Page 95 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“I can’t do this,” I whisper against his shirt.

“I know. I know.”

But Charles is already gone. The man who made me laugh and taught me about stocks and the simple art of not giving a crap. Who taught me that family isn’t just blood. Who showed me what it felt like to matter to someone.

Gone.

“Frankie.” Hayes tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “We’ll get through this.”

Will we?

After making a couple of phone calls to set the arrangements in motion, Hayes drives me back home. Well,homeis relative. Since I’m currently in between places, he drops me off at Tessa’s.

“The funeral will be Tuesday,” he says, eyes full of grief.

I nod and exit the car.

I spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Charles. About Hayes. About the fact that in less than four days, I’ll have to say goodbye to the best man I’ve ever known.

And I’ll have to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Liverwurst and Love

Hayes

The funeral was everything Charles would have hated.

Too many flowers. Too many people giving speeches about his “philanthropic legacy” and “commitment to excellence.” My mother orchestrated the whole thing like a goddamn Broadway production.

Frankie sat in the front row, staring straight ahead while senators and CEOs took turns at the podium. She looked like she might shatter if someone breathed on her wrong.

When it was her turn to speak, she walked to the microphone in this simple black dress that made her look impossibly small.

“Charles Winthrop was the best man I ever knew,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. “He taught me that family isn’t about blood. It’s about showing up. Every single day.”

She paused, gripping the podium.

“He showed up for all of us. Even when we didn’t deserve it. Especially when we didn’t deserve it.”

Her eyes found mine across the packed church.

“He’d want us to keep showing up for each other.”

That was it. Thirty seconds that said more about Charles than hours of formal eulogies.

Now we’re back at his apartment—my apartment, I guess, since everything’s mine now. The will reading was yesterday. He left me the business, the properties, more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.

And he left Frankie five million dollars.

She hasn’t touched the check.

“You should eat something.” I set a plate of Chinese takeout in front of her.

She’s been camped out on Charles’s couch for three days, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her hair’s in a messy bun that looks like she twisted it up and forgot about it.

“Not hungry.”