One Night with a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club 6)

“Hey, boss,” Jerome said. “I was just about to call you.”

“Oh?” Cade frowned, tensing. Jerome rarely ever called him, because he only liked to “bother” Cade for emergencies. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jerome said. “Just that you got an envelope this morning. Looks like it’s from a law office and it’s marked extremely confidential. I had to sign for it, but I didn’t want to open it if you were expecting some top secret information I shouldn’t see.”

“I’m not expecting anything of the sort,” Cade said, fighting impatience. “Go ahead and open it. Listen, I need you to look up some information for me in regards to—”

“Huh,” Jerome said, interrupting Cade’s thoughts.

“What?”

“Well, this is weird. It’s annulment papers.”

His heart felt as if it had dropped to his feet. “It’s what?”

“Paperwork to annul the marriage of Mr. Cade Christian Archer and Miss Kylie Anne Daniels. Reason: Impaired mental capacity due to drugs and/or alcohol.”

He felt gutted. Completely and utterly gutted. “She won’t call me. She won’t text me. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“There’s a note in here, too,” Jerome said, and Cade could hear him sorting through the paperwork. “Let’s see. It’s been printed on a computer. No handwriting or anything. And it’s on the law office’s letterhead. It says ‘Dear Cade, I can’t do this anymore. We both know we should have never gotten married. It should have been just the one night. I’m filing the annulment. Please respect my wishes and make no attempt to contact me. Yours, Kylie.’”

“Bullshit,” Cade snarled.

“Whoa there,” Jerome said, surprised at Cade’s reaction.

“It’s bullshit,” he said again. “Someone must have gotten to her. They’re pushing her to end this. We always say it’s just the one night, and it never is.” He shook his head, keeping his phone pressed to his ear as he began to storm down one of the hallways, heading for an elevator. “Kylie would at least talk to me. A text. Something. The fact that she won’t even answer her phone tells me something’s up. I need to talk to her in person. Can you book me a flight home?”

“How fast?”

“As fast as you can make it.”

“You should probably charter something, then.”

“Just do it,” Cade said, hammering the elevator button. “I need to see my wife before I sign anything.”

—

Sixteen hours later, an exhausted Cade arrived in Seattle, Washington. Daphne Petty’s next tour stop was Key Arena and he dozed in the back of the limo while waiting for the box office to open so he could pick up his will-call tickets and backstage pass. When the ticket window opened, he waited (rather impatiently) for his turn in line, then got his tickets and practically ran to the backstage area.

Once there, though, he was stopped by a security guard. “Daphne Petty is not allowing anyone backstage prior to the show,” the guard said. “She needs her concentration. She’ll meet all fans after the encore.”

Gritting his teeth, Cade pushed his way forward again. “I’m a personal friend of Daphne Petty,” he said, dropping her name even though he had no intentions of seeing her. “I’m sure she’d want me inside.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said. “We have our orders. No one inside until postshow.”

Fuck this. He’d been patient long enough. With a snarl of irritation, he pushed his way down another hall and out of the building, looking for the loading docks. Kylie had told him that the employees often went and found a Dumpster in the back area to have a smoke at throughout the night.

Sure enough, a woman with a “staff” pass was hanging out near one of the Dumpsters, talking to another girl. Both of them had cigarettes in their hands, and both of them stiffened at the sight of him. Encouraged, he rushed forward.

The women stubbed out their cigarettes and started to rush for a nearby door.

“Wait,” Cade called as they hurried away. He raced after them and barely managed to get to the door before they could slip inside. Pushing his weight against it, he said one single word: “Kylie?”

They exchanged a look.

“She’s not supposed to see anyone,” the younger one said. “The label’s clamping down hard on her.”

“I just flew here from Sweden,” he told them desperately. “And if I don’t get to see my wife and find out what’s going on, I’m going to lose my mind. Please. I will pay you. Handsomely. I will buy you cars. Private islands. Whatever you want. Just let me in this door, all right?”