Billionaire's Second Chance

“Just about three months. I worked at State Park Bank for almost two years before that.”

“As a teller?”

I wanted him to get to the point.

“Yes, sir,” I said meekly.

“And you’re still in school?”

Why was he asking me these questions when he was obviously looking at a document that told him all the answers? Mr. Wilson was not helping the moth situation in my stomach.

“Yes, at Southern Eastern. Junior year.”

“Really?” He finally looked at me with raised eyebrows. “It says here that you have only been in college for two years.”

“Yes, but I had excellent grades in many AP classes so I had a whole year transferred over.”

“Impressive.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, for some reason. “Do you have any other jobs besides this one?”

“No, just the bank. But I work insane hours, so it’s practically two jobs,” I laughed nervously. He was not amused.

“I see,” he said and typed something on his computer.

There were a few minutes of silence, during which the moths in my stomach participated in an intense war. I was just about ready to throw up. This loan was my only bet— the only way I would be able to pay for my mom’s surgery without dropping out of college. The future of my entire life depended on whatever this Wilson guy was typing on his computer.

When he finally looked up, my heart was pounding.

“Here’s the thing, Aria,” he said without a single expression on his face. “You seem like a smart girl with a very promising future. However, between your college tuition and loans and your own living expenses, and just this job to sustain yourself – even if it is, as you put it,” he paused to make air-quotes, “‘practically two jobs,’ there is just no way you will be able to handle a loan for 60,000 dollars.”

My heart fell, and I could feel my eyes start to prickle.

“But I will be out of college in a little over a year.” My voice was shaky. “And I will have an excellent job, I assure you, and my situation will change completely.”

“When that happens you can reapply for the loan.” He actually looked a little apologetic.

“I need to pay for my mother’s heart surgery.” I don’t know why I said it. Studying to be a loan officer, I knew that there was nothing Wilson could do personally. His reasoning was completely sound.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, and I wish the bank could help you out, but right now there is nothing we can do.”

“I understand.” I did. That didn’t stop me from wanting to run into the bathroom and bawl my eyes out. “Thank you.”

My face was swollen and covered in tears by the time I made it back to the teller’s booth.

Chapter Four

ZAYDEN

She was crying. Crying women made me uncomfortable. My mother knew this so well that I didn’t remember the last time I saw her without tears in her eyes. At first it was about my dad’s death, so I used to try and make her feel better, but slowly it became directed towards my dad, in bitterness. At first I didn’t understand why she would speak of her dead husband as though he were some sort of a monster, but snide comments here and there about how I was handling my billions, and it all started adding up. She couldn’t believe that he hadn’t left a single penny in her name, which made no sense to me at first either, but eventually the truth came out; she had been cheating on him for years. With his lawyer. Who also happened to be one of his best friends. He tolerated it while he was alive because he loved her or some nonsense of that sort, but apparently this “love” thing was not that big of a deal because he found a way to get back at her from the grave. It made me hate her for a little bit, which added to the endless crying, but she was still my mother and I found a way to tolerate her. I bought her a giant house in California, thousands of miles away from me.

Why was Aria Roberts crying? I debated whether to go over to her and what the implications of that would be. There was no question about the fact that I wanted her body, but approaching her at an emotional time might suggest I wanted more. That I cared about how she was feeling. Well, maybe that’s exactly what she wanted; maybe believing exactly that would be what broke her restraint. I got a strange feeling in my gut that I didn’t understand. I was the master of manipulation. I messed with women’s emotions all the time. The hint of moral fiber had to be because she was crying.

I shook my head and trotted over to the booth. She was the only person there. Her mascara had slightly run down her smooth, blushing olive cheeks, which made her look surprisingly sexy.

She seemed to be so phased out that when she noticed I was standing in front of her, she jumped. Quickly wiping her face with her palms, she said in a squeaky voice, “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair!”

“Liar,” I teased. “It doesn’t seem to be that good of a morning for you.”