How to Belong with a Billionaire

by Alexis Hall

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” I wove elegantly through the tables towards him. Okay, that’s a lie. I stood on a lady’s coat and tripped over a chair leg. But anyway, I made it, flung my jacket down, and dumped my shoulder bag. “And I’m absolutely busting for a wee.”

  Jonas smiled. No dimples, though. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Yes”—his eyes flicked away, then back again—“of course.”

  I dove into the loo and, y’know. Then washed my hands and came running back. And Jonas wasn’t there. Honestly, I just thought he’d gone to get another drink. Or also to the toilet. But I couldn’t see him in the queue. And if he had gone to the bathroom, it was getting to the point where he’d been gone so long I was worried for his gastric health. So I did a quick circuit just in case…well, I have no idea. In case we’d managed to miss each other. Peered out of the window on the off-chance he’d stepped out onto the street to take a call or have a ciggie. He wasn’t anywhere.

  “Um. Excuse me. Sorry.” I shuffled back to the woman whose coat I’d trashed earlier. “But did you see a man? I mean, not just any man. A specific man. Dark jacket, floppy hair, glasses?”

  There’s pretty much nothing more painful to the English temperament than having to talk to strangers. But it does mean that, when we do, the other party is aware it’s fucking serious.

  The woman looked gently anxious—possibly on my behalf, or more likely her own on account of the whole talking to a stranger situation that was happening to her. “I don’t think so…oh, wait. Maybe. I think he left.”

  He left? Because I was late? Because I’d needed a wee? Or because of an emergency of his own? Was he okay? Had he had some kind of freak-out? Or decided that I wasn’t what he was looking for in a person he had given sperm to create? It made no sense. He’d given every impression of liking me. Asked questions about my life. Listened when I talked. Told me he was proud of me. Even today, he’d said he was glad I’d come—although running the scene backwards and forwards through the dusty DVD player of my mind’s eye—he had seemed a bit on edge. I’d assumed it was because he’d thought he’d been dumped by his kid. But I barely knew the man. It could have been anything.

  Fuck it. I was going to phone him.

  Grabbing bag and jacket and muffin—waste not, want not—I headed out. After all, people who make calls in Starbucks are the devil’s spawn. Shit, where was my phone. Bag? Jeans? Left jacket pocket? Right jacket pocket? Bag again. Front of bag? Lining of bag? Lining of jacket? Some other obscure part of bag? What. What. What the fuck? It had to be somewhere. I’d definitely had it on the Tube, because I’d been playing Alphabear. Was it in Starbucks? On the table? Under the table? Had the lady whose coat I’d stood on seen it? Apparently not. Had someone handed it in? Nope. Fucking hell, had someone nicked my phone? So bloody typical after I’d blithely refused to fork out an extra fiver a month to have it insured.

  I lost my grip on the muffin and it smashed into squidgy chocolate shrapnel on the pavement. Of course someone had stolen my phone. Jonas had stolen my phone. Right now, he was probably in some dodgy shop in Soho getting it unlocked so he could find out where Mum was. Because my dad was an abusive sociopath who was obsessed with her. And I was an idiot beyond reckoning.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh fucking God. I’d just ruined the lives of the people I loved most in the world.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I was bursting out of a taxi at Hart & Associates. And yes, I know. Fucking pathetic. Immediately running to the guy I’d told I never wanted to see again the second something went wrong.

  But God. Fuck my pride. This was my family. My family. And I didn’t know what else to do.

  Unfortunately, the other thing I didn’t know how to do was get into the building. It was outside office hours, so the front was locked up tight, the atrium just a blur of marble and shadow on the other side of glass. I’d have had more luck against a wall of briars and a century-long curse. Caspian was probably still working—if I stood on the far side of the pavement and tilted my head so far back it felt like my spine was about to snap, I even thought, or maybe it was wishful thinking, I could see a light up there. But how could I reach him?

  When we’d been dating, I’d had access to an app that worked as a code for Caspian’s personal lift, which linked the underground car park directly to his office or his penthouse. Probably my privileges had been revoked by now, though. And, oh wait, Jonas had stolen my fucking phone.

  Fuck’s sake, Arden, think. Think.

  The way I saw it, I had two options. Sit on the pavement and cry. Or keep running around in a wild panic. I opted for Option B (with a little bit of Option A thrown in for good measure). For all I knew, there’d be a security guard in the car park. And maybe I could convince them to take me to Caspian. Or I could trigger some kind of alarm by…like…attacking the lift and pressing all the buttons. Or cameras…there could be cameras. And I could wave at them until someone noticed me or write Help me Caspian in Lamborghinis on the floor or…or…

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I’d always been whooshed in and out of the car park by chauffeurs, so I hadn’t really noticed how ridiculously enormous it was. It took me about five minutes just to run down the entrance ramp, my breath rattling in my throat, and my bag bashing me on the arse with every step. The security gates I dodged round and wriggled under, and I’m pretty sure I did, in fact, trip the security system, a series of cameras whirring round to catch my image with dystopian efficiency. Not that I cared. Being arrested wouldn’t have been great. But it would get Caspian’s attention, right?

  I mean, assuming I didn’t just have a heart attack and die on the concrete floor. God, I hadn’t had a stitch this bad since having to do PE at school. In the end I had to stop, put my hands on my knees, and wheeze, perilously close to throwing up from sheer terror and exertion. My jacket was tight under my arms, sealing me in my own sweat like a thermos flask. Also: running and crying. Don’t recommend it. It’s soggy in all the ways. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, because it was that or choke. Then resettled my bag of the damned against my shoulder and forced myself into a shambling canter.

  Far in the distance, between the cold gleam of expensive cars, I at last caught sight of the lift, shimmery as a mirage—a boring grey mirage—through my teary eyes. I pushed forward, hair in my face, legs replaced by noodles that were on fire, and collapsed against the door, panting, and banging on it in what would—under other circumstances—have been a hilariously futile fashion.

  Then came the clatter of shoes against concrete and I twisted round to see a couple of security guards bearing down on me.

  “I…I need to see Caspian Hart,” I said, plastering myself over the lift door like it was my child and elephants were stampeding towards us.

  Both the guards had a burly professional look to them. “I’m sure you do, sir. But this is private property and so you’ll have to come along with us.”

  “No, but…it’s…my name’s Arden St. Ives. I used to date Caspian. It’s an emergency.”

  “This way, please.” They advanced. And while I could tell they weren’t actively trying to be threatening, there was something purposeful about the way they came forward that made me feel very small suddenly.

  “Yes, okay.” I peeled myself off the lift because I was pretty sure if I didn’t they’d drag me away from it. “But if I go with you, will you…will you tell him? Will you tell him I was here?”

  They exchanged looks, and one of them said, “Of course sir,” in the voice of a “sure Jan” gif.

  And I made a helpless whimpery noise because I could recognise defeat when it was dressed in hi-visibility jackets and about to escort me off the premises. My mind tilted like the Titanic going down. Right now, they clearly thought I was just some messed-up, possibly very unwell person who had wandered in. But if I made a run for it, that was more serious, right? Then they might have to inform Caspian. Except th
at would mean being chased, and taken down, by people who were trained in chasing and taking down. This wasn’t America, and they weren’t armed, so I was sure they wouldn’t hurt me, like, much. But I was still scared. Too scared to risk it.

  I must have looked incredibly pitiful, because the bigger of the guards actually offered me a tissue when I trudged over. Then his colleague took a firm grip on my upper arm and the two of them began escorting me towards the exit.

  That was when the lift doors swooshed open. And I heard Nathaniel’s voice, obviously annoyed, going “Oh, what is it now?” at the same time Caspian said, more bewildered than anything, “Arden?”

  I twisted frantically between my captors, tears of pure relief flooding my eyes. “Caspian, I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked everything up. And I don’t know what to do.”

  “Mr. Hart, do you know this”—Tissue seemed at a loss for a moment before settling on—“person. We caught him trespassing.”

  “I wasn’t trespassing,” I cried. “I was trying to find you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.” Caspian nodded to his security team and then turned to me. “What’s happened, Arden? What’s wrong?”

  I opened my mouth to explain—to throw myself verbally, or literally, on my knees if that was what it took. But then Nathaniel slipped his arm through Caspian’s and said, “My prince, we’re going to be late.”

  “Not now.” Caspian didn’t even look at him.

  “This is just another of his ploys. Can’t you see that?”

  I scrubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand. “It’s not a ploy. I wouldn’t be here unless I had to be. Please…please…will you help me?”

  “Always, my Arden.” Caspian had closed the distance between us in two of his long, world-conquering strides. “Anything within my power is yours.”

  I didn’t know if it was the shock catching up with me or the after-effects of my desperate run across a car park or just…too much fear and its abrupt abatement, but the edges of the world went wibbly and I wibbled with them. Everything was sliding away from me. Except Caspian, who caught me the moment before I fell. The familiar scent of his cologne washed over me, and his arms came round me, and the promise of safety within his strength was so real to me—and I needed it so badly—that I started to cry yet again.

  “I can’t believe you’re falling for this,” snarled Nathaniel.

  Caspian was already heading for the lift. “This is important.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “We can go to a concert another night.”

  “Can we?” Nathaniel’s shoes clicked against the concrete as he followed us. “It’s taken weeks for you to have time for this one.”

  “You know I’ll reimburse you for the ticket.”

  “You know that’s not the point.”

  One of those sighs from Caspian I used to dread. “The point is that Arden has a problem that must be resolved. I shall resolve it and you shall cease distracting me.”

  Nathaniel actually gasped. “Caspian, I’m your fiancé, not your secretary. You do not talk to me like that.”

  I think them were what you’d call fightin’ words. Or they would have been if Nathaniel hadn’t sounded terribly hurt. Even Caspian paused. “I’m sorry,” he said more gently, “but I’ve made my decision. Go to the concert.”

  “I don’t want to go to the concert. Not on my own. I”—Nathaniel lifted one of his hands, almost imploringly, and then dropped it again—“wanted to go with you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.”

  Nathaniel’s lashes fluttered fretfully. “Well, what am I supposed to do now?”

  “I can have the car take you home.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. I’ll take a cab.”

  “As you prefer.”

  And then we were in the lift, the doors closing on the grey expanse of the car park and the flickering charcoal sketch of Nathaniel’s shadow as he walked away.

  Chapter 32

  Caspian took me straight up to his penthouse. It was exactly as I remembered, too much space and cold light, and this sense of emptiness that had nothing to do with the furnishings. I guess I’d expected Nathaniel to have had more impact—his home was so lovely I couldn’t imagine him being any more comfortable here than I was. Anyway, I didn’t have enough emotional bandwidth to think about that right now. Or even what had happened between them in the car park. Which was kind of my fault. But sorry, Nathaniel, my guilt was needed elsewhere. Join the fucking queue.

  Part of me didn’t want to uncling, but when Caspian lowered me onto one of the sofas, I forced myself to let go of him. It was pathetic to be seeking comfort after what I’d done. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I deserved to be comforted ever again. By anyone.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” he asked. “Something to eat?”

  “No. I have to…” I started trembling and couldn’t stop. Had no idea how to put into words the magnitude of what had happened. So I just blurted out, “It’s my dad.”

  Caspian’s brows pulled tight. But his only other reaction was to tell me, “A moment please,” before he vanished and came back, a handful of seconds later, with a blanket.

  Once he’d wrapped me up in it, he went down on his knees beside me, something that always unhinged my world a little bit. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  So I did. Starting with Jonas turning up at my work because of that godawful article. It wasn’t a long story but it felt like it took forever to relate, maybe because it contained so much of my selfishness and stupidity. By the time I was done, my mouth was dry and my voice was hoarse, and I could hardly look at him. Terrified that his face might reflect back at me the condemnation I thought it should.

  He took my hand, which was somehow cold and wet at the same time, and frankly very gross, and brought it to his lips. Kissed my fingers with the same archaic courtesy he’d sometimes shown me when we were dating—only this time his maiden fair had pretty much wandered into the dragon’s mouth going “tirra lirra” because I was a fucking idiot.

  “We’ll find him,” he said. “I won’t let him hurt your family.”

  “But…but what if you can’t? What if he does? What if he—”

  “Arden. You have seen only a fraction of the resources I can bring to bear if needed. Very few men are beyond my power. Your father is most certainly not.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Enough.” His voice was soft, and yet still full of an unassailable intent. “Will you trust me?”

  He’d asked me that once before. In a very different context. And the answer was the same as it had always been. “Yes.”

  “Then believe the situation will be taken care of.” He rose, controlled as ever, to his feet.

  Okay, that sounded great. And also a bit Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest? I swallowed. “By…taken care of…you don’t mean in a murdery way, right?”

  He looked startled. “I hadn’t planned on it. Although it could be arranged if it became necessary. Or if you—”

  “No. No. Please don’t.”

  “If you weren’t clearly distraught”—he gave me the faintest of smiles—“I’d be a little concerned at how casually you assumed I’d resort to assassination.”

  Okay, yeah. When he put it like that. “Sorry, my head is fucked.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” He reached out and very lightly touched the mad multidirectional medley that was my hair. “I’m going to make some calls. And you try to rest.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “I said try. I have no conviction of your success under the circumstances, but if you can, it will help.”

  “Okay.”

  I did, actually, sort of rest? If you could call it that. It was more of a nonconsensual unconsciousness that crept over me from time to time, though I never roused from it feeling refreshed. The hours were long and slow and crappy, and my body couldn’t seem to figure out wheth
er it was too hot or too cold and, sometimes, contrived to be both at once, which was pretty special. Caspian was mostly in another room—I could hear the clicking of him typing, and the low murmur of his voice occasionally—but he checked on me fairly regularly. Sent me to have a shower. Brought me tea.

  “I know you aren’t particularly fond of it,” he said, putting the cup down next to me, “but I understand it’s generally considered a consoling drink.”

  “I don’t want to be consoled. I feel terrible and I should feel terrible.”

  “You should not. This isn’t your fault.”

  I gaped at him. “Of course it is. I should never have trusted him.”

  “Then the fault lies with your father for being unworthy of your trust.”

  “I knew what he was like,” I protested. “So I should have known he was using me.”

  “Perhaps. But there is no weakness in putting your faith in people, especially when they’re people who should, by rights, protect and care for you.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He manipulated you.”

  “I’m so stupid.” Tears began to drip between my fingers. “So fucking stupid. Letting myself believe that I’d mean anything to him.”

  “Arden, please. You…” Caspian paused, sounding oddly helpless. “You can’t let yourself think this way.”

  “He never wanted me in the first place because I took away Mum’s attention…which I’m not supposed to know but I overheard Hazel and Rabbie talking…so I should have realised he didn’t want me now.” I drew in a wet and shuddery breath. “I mean, why would he? Look at me. I’m pathetic and I’m stupid and I’m weak and I’m selfish and I make bad decisions and I fuck everything up. But I guess I just really…hoped he might—”