Page 40 of The Greek Billionaire's Rejected Secretary

"But at least I'm happy."

"Your happiness comes at a terrible cost," I retort, thinking of all the divorce settlements my father had to pay. Eight wives. Eight failures. Eight lessons he never learned.

"We make mistakes, it's life." He shrugs, unrepentant. "But at least I experienced happiness. Can you say the same for yourself?"

A waiter appears between us, offering fresh drinks. My father exchanges his empty glass for a full one while the momentary interruption allows me to regain my composure.

"Let's just talk about something else—"

"Shayla was different from the rest."

Classic Pietro. A good listener...he never was.

"Why would I listen to someone who has been divorced eight times and never seemed to learn his lesson?"

"You learn new things with each divorce. And I may not have foundtheone for me, but I've learned enough to know a good one when I see one—" He then looks at me pointedly. "Or when someone's stupid enough to lose one."

"She was just my secretary," I bite out.

"In the beginning, yes. But something changed,ne?" Pietro looks at me with pity. "And then you just had to ruin it, like your dear papa."

"You speak of her like you've known her."

"For eight and a half years," he confirms with a nod, "yes."

Only one person would make that kind of correction...and I can no longer deny the truth. Pietro knows me.AndShayla. And I can no longer dismiss his words as something meaningless and meddlesome.

My father looks at me with wily eyes. "You didn't know we have been talking and spending time, did you?" He sips his champagne, watching me over the rim. "Whenever I called and you were unavailable, she'd keep me on the line. Ask about my cases. My investments. My life." He shrugs. "No one does that—unless they want something."

My heart hardens. That part, Pietro definitely got right. At the end of the day, she was just like everyone else. She wanted—

"And in her case, I knew from the start she wanted—"

Money.

"—to understand me for your sake."

Bullshit.

"Let's not just talk about her," I say flatly.

My father studies me for a long moment. "You know what your problem is, Adriano?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You've spent so long preparing for people to leave that you never learned how to ask them to stay."

The observation lands like a blow. I want to argue, to defend myself. But he's right, damn him.

"I've just remembered I need to talk to someone." Anyone but my father, who's suddenly full of wisdom. Where was this wisdom when Pietro kept falling for eighteen-year-old gold-diggers?

I turn and walk away, ignoring my father's knowing look. The conference ballroom feels suddenly stifling, the conversations either tedious or shallow.

Outside, the summer air offers no relief. I loosen my tie, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here. To be someone else. Someone who doesn't carry this weight in his chest.

That's when I see them. Hope and Colin Soukoulis, walking hand in hand along the sidewalk across the street. They look... complete. Content in a way I've never been. The cynical part of me wants to dismiss it as an illusion. I want to think of Shayla and her friend are completely alike, both of them motivated by greed, both exceptionally skilled in hooking up with billionaires.

But even I know I'd be fooling myself if so.

---