Page 87 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“That must have been exhausting. All that uncertainty.”

Uncertainty. Like it’s a disease.

I think about waking up in Provence, not knowing what Charles would want to do. Maybe we’d explore a market. Maybe we’d sit by the pool all day, reading. Maybe Hayes would show up and turn my world upside down with a single look.

The uncertainty was the best part.

“Yeah,” I tell David. “Exhausting.”

That night, I’m sprawled on Tessa’s couch, still in my work clothes, when she arrives home from her gallery job. She takes one look at me and opens a bottle of wine.

“That good, huh?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like someone ran over your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly. You’re too sad to even get a dog.” She pours two enormous glasses. “Talk to me.”

I take a sip. It’s the cheap grocery store wine that I’ve always thought was fine. Now it tastes like cardboard compared to the vintages Hayes used to order. Everything tastes like cardboard now.

“I miss them.”

“Charles?”

“Both of them.”

Tessa sits beside me, curling her legs under her. “Have you talked to either of them?”

“I’ve texted Charles. And he calls sometimes. Checks in.” I don’t mention that I can hear something different in his voice lately. A tiredness that scares me. “Hayes ... no.”

“Do you want to?”

The question hits me like a slap. Do I want to talk to the man who made me feel like I mattered, then treated me like a one-night stand? The man who looked at me like I hung the moon, then couldn’t get away fast enough after he got what he wanted?

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Bullshit.”

I turn to stare at her. Tessa doesn’t usually call me on my crap this directly. It’s a little jarring.

“You’re miserable,” she continues. “You’ve been miserable since you got back. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re fine.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re working a job you hate, living on my couch, and you’ve been wearing the same bra for three days.”

I look down. She’s not wrong.

“That’s just . . . practical.”

“That’s depression.”

Before I can argue, my phone rings. It’s Charles.

I almost don’t answer. But it’s late for him to be calling, and something about the timing makes my stomach clench.