I’ve had no symptoms. I get tested regularly. I haven’t slept with anyone else since moving to the States. Only that one stupid, drunken night. I’ve never gone without protection. Not even in my reckless Uni days. Well, with anyone but Chanel. So how the hell could this have happened?
“I just want to do the mature thing,” I press on. “Make things right between us and admit to my mistakes until I can get this sorted.”
Can you give someone something without having it yourself? None of this makes sense to me. But she was adamant it had to have come from me.
I wanted to be up front about it when we got back together. She’d asked if I’d been with anyone else and I didn’t want to lie. I explained it was a drunken mistake, but things haven’t been the same since admitting it to her. They haven’t been good for long before that, if I’m being honest. But that’s likely because I’ve been so focused on my career.
What did I think was going to happen after telling her something like that? She was already questioning a future together. Yet lying didn’t make sense if I wanted to build a future with her.
So trying to calm her down is the first thing on the agenda. I’ll go get retested next.Fuck me.
Tuesday exhales softly. “This might take more than flowers. Perhaps, instead of focusing on forgiveness, show her love. Show her effort. Make romance a way of life, not merely a onetime get out of jail card.”
I sit up taller in my chair. “What do you mean?”
“Like, up your game. You said you love her. Show her.” Tuesday lays out a plan of dinners, flowers, letters, baths, rituals. And with every word, hope slowly creeps back into my chest.
“You’re right. I like that.”
“It takes the focus off of what happened and puts the concentration on the two of you. And if she still walks away,” she adds gently, “you’ll know you gave her everything.”
A chime tinkles across the phone, causing me to look down at my watch. I’m about to be late for a meeting. “Thank you, Tuesday. You’vebeen incredible. And such a pretty name.” Scratching my chin, I consider it. Don’t think I’ve ever met a Tuesday before.
“Ben.”
“Yes?”
“Keep focused on your girl. I’m going to work on a few ideas and call you back to confirm. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes. Perfect. Thank you. I’m feeling more optimistic already.” As the line clicks dead, I lean back in my chair, heart pounding.
I’ve rebuilt my entire life around this woman. And for the first time since I landed in America, I’m terrified I might’ve made a huge mistake coming here. The very last thing I need is to go back home with my tail between my legs.
I can’t help wondering how a situation like this hadn’t happened to an egotistical rogue like my stepbrother instead of me.
William Devon Sly. Dev. Slick Willy, if you’re unfortunate enough to be amongst his close circle of friends.
Devon is what people imagine when they hear the wordsbillionaire heir. His money is both old and new. It’s a combination of generational wealth and modern branding genius. His father, Charles, inherited a sprawling chain of grand boutique hotels across the UK, then promptly horrified the family by marrying an American girl.
My mother.
Dev took that empire and crafted it into something fresh and modern. He created The Provocateur, an edgy, ultra-luxury hotel brand built on privacy, indulgence, and exclusivity, and somehow made it even more profitable than the original. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working.
He keeps a carefully curated circle of friends in the States. Men who call themselves the Billionaire Boys Club. They meet at a members-only private club called the Devil’s Playground. I’m technically a member too, though I’m fairly certain that invitation came courtesy of Dev’s last name rather than my comparatively modest net worth in the mid-nine figures.
Devon is a rake by design. He guards his professional image with surgical precision while treating his personal life like an unendingbachelor party. His nickname exists for a reason. And he’s never once pretended otherwise. Sad, given he’s pushing forty. Unlike him, I want to settle down and start a family one day.
Knowing this, I’ve tried to rein myself in. I don’t want to be lumped in with the arrogant, self-indulgent trust-fund crowd I ran circles with growing up. Sure, I was a playboy while I attended University. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy the advantages my money and status brought me.
But novelty wears thin when attraction is transactional. When people want you for what you have instead of who you are. Especially the women. It’s lonely in a way you don’t expect. When they’re only after you for one thing. And it’s not your ability to give them multiple orgasms.
I exhale slowly, rubbing my jaw. Tuesday’s right. I need to do this differently.
I’m going to pull out every stop. I’m going to show Chanel, not beg her, that my devotion is real.
Maybe then I can finally get my life back on track.
2
