Page 84 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Before I ruined everything.

My phone rings. Charles.

I let it go to voicemail.

Then I listen to the message.

“Hayes. I know you’re screening my calls. Call me back. We need to talk.”

I delete it without calling back.

But an hour later, I’m still thinking about it. About him. About the disappointed look on his face when I said I was leaving.

About the hurt in Frankie’s eyes that she tried so hard to hide.

I pour another drink and try to forget.

It doesn’t work.

My assistant, Greta, knocks on my office door the next morning. She looks better—the dark circles under her eyes are fading, and she’s gained back some weight.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Better every day. The doctors are optimistic.” She sets a stack of papers on my desk. “But I’m more worried about you. You look like hell.”

“Thanks. That’s exactly what every boss wants to hear.”

She doesn’t laugh at my attempt at humor. “Hayes. What happened in France?”

I lean back in my chair. Greta’s known me for five years. She’s seen me through breakups, family drama, board meetings that went sideways. She’s never seen me like this.

“I screwed up.”

“How bad?”

“Nuclear-level bad.”

She settles into the chair across from my desk. “Tell me.”

So I do. I tell her about Frankie—her laugh, her kindness with Charles, the way she makes me feel like a human instead of a walking trust fund. I tell her about running away like a coward.

When I finish, Greta just stares at me.

“You’re an idiot,” she says finally.

“I’m aware.”

But she deserves better than me. She deserves someone who doesn’t run when things get complicated.

Which means it’s better this way.

I’ve been back in New York for two weeks, and nothing makes sense anymore. My coffee tastes like ash. My Egyptian cotton sheets feel like sandpaper. Even my view of Central Park—the one that cost me eight million dollars—looks gray and lifeless.

It’s like someone sucked all the color out of my world and left me with this black-and-white existence that I used to think was enough.

I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at the espresso machine like it might spontaneously combust, when my phone buzzes.

Mom:Need you at dinner tonight. Bringing someone I want you to meet.