Page 1 of Unwrapping the Billionaire

1

Jonas

Present

Every city has a beating heart, or so I’ve been told. I never stay in one place long enough to find out. For the last two years, the world has been my chessboard—my every move dictated by my greed, and my lust.

A new million-dollar deal is like a drug to me.

Another mindless fuck perpetuates the high.

I’m not even aware of my own heart beating anymore. It exists purely for physical survival, and anything else is a luxury I don’t prescribe to.I’m a master at breaking them, though…I learned from the best.

Every city pulses with hope and optimism.

Apparently...

I can’t abide by such mawkish sentiment. Very little flows through my veins, other than boredom and discontent. Not while she’s still alive and breathing the same oxygen as me.Not when she struck a match against my soul, and lit a goddamn funeral pyre with my emotions.

Grace Parker.

Sweet, innocent, not-so-full-of-Grace Parker.

These days, my money and social standing are like a magnet to all the pretty vacants out there. I can’t seem to scratch the itch, though. It’s entrenched too deep, and it’s only getting worse…

I exit my chauffeured black Lincoln, and make my way toward the glass-fronted entrance of Farley Industries. It’s Christmas Eve—as evident by all the cheap, shitty lights hanging in the windows of nearby stores, and in the trees lining the sidewalks. With their glints of burnished gold, the last remaining leaves on the branches remind me of the highlights in her hair.

I always find myself back in this city at Christmas. The ties that bind me to New York seem to tighten their grip at this time of year.

My hometown.

Herhometown.

New York can bite me.

I take the elevator to the top floor. My secretary is waiting for me when the doors spring open.

“Welcome back to New York, Mr. Farley.” Her greeting is cautious—her eyes aiming just shy of my own. Scorned women aren’t the only ones who can testify to my reputation. “Here are the new acquisitions files you requested.”

I take the files without thanks as I glide past into my office, letting the door slam shut in her face. She can thank me for my disinterest later.

Tossing them onto my desk, I pause by the floor-to ceiling glass windows. The skyline outside is a gaping jaw of industry, with each building taking on the jagged shape of a new multi million-dollar tooth.

Winter isn't white. It’s gray. The clouds up here are as dirty as the sidewalksdown there. I don’t allow myself to remember a time when my life played out in Technicolor, but I know that she’s out there somewhere, moving amongst the faceless: The girl with the big dreams and the lying eyes.

Fuck you, Grace Parker.

Growling in frustration, I lean back against my desk and skim through the files. If I can't have that woman in my bed, I’ll satisfy myself with the next best thing: tearing apart other people’s companies and livelihoods.Other people’s failures...

I pause on the second-to-last profile.

It can't be.

Parker & Fisk Publishing.

It’s her father’s company… The one she inherited. It would seem that Grace is as bad at running a fucking business as she is at being loyal to me.

Is fate conspiring in my favor?

---