Page 251 of The Rebel Billionaire

“That’s definitely something Brooke would do.”

Harper sighs and snuggles into my chest the way she’s always done. Having her in my arms again is like coming home.

“I’ve missed this,” she says.

“Your family look pleased you’re home,” I say, thinking about how her brothers jumped to her defence.

I know I would be no different if it were Gabbi. I wonder how they feel after their sister launched herself at me. It was clear we were more than boss and PA.

She looks up at me.

“They are. For all the anguish I’ve caused them over the years, I think they actually missed me,” Harper says, mirth in her voice. She wraps her arms around my waist, her eyes locking on mine. “Did Elijah growl and Caleb glare before I arrived?”

I shrug, and she barks out a laugh.

“Don’t worry, they’re kittens really.”

I manoeuvre us back onto the couch.

“I know about your past. I read those articles… do you know what I thought?”

She shakes her head.

“I thought this is bullshit. You survived losing your father, had to deal with the press and public sticking their noses into your private grief.”

She lets out a sob, which she tries to swallow, so I cup her face.

“I’ve seen the pictures of you at the funeral. Their invasion of your privacy. I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like to be seventeen and trying to handle that kind of grief and scrutiny.”

Her eyes begin to water, and my throat tightens in response.

“But that’s the thing. I didn’t handle it. After he died, I couldn’t take the constant comments, sympathetic looks. I went off the rails… partied all the time… never allowed myself to stop long enough to remember…”

“I think you’re being hard on yourself. Some would have gone a lot further than you did. What I saw was a young woman deflecting attention from her grief. Tell me I’m wrong?”

I use my thumb to catch the tear making its way down her cheek.

“He was coming to get me, after telling me not to go…” she whispers.

CHAPTER 75

HARPER

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

“You’re not going, that’s final,” Dad says, his tone telling me this is not up for debate.

“What the hell, Dad? It’s the end of term, the end of the school year. It’s been planned for months.”

He takes a moment, his shoulders dipping, before he straightens them.

My heart sinks.

“It’s not a good idea. End of term, all that drinking, drugs…”

I harrumph.

“So, you don’t trust me,” I say, watching him flinch. “You don’t think I’m mature or smart enough to know what I’m doing? You think I’ll be a sheep and follow the flock?”