I just mumbled something incoherent, slung my bag over my shoulder, and took off. The day had properly taken its toll, and I was seriously looking forward to falling face-first onto my mattress, except something made me pause. Glance behind me. And there was Ilya, a lost angel in the fading light, watching me leave.

  I went back. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Are you sure?”

  Another nod.

  Clearly, I could ask a thousand times and not get a different answer. But I could recognise not-okayness when it was standing right in front of me. Weirdly, it made me think of Nik—who for three years of my life had been there for me, in my okayness, and not-okayness, and everything in between. Guess it was time to pay it forward.

  “Look,” I said, “if you don’t want to be alone right now—which is something I totally get—you can come home with me. Though I should warn you, I live with Ellery and there will be no food, probably no hot water, and also people sitting around singing about dead babies.”

  His gaze slid away from mine. “I…”

  “And I’m going to be shit company.”

  “I’ll be in your way.”

  “I’ll be unconscious. You will not be in my way.”

  “Then”—he swallowed—“yes. Thank you.”

  “Just be aware: If I keel over from exhaustion en route, you’ll have to give me a piggyback.”

  I was kidding. Mostly. But of course, Ilya didn’t take it that way—and for a second or two, I really thought he was going to sweep me up Disney prince style. It was kind of a relief, in the end, that he didn’t. Between Caspian and Nathaniel, and my own confused, hurting little heart, my world felt enough like Silly Putty as it was. Maybe if I…if things…if Ilya…had been just one squeeze of lemon juice different, then letting him carry me home could have been the start of something. And the end. But we weren’t and it wasn’t. And so we walked back together, with the loss of the man we both loved between us like a shadow.

  Chapter 14

  An hour or so later, I arrived home with Ilya. An event which didn’t even merit a slow blink from Ellery.

  “Hi, Bellerose,” she said. “The bathroom’s a state if you want to clean it.”

  Somewhere between the Tube station and the warehouse, he’d started carrying my stuff. I still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but one thing had emerged clearly from the experience: My shoulder bag made me look like a womble; Ilya wore it like it was high fashion. Right now, he put it carefully down by the door. “I’d be glad to.”

  “No way.” I made what I hoped was an Ellery-checking gesture. If such gestures even existed. “He’s not cleaning the bathroom.”

  “Why not? It needs doing.”

  “He’s my guest. Guests do not clean bathrooms.”

  Ellery scowled. “He’s my brother’s lapdog.”

  “Actually, he’s not. So you’re not going to get to Caspian through him.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, don’t bother.”

  “What,” asked Ilya unhelpfully, “about the bathroom?”

  This earned him one of Ellery’s long, hard stares. “Who gives a fuck about the bathroom?”

  I did. A little bit. But it was winter in the garden of my fucks right now. “I’m not doing this. My face needs food and then all of me needs to be unconscious.”

  At this, Innisfree, who had been absorbed in the piece of music she was writing with Ellery, looked up. “I can make you something if you like.”

  I wilted like old broccoli. “Oh God, Inn, please don’t think I’m ungrateful. It’s the sweetest thing in the world the way you try to take care of me. But what I really want right now is a cheese toastie on, like, bad-for-me white bread full of gluten, with bright yellow cheese that has been squeezed directly out of a cow. And maybe some artificially preserved factory-made Branston Pickle.”

  There was a long silence. Innisfree’s mouth opened and closed a few times. Fuck, I think I’d really upset her.

  Eventually she said, “Are you sure you can eat that?”

  “I’m going to eat it so hard.”

  “No, I just mean…”

  Ellery had covered her mouth with both hands, and was now actually rocking back and forth as if she was having some kind of seizure. Well, that was in no way worrying.

  “I don’t understand,” Innisfree went on slowly. “Ellery told me you were a lactose-intolerant vegan with coeliac disease.”

  A wild honking sound emerged from between Ellery’s fingers. After a second or two, I realised she was laughing—and laughing like I’d never heard her laugh before, without a trace of control or self-consciousness.

  Innisfree gazed at Ellery with utter incomprehension. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because…because…” Ellery’s eyeliner was running unchecked down her cheeks, giving her the air of a deranged harlequin. “Because…I knew you’d both be…too nice to say anything.”

  “For most people,” said Innisfree, “that wouldn’t be a good reason.”

  Ellery shrugged. “
You know how I feel about most people.”

  I left them to what would inevitably devolve into gentle bickering and wandered into the kitchen area, where I was relieved to discover half a loaf of bread and some moderately unmolested cheddar in the fridge. Of course, there was no Branston, or even Marmite, because Ellery had a somewhat disturbing capacity for both—and tended to eat them straight from the jar.

  Ilya trailed after me, in a far too puppyish fashion for a man who looked like a catwalk model. “Can I help?”

  I was going to point out that it was a cheese toastie, not the storming of the Bastille, but he seemed to like being involved in things, no matter how menial. “Sure. You can grate and I’ll butter.”

  It was strange to see him clumsy, especially after the ease and effortlessness of his knitting. I didn’t say anything, though. Just stuffed my toastie with too much cheese and covered the bread with too much butter, and flopped the whole thing into a frying pan, Ilya watching me with an intensity the task really didn’t deserve.

  “There’s not going to be a test later,” I told him.

  “But maybe”—he gave me this forlorn little smile—“someday I will meet someone who would like a cheese toastie.”

  “Well, this is how my mum makes them. The key is cheddar that tastes just a little bit like socks and lots of butter on the outside.”

  In a minute or two, I was done. The bread, which had gone a perfect golden-brown in the pan, had lost a little bit of structural integrity, but thankfully all the cheese that had squoodged out the sides had acted as a sealant. It was a perfect specimen of toastiness is what I’m saying. I eased it onto the one clean plate I could find and sawed it diagonally—it had to be diagonally—in half. Nudged one side towards Ilya.

  “There you go.”

  He blinked. “For me?”

  “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his toastie for his friends.”

  “But…”

  “I’m kidding. Have a piece. I mean”—let’s face it, authority did not come naturally to me—“unless you don’t want to. Then, obviously, um, don’t.”