Page 315 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“Hi, is this Grace Michaels from Rory’s Treasures?” a woman’s voice returns.

“Yes, who’s this?” I ask.

“It’s Helen,” she says, “Helen Kramer.”

“Oh, Helen,” I respond. “How are you doing? How’s that no-good husband of yours? Is he ready for me to come back to work yet?”

Helen, Troy’s wife, is a lovely woman who married a terrible affliction. I feel sorry for anyone who has to encounter Troy on a regular basis, but she’s stuck with him.

“Helen?” I ask.

When I hear her voice again, it comes in the form of a sob. “He’s gone!” she cries. “Troy’s gone!”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “What happened?”

She sniffs. “After you had sold everything in the store, he took off for Tahiti,” she says. “He didn’t even let me know he’d left until he called me from the plane.”

“He just left you there?” I ask. “What a jerk!”

“No,” she says. “No, he’s not. Grace, Troy’s dead.”

I sit up, my mouth open.

“Oh my god, Helen, I’m sorry,” I say. “What happened?”

“All I know is what I heard from the embassy,” Helen says. “He was in a small village, you know, in Tahiti, and I guess he started gambling and lost money to the wrong people. When he said he couldn’t pay them, they threw him to the pigs!”

I don’t know if that’s a euphemism or not, but it sounds horrible, whatever happened.

“Helen,” I start, “I don’t know what to say. I’m in shock.”

“I’m just calling to tell you Troy left you the store,” she says. “I don’t want anything to do with that place.”

“I don’t know why he would leave me the store and not you,” I tell her. “You said you don’t want anything to do with it, but if I were to—”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” she says. “Sell it, run it—I don’t care. Go to the courthouse and they’ll take care of … whatever. I’m sorry,” she says, “I have to go.”

Click.

What the hell just happened?

I’ve fantasized about something bad happening to Troy for a long time, but I never actually wanted him to get hurt. I can’t believe he’s gone.

There’s no reasonable explanation I can offer for dialing Troy’s number and hitting send, but I do it regardless. When a man answers in a foreign language, I end the call.

I’m shaking so much I drop the phone.

When Zach comes home two hours later, I’m still sitting on the deck.

“Hey,” he says as he comes out the French doors.

“Hey,” I murmur.

He comes around into my field of vision, saying, “Are you all right?”

I give him a quick breakdown of the phone call, and I’m just staring into space. When I get to the part about the store, Zach jumps in, saying, “If you want, I can help you sell it.” He says, “I don’t know anyone in Mulholland proper, but I have a couple of friends in real estate that owe me a favor, and I bet we could get it turned around in no time.”

“What?” I ask, looking up at Zach.

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