I breathed out an enormous, gusting sigh when I finally locked the apartment door behind me and crept past Kat’s bedroom for the bathroom.
Until my phone buzzed. And then buzzed again. And again.
Rumi: Living it up on a billionaire’s yacht, not exactly the best plan if you want to stay off the radar
Rumi: It would be so easy to out you to the authorities right now
Rumi: I could have police dispatched to arrest you in three minutes—you know I have contacts
Rumi: But I’m willing to give you one last chance to come to your senses. Like I said, I have contacts. I can make everything go away
Rumi: I can make Australia your home forever. I can make it so your uncle can’t ever touch you again
Rumi: All you have to do is be my wife
Rumi: Is that really so awful?
“Du-te-n pizda ma-tii, Rumi!” I snapped, heart racing as, with shaking hands, I tapped through to block her contact. My finger hovered over the button.
No. I had to think clearly about this. Blocking her might trigger her fury enough to have her carrying through with those threats. And I was almost positive that they were empty … for now.
I shoved my phone away, ran the shower as hot as it would go and stepped under the spray. And once I was there, I let it all out. The tears, the tremors … the trauma. I slid down the wall, hugged my knees and sobbed as silently as I could into my lap as the water cascaded over me, drowning out any sound.
I sat under the spray until the hot water went cold. And then I got out, dried myself, shoved on the softest, oldest T-shirt I could find and crawled into my bed.
I’d thought that maybe I would struggle to sleep, with fears and worries both past and present rearing their ugly heads tonight. But as soon as my head hit the pillow, my eyelids drooped and gave me what I needed so badly.
Oblivion. At least until morning.
BREAKING NEWS: TICKLE PARTY EXCLUSIVE PHOTOGRAPHS
Last night, Tickle billionaire duo Atlas Prideaux and Henry Baxter celebrated 300 million subscribers with a star-studded exclusive shindig on Baxter’s super yacht, theGirl on Fire. TechRaker was on board for all the shenanigans, of which there were many.
The guest list boasted local and international Tickle personalities, including the infamous Ilya Ivanov, Belarusian model-turned-reality-star-turned-porn-star. Prideaux was caught red-handed with his hands up her dress while dancing, and they left the yacht together at the end of the party. Anyone who has seen Ivanov’s Tickle content will know that Prideaux won’t be sitting down without wincing for several days.
The pair also hosted YouTube darling, River Riley, whose Australian-made eco clothing line, Fluss, launches later in the month. Riley, conversely, was on his best behaviour, which was only to be expected of the wholesome child-star-turned-eco-warrior.
Also in attendance were prominent Sydney businesspeople. Cadence Sullivan, founder of high-tech sex-toy range, Cadence, was spotted having a heartfelt discussion with Baxter early in the evening. Rumours that the pair, who were involved in a lengthy relationship during their university days, might be rekindling their romance were solidly dashed when Baxter was spotted emerging from his private living quarters later in the night with fresh-faced Tickle sensation, Ru_Snack_XXXplores.
Despite concerted efforts, this reporter has been unable to unearth Ru Snack’s real identity. The creator of multiple viral ‘self-care’ posts on the app,Ru Snack nevertheless has her data locked down tighter than the fit of her oversized vibrator.
One thing is for sure, though—she and Baxter appearedverycosy, with his hand on her backside as they surfaced from their private interlude. Could the elusive billionaire be mixing business with pleasure?
CHAPTER TEN
Mixing Business with Pleasure
HENRY
Morning brought me no reprieve from the invasion of my home. A cleaning crew swarmed onto the boat in the middle of my breakfast. While I disliked being surrounded by more people before I’d had a chance to decompress from the last batch, I didn’t exactly disapprove of these ones, after what Irina had told me about my guest bathroom.
I tipped the last of my coffee into my mouth, but it did nothing to calm the jittery feeling racketing around in my stomach whenever I thought about her. A cleaner quickly swooped in, snatched my cup away and whisked it off to the kitchen, leaving me staring at my hands. Particularly, my left hand, which still tingled with the phantom sensation of her back against it as I guided her up the stairs.
She was nothing like what I’d been expecting … and somehow, strangely, she was exactly what Ishouldhave expected. I’d assumed the chatty, intimate nature of her less raunchy posts was an act to feign intimacy with those viewing them. It very much wasn’t. She was that same funny, brazen, unfiltered woman in the flesh.
I cleared my throat, chewing on my Vegemite toast, because thinking about her flesh … it seemed wildly inappropriate, despite her making a living from it. And yet it kept popping into my mind—the small scar on her knee, no doubt from some childhood scrape, and the way I’d noticed the hairs on her forearms stand on end more than once during our chat. And of course, her breasts. Which were even more spectacular than they had appeared on screen.
It struck me as odd that she’d seemed no more than curious at learning I was the rich man who owned the boat.
