Page 16 of Unwrapping the Billionaire

“Sweetie, it’s Christmas Eve. We can take care of things. It’s what we do. We have all your numbers. We’ll call you the moment we have some news.”

“No, I want to be here,” says Ava, firmly. “That woman raised me all on her own… There’s no way I’m letting her die on her—” Her face crumples and my left hand starts twitching. I ram it into the pocket of my pants before I do something stupid,like reaching out to comfort her…Thank fuck, she can’t see or feel me here. My reputation would never recover. I’d have junior associates walking all over me.

“We’re having a Nicole Kidman movie marathon,” says Ava, smiling through her tears. “It’s our thing. We do it every Christmas, and I want her last to be just the same, to hell with the circumstance.”

“Honey, that sounds perfect,” says Sara. “Listen, I clock off in an hour, and then I’ll come and sit with you for a while. Is that okay?”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” I exclaim loudly. “Why would anyone want to spend a single minute in this hell hole longer than is necessary?”

“You don’t need to do that,” says Ava quickly, echoing my own thoughts, but I can tell it’s a false positive on her part. It’s a lonely gig watching your mother die.

“Hey, it’s Christmas… My man is working late and the kids are at my Mom’s until eleven.”

“Thank you,” Ava whispers, and for a moment I almost vomit from all the Christmas spirit polluting the air.

Almost.

The nurse heads back into the room and starts fussing about with busy nurse shit. Ava takes a moment to compose herself in the hallway, swiping at her eyes and cheeks viciously, before testing out a smile at the white wall, and then following her in.

“I reckon we should start with a classic, Mom,” I hear her say cheerily. “I’m voting forFlirting.”

Err no. That movie belongs in the bargain bin forevermore.

“What’s wrong with her mother?” I demand.

Present shrugs. She’s sitting on the desk at the nurses’ station, and swinging her legs about like a little kid. It’s fucking irritating. “Does it matter?”

Not really. Death is an inevitability, which makes for a depressing run-up if you’re a lonely asshole like me.

“I amnotlonely,” I say loudly.

“Say it enough times and you might believe it,” says Present, with a smirk.

“If I’d wanted your opinion, Adriana Lima, I’d have asked for it. Now, get me out of here, and without you breaking my face this time.”

“Don't you want to pay your last respects?”

“I’d rather eat the dirt on the underside of your Louboutins. I hope my father’s paying you overtime for this.”

Her legs start swinging a little faster as she beckons me over. On impulse, I drop my hand to protect my crotch, which leaves my face completely exposed.

Dick move.

Seconds later, my left eye socket is exploding into flames.

* * *

I’m backoutside my office building. I can see the huge Christmas tree I begrudgingly allowed my employees to erect, standing just inside. The fake candle decorations look like flicked-up middle fingers to me. Even the silver tinsel looks strangely sinister.Why the hell should I prescribe to a holiday season that’s brought me nothing but misery?

Grace is standing a few feet away. The vicious December wind is flattening her brown curls to her head. She chewed off her lipstick hours ago. Some women can wear their emotions on their faces as naturally as they wear their make-up, and Gracie Parker is one of them. I can see anger there, unease…Resignation.

She has her eyes closed, and she’s muttering to herself—no doubt psyching herself up. She’s a proud woman, and tonight is going to cost her everything. She’s wearing a smart black cashmere coat over tailored black pants, but her beloved cherry-red Chucks are taking pride of place on her feet. Without her heels on, she seems smaller and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her. The Chucks are a comfort thing, and it makes that nameless weed spread like a triffid through my veins again.

All of a sudden, her eyes spring open.

Those two brown anchors that hooked me the first time we met are flashing harder than Present’s...

“Fuck you, Jonas Farley!” she screams at my multi million-dollar office building, making all the last minute shoppers turn their heads in her direction. “Fuck you for making me do this! Fuck you for turning into this cruel, irredeemable bastard, and fuck you for ever existing!”

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