Page 8 of The Rebel Billionaire

My eyes sting as a thickness builds in my throat. I swallow down the tears that once again threaten.

“Don’t you dare!” I say, giving myself a mental shake before sliding the phone into the inside pocket of my bag, zipping it away.

Self-pity holds no utility, isn’t that what they say?

I wheel my suitcase into the bedroom and hoist it onto the bed. No luggage rack here. Unpacking doesn’t take long. I sort through my clothes, setting most aside as unsuitable for my new life. Designer clothes from Prada, Gucci, Dior, and St Clair do not fit the image of a small-town nobody from a little-known place in England. Harper Frazer doesn’t live here, Brooke Feldmann does.

Grabbing the manila envelope, I tip the contents onto the bed, locking my passport and driver’s licence in the small safe attached to the wall. I place my certificates and CV back inside.

The booklet lies on the bed and stares accusingly at me. I’ve memorised it. The Seamstress wasn’t wrong when she said I have a photographic memory, but I refused to leave it behind. Too many what-ifs. It’s not like I could burn it on the plane, and if I tore it up, what if someone put the ripped pieces back together?

Guilt pulses through me, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I’m stuck here. The thought of all the cameras, people, and press means I’m trapped inside.

What if someone recognises me? What if my security detail is too far away and can’t get to me in time? What happens then?

The hairs on my nape and arms rise, and my muscles tense. A fate worse than death. Isn’t that what she said?

I press a fist to my chest and try to slow my thundering heart. I close my eyes as a wave of dizziness overtakes me.

Unzipping my bag, I recheck my phone. Still nothing.

I wrap my arms around my waist and lean against the wall beside the bedroom window, watching the street below and all the people with places to go and families to return to. I turn away as the ache in my chest intensifies. After years of fighting for my independence, I want nothing more than to be at home playing Monopoly with my family.

I bite my lip, stilling the growing tremor.

Fuck!

My phone rings.

I sway, my knees going weak.

I glance down at the display. Unknown number.

My stomach drops.

I accept the call and draw a breath.

“Hello?” I say quietly.

“Harper?”

I pause.

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Er, who is this?”

I close my eyes, my stomach tightening, the sound of my name on someone’s lips jarring.

“Sorry, this is Sophia Bianchi.”

Mum’s friend. The thought is surprisingly soothing. I exhale slowly, calming my racing heart.

“Mrs Bianchi,” I say. “This is Brooke. Brooke Feldmann.”

“Of course, Brooke,” she repeats. There’s a brief pause. “Please, call me Sophia. Mrs Bianchi reminds me of when I was CEO.”

“Sophia,” I repeat.

“How are you settling in?” she asks.