Page 339 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

I send a quick message to Amelie, my morning chamber maid, letting her know to let me sleep in tomorrow, and I’m off to bed. The problem is, once I’m in bed, the last thing on my mind is sleep.

After about an hour just lying there, I flip on the television. I’m not interested in what’s on; I just need something louder than my thoughts if I’m going to get any sleep at all.

Eventually, I must have dozed off, because when I wake, it’s light outside. I’m tired and emotionally drained, but that’s no excuse. I have to get up.

If Grace’s not up yet, I’ll probably just let her sleep. In a lot of ways, I’m overjoyed she’s here, but that doesn’t mean anything is simple.

I head to the kitchen and grab some coffee. The pot’s still hot. Amelie must have just gone.

It’s nice when things just get done.

Sipping my coffee, I forego the urge to watch Grace sleep, and I get back to my room.

The television’s still on, and an old Tom Selleck movie is playing. I switch the channel over to the news and immediately, I drop the remote.

I pull out my phone and call Amelie. She doesn’t answer, but based on what I see on television; I’m not surprised.

Her voicemail beeps and I say, “You have twenty minutes to get here or not only are you fired, but I will also use every bit of my power and influence to make sure the rest of your life is hell. You know who this is, and you know why I’m calling. Get here now.”

I hang up the phone just in time for the camera to cut back to the full-sized, though blurred, picture of Grace sleeping topless in the guest room down the hall from me.

* * *

“Who the helldo you think you are?” I shout about a foot from Amelie’s face. “What was the point of that?” I spit, “I hope you got a hell of a payout because I’m going to ruin your fucking world! And you know nobody’s going to hire you anywhere for anything. Who told you to do this? I want you to tell me right now before I have you arrested for voyeurism!”

She goes a full half second without saying anything.

“I said answer me!” I yell.

“Whatis going on?” Grace’s voice comes somewhere to the left of me. Grace’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her hair’s a mess.

Amelie’s trembling. I’d never hit a woman, even for something like this, but I’m no less glad she’s scared. I hope she’s terrified.

“You’re going to want to sit down,” I tell Grace.

Grace crosses her arms, saying, “Who is this woman and why are you screaming at her?”

“She took a picture of you while you were sleeping and now it’s all over everything,” I answer, staring Amelie down.

“What do you mean while I was asleep?” Grace asks. “Why would anyone care about a picture of me sleeping?”

“Grace, you really might want to sit down for this,” I tell her.

Is it like someone died? No. But hearing every person on the planet with an internet connection can pull up a half-naked picture of you anytime they want isn’t the kind of thing you want to take standing up. Not in a literal sense.

This kind of thing happens all the time, and for the very select few that plan “wardrobe malfunctions,” it’s just good publicity. For everyone else, and especially for someone like Grace, who never asked for the spotlight, it’s the sort of thing that ends too often with a bang.

Grace sits.

I turn to Amelie. “Tell her what you did,” I command.

Amelie’s crying now, but I have no sympathy.

“Last week,” Amelie starts, her voice small, raspy, “a man gave me a call—”

“You can get to why you did it in a minute,” I interrupt. “First, tell her what youdid.”

Amelie looks up at me. Her eyes are big and bloodshot. She’s not crying, but that’s just the same old-fashioned stoicism my mom had when things went south with dad.

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