Page 71 of Glitterati Omega

“Sounds like he wants the money for himself,” Elise sniffed. “Get you to donate it where he wants, then run off with it.”

“Oh!” Rupert cried. “No, he wouldn’t. Hewouldn’t.” He knew Winston better than that. Didn’t he?

Then again, he’d thought he’d known Thomas, and he’d been married to the man for years and still got it wrong.

“You need to break this thing off now,” Alina said firmly.

“You’re not going to get that procedure done,” Elise agreed. “Especially not if he’s showing up.”

Rupert looked down into his glass, watching the red liquid ripple under his tears, watching his hopes drain away once again. What had he been thinking? No alpha in their right mind would want him—not for him, at least, not the way he was.

“Oh, Roo, I’m sorry,” Alina said, rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry …”

He closed his eyes. “I’m going home,” he said, setting his glass down. “I’m not good company.”

“Roo,” Elise said, but he shook his head and stood up. He walked to the foyer and grabbed his shoes, his jacket, his purse. “Roo.”

“Don’t go,” Alina said, “it’s all right. Come back in and sit down, and we’ll take your mind off it.” Her doe eyes showed nothing but deep concern.

“I’m better off at home,” he said, then stepped out of their apartment, shutting the door with force. He told Moose to meet him at a caféabout a block from their place; he didn’t want to risk one of them coming down to talk him back into dinner before Moose arrived.

Once he was in the car on the way back to the penthouse, he realized he was angry. Startlingly angry. It was just like Alina and Elise said—all anyone ever wanted from him was his bloody fucking money. Even them—who had bankrolled Alina’s foray into the restaurant business? Who had given Elise the money to start her first line?

Were they even his friends? Did he have any friends?

He sobbed into his hands, feeling wretchedly alone, foolish, and small. Nobody would even miss him if he died; they’d all just switch to whoever the hell got the money.

He glared at Moose when the man tried to help him from the car. Moose didn’t actually care about him either, did he? Of course not; he was hired help. He probably hated Rupert with all his heart—Rupert was just his employer. He could have paid more, but instead he expected the world on a silver platter and for a pittance. Oh, how Moose must have resented him, after all the years of partying and three-amphone calls and pickups when he’d been in his teens and early twenties.

And Charli. Oh God, Charli. Why did she stick around? Some sense of loyalty to his mother? She should have been enjoying retirement at a seaside resort somewhere.

He turned around abruptly, then stalked back down the hall. Moose blinked at him when he passed. “Where are you going?” he asked, then turned to follow.

“Does it matter?” Rupert pressed the call button for the elevator.

“Yes,” Moose said, some urgency or fear invading his tone. Probably afraid Rupert would do something drastic and he’d lose his paycheck.

“I’m going out,” Rupert said tartly.

“Out where?” Moose asked.

“None of your business. You have the night off.”

“Rupert—”

“Go!” Rupert cried, then hit the door-close button. Moose stepped back, hurt all over his face, until it was blocked out by shining stainless steel. Rupert collapsed against the railing with a sigh.

He debated getting a cab, but he decided it was better to take the bus. It gave him longer to think about what he wanted to say when he arrived. Or, perhaps, more opportunity to turn around and go home. What was the point of confronting Winston about any of this? If it was true, what was to stop him from lying some more?

The bus still didn’t take long enough. He walked the block and a half from the stop to Winston’s quaint little bungalow on the crescent. He hauled himself up the steps and banged wildly on the door.

He paused when it became apparent that no one was coming to answer that racket. Perhaps there was no one around to answer. He rang the bell a couple of times, then tried to peer in through the window. There were no lights on.

Defeated, he sat on the stoop, putting his head in his hands. He stayed like that even as a vehicle rolled up, its tires whispering over the cracked asphalt. A car door closed softly, and the vehicle pulled away again.

The silence seemed to amplify; there were insects and frogs, all singing their early evening chorus, before Winston said, “Rupert?”

Shoes clicked over the heaved asphalt of the driveway, followed by Winston’s light, quick steps on the stairs. “What are you doing here?”