Be My Babygirl

I pick up mine and she picks up hers.

We both still.

I have fifteen calls and texts from my publicist.

She used you. Don’t let her ruin you.

What?

Katie covers her mouth with her hand and sinks to her knees on the floor, overcome with whatever she’s seeing on her end of the phone. She murmurs something to herself about a Sarah and the words, bestseller on our hands.

I click a link my publicist sent me.Vegas, Baby, by bestselling romance author Katie Davis, is set to hit shelves late this spring, but insiders say it’s more than a romance novel but an exposé, a romp into the personal life and times of none other than billionaire Darius Morrow of Morrow Enterprises, and owner of the Vegas, Baby resort.What? There’s no way anyone knew about this book yet. She just sent it in tonight. How could they already have details like this?I look at Katie in consternation. Her mouth’s open in shock as she scrolls through what’s in front of her. I drag my eyes reluctantly back to the screen.Our inside sources say Ms. Davis not only agreed to be a paid escort for the reclusive billionaire but sidled her way into his personal life. She reveals all in her novel—the tragic loss of his family, how he was raised by his grandmother, his devastating injury that prevented him from pursuing his dream in professional football.I read on, but it feels as if I’m out of my body, like I’m not here. She wouldn’t do this. Someone manipulated this. Katie wouldn’t use me.

She wouldn’t.

Would she?

She’s smiling, she’s actually smiling at whatever she’s reading. How could she put my life on display like this, then celebrate her victory right before me? I thought I fueled her muse or something, served as her inspiration for... love. Sure, I was fine with her writing about our sexcapades.

But my parents’ death?

I silence my phone and toss it onto my desk. I cross my arms on my chest, not because I’m angry but somehow, as if to protect myself.

“Did you?” My voice is low and dangerous, laced with anger and accusation.

“What?”

“Write about me.” I can’t bring myself to say more.

She swallows hard. “I’ll go home,” she whispers. “I… I can’t tell a lie. Of course I wrote about you. You were the basis of the story.”

Of course she did? What the hell is she talking about? I blink at her. I can’t believe just moments ago I was prepared to propose to the woman. And now… she’s admitted to using me? Of betraying my confidence, making money from my tragedy? How could she?

My voice is cold and hard, masking the pain that stabs me. “I’ll pay what I owe you and get you a ride.”Chapter 17Katie

The fury in his eyes makes me cringe, physically curl in on myself, and I briefly second guess my decision to flee. “But wait—can’t we talk about this? I told you, you were my inspiration, our love broke my writer’s block—”

His hand shoots up, an open palm cutting off my words. “I don’t want to hear one. More. Word.” Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he goes to take out cash. “I’ll give you what I have, and Miranda will wire you the rest. I just want you out of here. Now.” He tosses the bills down before me.

As I watch them flutter to the ground, my breath leaves my body. I can’t breathe, I have that terrible feeling you get when the wind’s been knocked from your chest. Staring at the bills on the carpet, I blink back hot tears of devastation.

How could he treat me like this?

My words come out, a choked sob. “What are you doing? How could you…” My words trail off as the pain consumes me.

He’s thrown money at me. Kicked me out of his place. He’s not the man I thought he was.

Rising from the floor, I slide my phone in my pocket. Leaving the money where it lies, I grab my purse and my backpack with the laptop. I don’t want anything, not one thing that he’s bought for me. He can keep it for his next escort.

As I’m reaching for the door, he gives a growl. “I’ll call for my car.”

I can’t even look at him. “Don’t. I don’t want anything else from you. Ever.”

Somehow, I manage to walk out that door and get into the elevator before I let the dam burst. Tears flow down my cheeks like a river. Huge sobs rack my body, shaking my shoulders. It’s an act of God that no one gets on that elevator with me and for the next fifty-five floors. I get to have a private ride of pain and sorrow and hurt.

I’ll never, ever forget the way he looked at me when he threw that money down.