Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

I went into my apartment just long enough to pack most of my clothes and toiletries into a bag, hating every second I was there. I wasn’t over the attack from last night—not even close. Even in daylight, being in the apartment made me feel watched, violated, as if that creep might be right outside again, or standing behind me. With sweat trickling down my back, I packed as fast as I could and piled my stuff into the Mercedes. Then I was gone again.

I avoided downtown and drove south instead, into South San Francisco, then over the bridge across the bay. I had stopped for coffee and a sandwich somewhere near CSU when my phone rang. It was a number from Gratchen Advertising.

That was when I realized I was supposed to be at work right now.

I stared at the number, and instead of feeling sick dread or helplessness, I felt nothing at all. Like Gratchen was from some other lifetime. I answered. “Hello?”

“Olivia.” It was Corey. “It’s after noon. It’s Sunday, but we are behind on the l’Orifice presentation because you left on Friday night. I sent you an email telling you to come in. Were you going to bother showing up?”

I swallowed the last bite of my sandwich. I had, indeed, seen the email on my phone, but I’d completely ignored it. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause, the sound of Corey obviously waiting for me to say something else. “That’s all?” he said finally. “I’m sorry?”

Answers ran through my head. I had a rough night last night. Someone threw me down the stairs and I went to the hospital. It was a perfectly good reason for me not to come in on my day off. At least, for any other employer it would be a perfectly good reason. I had the feeling Corey would argue it.

And suddenly, I didn’t care. I didn’t owe him anything. I didn’t owe them anything. Not my personal life, not my mental energy, and not my time. Not even for the piddly amount of money they paid me.

“I forgot,” I told him.

I could practically see his eyes bulge behind his glasses. “You forgot to come to work?”

“I did, actually,” I said. “And I wouldn’t have come, even if I remembered. I guess that means I’m not cut out for the job. So here you go. I quit.”

“Olivia, we have important deadlines coming up. We are buried in work here. You can’t just quit without notice.”

It was funny that he would say that, since the firm had been telling me from the first day that I was completely replaceable and there was a lineup out the door of graphic designers waiting to take my job. “Just hire someone else,” I said. “Let them pay their dues instead of me. But I can’t work for you anymore. I’m done.”

“This is outrageous,” he said. “There’s no way you’re getting a reference from us.”

It was like he was talking another language. The idea of asking for a reference, so I could get another job just like that one, was absurd. “That’s fine,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

“Olivia, I really can’t understand why you would do this.”

“Because life is too short to do something I hate,” I said. “Bye.” And I hung up.

I waited. Sitting in the car, with my phone in my hand, I waited for the panic to set in. That was the single craziest thing I had ever done—almost crazier than letting a criminal on the run into my apartment, or getting into Devon Wilder’s car. I had quit my job. I had told them off. I had nothing else. I was unemployed.

But the panic didn’t come. I had savings; I’d put money aside from my first paycheck. I didn’t need much to live on. The rent at Shady Oaks was cheap, but if I had to, I could bunk with Gwen or my mother for a while. The house in Diablo flashed through my mind—and the billionaire who lived in it—but I pushed it away for the moment. I would find my way on my own.

As if he was reading my mind, a text appeared on my phone from Devon.

Tell me you’re safe, he wrote.

I stared at that and my heart flipped. A huge, slow, dizzying turn in my chest. He could have been angry with me; he could have flipped out. He could have demanded I tell him where I was, or tried to order me to come back. He could even have come after me, or sent Ben after me.

But he said and did none of those things. Instead, he’d asked me about the one thing that mattered the most to him—whether I was all right.

I took a deep breath. I was in love with Devon Wilder. It was clear to me now—I wasn’t just in lust with him, or fascinated by his looks and his personality and his complex life. I was in love with him. And he was in San Francisco, while I was driving away.

And somehow, right now, that was right.

I’m safe, I told him. And then, because I couldn’t resist, I added, It’s a beautiful car.

Thank you, he wrote back. Consider it a loan.

A loan meant this wasn’t forever. A loan meant I was coming back.

Was I coming back?