Page 6 of The Billionaire's Promise

“What do you mean?” I asked. “We just got engaged last night.”

“I don’t need the exact day, just a general idea. Are you going to be a spring bride? Summer? I’m assuming you’ll want time off for the honeymoon.”

Deflated, I said, “We thought we’d wait until—”

“After his residency? Isn’t that a year away?”

“Sixteen months,” I admitted, my sparkly joy drained away under Vance’s relentless questions.

I’d wanted a real proposal. I won’t lie about that. The ring, Brayden down on one knee, the whole deal. I didn’t need Vance to remind me it hadn’t worked out that way. But the proposal wasn’t what was important. We were getting married. We had a whole lifetime together.

“You’re not engaged,” he announced, standing up, his tight shoulders now loose, the sympathetic smile on his face at odds with the hard expression in his eyes.

“I am,” I insisted.

“You’re not. When he gives you a ring and you set a date, then you’re engaged.”

“What do you know about it?” I demanded. “You’re the least romantic guy I know. You sleep with a different woman every night. You’ve never even had a girlfriend.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he shot back. “I still know how it’s supposed to work. You give the girl a ring, get down on one knee, and do it somewhere special she’ll be able to remember her whole life. Did he even give you flowers?”

I didn’t bother to answer. I didn’t need to. He saw the answer in my eyes. “What did he do, announce over pizza that you should get married when he finishes his residency?”

I looked into my coffee cup and nodded, my throat thick with unshed tears. At the time, even a few minutes ago, I’d been happy about it. After hearing Vance rip it apart, I wanted to cry. When Vance crouched down beside me, one hand on my shoulder, I did, hot tears spilling over my cheeks.

“Tell him, no, Magnolia. He’s not good enough for you. Not even close.”

“I want to get married,” I whispered, so quietly I might have been talking to myself. “I want a family.”

Vance’s hand squeezed tight. “I know you do, Babe. But you can’t make up for the past with the first asshole who comes along. Trust me. I know.”

“So what, I should just drink away the pain like you do?” I said, knowing it was mean but unable to stop myself. Vance just shook his head and stood, giving my shoulder another squeeze before letting go. “No. You should dump that twat and get some therapy to help you deal with having neglectful assholes for parents.”

“I’m the one who needs therapy?” I asked, incredulous through my tears. When it came to sad childhood stories, Vance had me beat by a mile.

“Hey, do as I say, not as I do.” He winked at me and disappeared. I knew he was headed for the kitchen to get some coffee. I also knew when he came back and sat at my desk to review the day’s work, his coffee would smell of whiskey.

I wiped my face clean of tears and stared blindly at my laptop screen. I had no place to judge. Vance was probably right. A therapist would tell me that I was rushing into marriage because my parents had dumped me in an English boarding school at the age of eight while they partied their way across Europe and had never really come back. I’d seen them only a handful of times since then. My father, now loosely connected to the embassy in Belgium, had come home for my Grandmother’s funeral and stayed only long enough to scowl over the reading of the will before heading back overseas. Now that my Grandmother was gone, I was alone.

I wanted a family. I wanted children. I’d watched my friends at school go home on the weekends, the way they’d run out to the car and thrown themselves into their mothers’ arms, the way their fathers would pull them into a hug and kiss the tops of their heads. I’d wanted that. I couldn’t change the past, but I could create the fantasy with my own family. I would. I just had to get married first.

I’d been with Brayden for four years. It wasn’t like a ton of other guys were knocking down my door. This was my chance to change my life and I was taking it. Vance could just shut the hell up about it.

He came back a few minutes later and pulled up his chair beside me. A cup of Irish coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, he got down to business.

“The Cane-Webber proposal. Where are we with that?”

“I emailed you my analysis yesterday afternoon.”

“Got it,” he said, flicking his finger to scroll through my report. “I read it last night.”

“So you know I think the market is oversaturated and they’re over-leveraged.”

“I agree. We’ll let them reel in some other sucker. What about the security app?”

“That one is interesting,” I said, pulling up the file on a proposal from a new tech company with some ideas for social media security. “I highlighted the key points I liked, as well as some questions I have.”

“Your screen is bigger,” he said, moving his chair closer. “Pull up your report, and we’ll go through it. I agree, I’m intrigued by this one.”