The Billionaire Beast

by Jackie Ashenden

  He knew that, of course, he knew that. She was in hospital because . . .

  “Your mother’s not well,” one of the social workers told him gently, a week or so after he’d been found and was asking for her. “She’s in hospital.”

  “Why?” he asked, starting to feel desperate. “Was it my stepfather?”

  The social worker’s face had been full of pity. “No. Your mother was very unwell. She had delusions. She kept you in the room because she thought she was keeping you safe from harm.” The woman had reached out to touch him. “There is no stepfather, Nero. There never was. Your mother wasn’t with anyone.”

  No. No, that couldn’t be right. There was a reason he’d been kept in that room all that time, and it wasn’t because his mother was delusional. He had to have been in danger, right? Because what parent would do that to their child? What parent would lock their son in a room for ten years, depriving him of everything, simply because they were sick?

  He wanted to hurl away the laptop, break that, too. Instead he got up and reached for his phone, calling the hospital no matter that his instinct was telling him to ignore it, demanding that he speak to his mother.

  She cried when the staff put her on the line, and when he demanded the truth from her, she gave it to him. No, there hadn’t been a stepfather and she hadn’t been in debt. She hadn’t needed to keep his existence secret from anyone. But didn’t he understand that he was better off inside that room than out in the world? It was dangerous out there, didn’t he know that? She’d only wanted him to be safe, to be protected.

  Instinctively he didn’t want to believe her, but he could hear the madness in her voice and that drove the truth home in a way that nothing else could.

  He hadn’t been kept hidden from an abusive man.

  He’d been kept a prisoner by a very sick woman, for absolutely no reason at all.

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to think about it. No wonder he’d tried to deny it. His childhood had been held hostage in that room, and now ten years of his life as an adult were also being held hostage. To his past.

  Anger rose up inside him, a towering inferno of frustration and anguish. He wanted to break everything in his entire house and only just managed to stop himself at the last minute. Calling James instead, he ordered his butler to pack away his entire art collection, then he pulled every book in his library off the shelf and hurled them at the walls.

  That didn’t help.

  Hours later, fury so thick in his mouth he could almost taste it, he’d found himself standing in Phoebe’s bedroom, with her scent in the air and her clothes still lying on the bed where she’d left them.

  He’d breathed her in, and suddenly it was as if his anger didn’t matter. As if his mother and what she’d done to him didn’t matter. What mattered was that it looked like Phoebe had only just stepped out and would be coming back at any moment. But of course, she wouldn’t.

  He almost dropped to his knees where he stood, because it had felt as if someone had taken an ax to his chest to hack out his heart.

  He missed her. He wanted her. He needed her like he needed air to breathe. But she was gone, and he didn’t know how to get her back.

  It wasn’t until he’d sat on the end of the bed, breathing in her scent, that the truth had come to him. That he did know what it was like to lose someone he cared about after all. Because he had lost her.

  She must have felt this same pain when her fiancé was in a coma, this same agony when he died. This terrible sense of absence, of loss.

  Which meant, of course, that he must love her. Why else would it hurt so fucking much?

  It was a terrible thing to admit, and he could feel the hunger for her rise within himself. The urge to find her, grab her, bring her here and lock her away with him so she could never leave him again.

  But he couldn’t do that. That was what his mother had done to him, so how could he do that to Phoebe? He may be broken, but he wasn’t that broken. Phoebe had shown him what true love was all about anyway. It wasn’t keeping someone locked away, it was sitting beside a hospital bed and waiting for them to wake up.

  He couldn’t get her back. He would have to wait for her to come to him. Because if he truly cared about her, he had to let her make her own choices, even when those choices weren’t ones he liked.

  If he truly cared about her, he would set her free. Because anything less would make him just like his mother.

  So he’d stopped calling her, stopped texting her. He’d sent her flowers on the day of Charles’s funeral to show her he was thinking of her, but that was it. He hadn’t even run his usual searches on her to see where she was.

  It had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do in his life.

  Now she was here, right in front of him, tired and pale, and so fragile he wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her.

  But he would keep to the decision he’d made. He wouldn’t ask anything more of her, and if she wanted to leave then he would let her go.

  “Hi, Nero,” she said huskily, her fingers white where they gripped the strap of her purse. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “Of course.” He kept his arms crossed because otherwise they’d reach for her, and that wasn’t allowed. But he let his gaze roam over her face, searching for any hint as to what she was thinking and why she hadn’t come back to him. “How are you?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

  A lie. She wasn’t fine. “I’m sorry about Charles.” And he was.

  She glanced away, her red-gold lashes veiling her gaze. “Thank you. It wasn’t unexpected, but still . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat. “Look, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to hand in my resignation and to let you know I’m leaving.”

  His heart lurched and he had to sink his fingers into his biceps and hold on tight. He wanted to demand she tell him why she’d stayed away, why she hadn’t even sent him a text after her fiancé’s death, but that would reveal too much, so he contented himself with, “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  Her lashes lifted, her golden-brown gaze coming to his. There was something lightless in it that made him want to take her face between his hands and kiss the gold back into her eyes. “Actually, I’m not quite sure yet. Maybe Nepal. But I’m definitely leaving New York.”

  Tension crawled through his muscles, and he had to fight to not move. “Why?” Sharp. Too sharp.

  Phoebe swallowed, but she didn’t look away from him. “I think I need some space. Some time to myself. I’ve been looking after Charles for a long time and now . . . Well, I think I need some time to figure out what I want. I got too caught up on wanting to be there for my parents, and then I had to be there for Charles.” She made a strange, awkward gesture with her hand. “I think it’s time I was there for myself, if you know what I mean.”

  He did know. And that’s exactly what she should do.

  Which means she’s not coming back to you.

  He hadn’t known that he’d hoped she was coming back until that moment. That a part of him had been holding onto the faint possibility that she was here to tell him she was staying. But, of course, she wasn’t. He’d told her she needed to think of herself more often and that’s exactly what she was doing.

  He wasn’t his mother. He wouldn’t keep her.

  Hating it, he forced himself to smile. “Then you should do it.”

  Emotion flickered over her face, and he thought it was shock and maybe pain. Which was strange. The shock he understood because she wouldn’t be expecting him to agree, but the pain? No, he couldn’t figure that out. “That is what you want, isn’t it?” he asked, just to make sure.

  She glanced away again. “Yes. I’m sure.” This time there was no flicker in her expression at all. “I’m sorry, Nero.”

  His jaw felt tight. Far too tight. “For what?”

  “For everything.” Her gaze came back to his. “For leaving you the way I did.”

  He wanted to demand why. Wh
y she’d left him all alone. But he didn’t. He didn’t want her apologies. He didn’t want her being kind. His intentions were good, but she could shatter them so easily if she wasn’t careful.

  “I’m okay,” he forced out, keeping his voice harsh. “Is that all?”

  Her eyes widened at his tone. “I . . . yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What about you?” She was looking at him now, the way he hated. The way he loved. With that soft look in her eyes, as if she cared. “Are you really okay?” Her gaze flickered around the room. “I see you’re back in your office. Have you . . . been out of it recently?”

  He wanted to reply angrily, with something cutting that would hurt her the way she was hurting him. Tell her that no, he hadn’t been out of his office for a week now and that was all her fault. She’d left him and now he was back to being the way he’d been before.

  But that was something he wasn’t going to do anymore either. He wasn’t going to lash out like an angry child, be that selfish or that petty. Yet he couldn’t tell her the truth either, that he wasn’t okay. Because that would hurt her, too, would trap her as surely as if he’d locked the front door and put bars on the windows. As if he’d boarded up the doors like his mother had done to him.

  “Yes,” he said, trying to soften the word. “At least I will be.”

  “Will you see someone? About the past? About being in here?”

  See someone . . . A psychiatrist, no doubt. Well, he could do that, but he knew he wasn’t going to. Because what would be the point? Once she was gone, he had no reason to leave his house. No reason to leave this room. None at all. He would stay here until he died.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” he lied. “I’ll get James to make me an appointment.”

  Another fleeting emotion crossed her face. Relief maybe? Or was that pity again? “Oh good.” She sounded breathless. “I’m glad about that.”

  Definitely relief. Jesus. Did that mean she cared? She’d told him she did that day in his control room, but he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered.

  All that mattered was that she made her own choices and that those choices made her happy. Because her happiness suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world.

  He made a show of looking at his watch, because he could feel all his good intentions sliding out of his grip the longer she was in the same room as he was, so it was better if she left and quickly. “Is that all?” He tried to make the question sound casual. “I have a meeting soon.”

  “Oh . . . yes. Of course.” She gripped her purse strap, a hesitant smile curving her mouth that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Your final pay should be in your account in the next few days and naturally you can expect a glowing reference. I’ll also make sure James sends the rest of your belongings back to your apartment.” He didn’t even attempt to smile since he knew it wouldn’t be pretty. “I’ll show you out.”

  She gave a jerky nod, turning toward the door. He followed her, his hands in fists, keeping his gaze above her head and not where it wanted to be, following the lines of her beautiful curves as she moved.

  He managed to get himself out of the office and into the hallway, moving behind her to the entranceway, because for some reason he didn’t want his last sight of her to be in his office.

  She paused by the front door, her hand on the handle, and turned back, giving him another of those hesitant smiles. There was something in her eyes, that even now, he couldn’t read and didn’t understand.

  “Goodbye, Nero,” she said.

  Stay. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone.

  He clenched his teeth together hard. No, he wouldn’t say it. He was going to let her go. “Good-bye,” he forced out.

  Whatever it was in her eyes flickered and disappeared. Her lashes fell and she turned away, opening the door and stepping through it, not looking back.

  The door closed after her, the sound heavy and solid, like a mausoleum door shutting on a tomb.

  He felt it then, the deep sense of doom flooding in on him, crushing him, all the air leaving his lungs, all the air leaving the entire room.

  She had gone, and she had taken all the light, all the air, all the life with her. Leaving him alone to rot in the dark, leaving him trapped in his house.

  Go after her.

  Nero heaved in a breath, staring at the door, feeling parts of himself begin to crack, to shatter. This house had been his haven, his safety for so long, but now . . .

  It is your tomb.

  He couldn’t go after her. He’d promised himself he’d do the one unselfish thing he’d ever done in his life and let her go. Because that had been her choice and he had to respect it. He had to honor it. And if that meant he had to die here in this house without her then he would.

  She wouldn’t want that.

  No, but what other choice did he have? It was either he keep her here forever with him or he let her go.

  There’s another option: You could go with her.

  His breath caught painfully, a shudder going through his entire body. The front door loomed large in his vision, the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  He’d never loved anyone in his life, but he knew he loved her. He knew it with everything in him. Just like he knew that if she left without him, he would die here alone. And his death would hurt her, a hurt she didn’t need.

  What she did need, though, was love. It’s what she’d always needed.

  So give it to her.

  Nero moved toward the front door, forcing his feet to walk one step, then another, then another. He reached for the door handle and instantly the sense of doom tripled, the vice closing around his chest, squeezing his lungs, his mother’s voice in his head, warning him to stay safe.

  But he wasn’t going to let that rule him, not anymore. Phoebe needed him, and he would walk through fire and bullets for her.

  He made his numb fingers grip hard to that handle. And he pulled it.

  The door opened, the air from the outside world blowing in, overwhelming him. Exhaust fumes and oil, hot pavement and trash, and jasmine . . . Phoebe’s scent.

  Phoebe. He had to think of Phoebe. Her soft skin and her beautiful hair. The way she felt under his hands and around his cock. The way she looked at him as if he was a puzzle she was trying to work out. The way she touched his back to soothe him, her fingers in his hair, stroking . . .

  He looked at the steps, concentrated on them and not the massive open bowl of the sky or the buildings that loomed over him, threatening to fall on him, forcing his feet to move. One step. And another.

  The vice around his chest was crushing him, making him gasp, and his muscles threatened to seize.

  Think of her. Think only of her.

  Her silky hair in his hands, sifting through his fingers. The cool sound of her voice, agreeing to his ridiculous needs. The hard crack of her palm across his cheek as she’d given him the slap he so richly deserved.

  The steps were hard to manage and he didn’t know how he got down them without falling, but he did. Then there was sun on his head, the pressure of air on the back of his neck, and he didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see where he was, but he needed to see if she was still there, if he was too late.

  So he forced his head up.

  The sun was too bright, and his vision was doing strange things. Everything felt too big, and he was too small, an ant crushed against the earth. He fell to his knees, unable to bear the pressure of all that emptiness above him. Unable to breathe with all the buildings, all the things pressing in on him and no walls to keep them out.

  Then he saw a figure at the end of the path, right by the gate, and the sun was shining on her hair.

  “Phoebe,” he roared, except it came out as a whisper because his voice had broken. “Take me with you.”

  Chapter 14

  If she hadn’t stopped at the gate to wipe the tears from her eyes, she would never have heard the harsh scrape o
f sound that was her name.

  But she did hear it and she turned, expecting James, though she had no idea what he would be calling her about.

  But it wasn’t James.

  Nero was at the bottom of the steps on his knees. His bronze skin had gone deathly pale, his eyes black as pitch, his lips drawn back in a fierce snarl of determination. His hands were balled into fists, and he was looking at her like he was trapped on a desert island and she was the ship come to rescue him.

  The ship that was sailing away.

  And it hit her all of a sudden: He was outside.

  The breath rushed into her aching chest, and she had to blink a couple of times to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, that the tears in them hadn’t created some sort of illusion.

  But even after she’d blinked, he was still there. On his knees, his chest heaving. Looking like he was slowly being crushed by some massive force.

  She’d been quite certain that leaving was the right thing to do. Because she had to do this for herself. She had to know who she was when she had no one to look after, no one to care for. And she had been sure of that right up until the moment she’d put her hand on the door handle and looked into Nero’s black eyes, all ready to say good-bye.

  And she’d realized that she didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to leave him. A hope had crept inside her heart, that he would tell her to stay, and she knew if he did, she wouldn’t have found it in herself to go.

  But he hadn’t. So she’d forced herself to turn around and walk through that door, tears streaming down her face. Telling herself she was making the right decision, that she had to do this. That she had to take this step.

  Yet all her certainty vanished in an instant as she looked at him, kneeling on the concrete, the sun in his glossy black hair, his beautiful face gone pale.

  He’d come after her. No one on earth had ever come after her, so why had he? She had nothing to offer him, no help to give. She was only the stand-in daughter for a couple of people who didn’t really want her in the first place, so what could she possibly give him? He needed so much more than what she had.