Page 57 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

There was a sharp whisper, a hissed “shut up, he’s right there.” The voices went flat. I moved on, my chest squeezing out whatever remained of my dignity.

Let them gossip. Let them bet. I didn’t give a damn.

But I circled back and stepped inside instead. Everyone had scurried like cockroaches when the light came on. The kitchen was empty, which was strange for this hour. Maribel had taken to avoiding me since this afternoon, but I knew she was still in the house, there were new spice jars lined up by the stove, and the cutting boards had been scrubbed until they gleamed. I made a coffee and stood at the window, looking out over the back garden.

Leo was there, hunched over the rose beds, pruning without any real intention. He looked smaller than usual, shoulders slumped, the lines of his body tracing the shape of defeat. I watched him for a while, expecting to feel some flicker of satisfaction.

But there was nothing. Just emptiness.

If he wanted her, he could have her. I’d made sure of it.

That was the third lie.

Everywhere I went, there she was. Her ghost, her scent, her echo. I sat in my office and tried to work, but all I could hear was her laugh, her soft voice, the way she’d sat with me and simply understood. How she’d accepted me, even when I wasn’t worth the time or effort.

She was efficient, infuriating, and absolutely irreplaceable.

All I could think about was how my words – and the realization of what I’d done with her help – had made her go pale, how hurt flashed in her eyes, how tears instantly began to fill her eyes. But her anger… her anger was worse than her pain. She’d left, and I did nothing. I didn’t chase after her, didn’t try to fix it.

That was the point. That was what I was supposed to do. Better for her to hate me than things get more messy.

Later in the evening, after a completely unproductive day, I wandered the upper hall, unable to remember why I’d gone there in the first place. The sunlight made patterns on the runner, and for a second I imagined her standing at the banister, watching the dust drift in the air like snow. She would have said something smart, or sassy, or both. She would have asked if I’d ever seen anything so beautiful, then rolled her eyes when I pretended not to care.

I leaned against the wall, breathing through my teeth, and tried to remember a time when I’d been lonely on purpose. It was hard. Even harder when I thought about how it had felt to have her in my arms, warm and pliant and so goddamn alive. I wanted to forget the way her hair smelled, the way her lips tasted, the sound she made when I pushed her down into her bed and fucked her like I was starving.

I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t.

At some point, I ended up in the garden, for reasons I couldn’t explain. Leo had finished his rounds and left the roses half-pruned, the job abandoned in the middle. I stood among the thorns, breathing in the rot and the sweetness, and wondered if she’d ever come back to see them bloom.

Probably not. She was gone for good.

The sky turned pink, then orange, then black. The house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the far-off sound of a fox screaming in the woods. I sat on the edgeof my bed, hands clasped, and waited for the ache in my chest to dull.

It never did.

I thought about her brother, Dolan, the way she’d talked about him, the way her voice broke when she described the tragedy, the way her parents never spoke to her again after his death. I wanted to ask what might have made them do that, but I knew first hand that grief does strange things to people, that sometimes, when people hurt, they make the wrong choices. And the irony wasn’t lost on me.

The next morning, I woke at four and dressed in silence. I took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protest of my knees. The house was cold, and I was colder.

I went to her room. The bed was stripped, the closet empty, but there was a single drawer left open in the desk. Inside was a notebook, spiral-bound, the cover soft with wear. I flipped it open, expecting lists or schedules or some trace of her meticulous mind.

Instead, there were doodles. Little wolves, chasing their own tails. Loose figures dancing in the ballroom. A cartoon of me, scowling at a coffee cup. Underneath, she’d written in tiny print: “Cheer up, boss. You’re not as scary as you think.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed, just once, sharp and bitter.

She was wrong. I was worse.

Amusement and an emptiness warred within me. I kept the notebook. I put it in my top drawer, next to the contract. I told myself it was just until I found someone to return it to her.

That was the last lie. I had no intention of letting it go.

Days later, the staff still gossiped. The betting pool had doubled. Leo looked more and more like a kicked dog with every passing day. The housekeeper left chocolates on my pillow,which I threw away. Maribel made my coffee with extra sugar, which I drank without complaint.

Every day, the house grew darker, colder, quieter. Every day, I thought about her. I thought about what I’d done. I thought about what I’d lost.

And I wondered, for the first time in my life, if maybe I’d made a mistake I couldn’t fix.

I sat at my desk, staring at her handwriting, and waited for the hurt to go away.