Page 20 of Return Billionaire to Sender

And I imagine how it would feel to standthere across 45th, outside the little Korean market, watching the wrecking ball smash into the side of our beloved home. Watching a bulldozer pile up the rubble. How could I forgive myself, knowing I had the chance to find some humanity in him, to change his mind, and I didn’t take it?

And I do have more vacation days. Lots.

Can I pull it off?

But I already know I’m going to do it. My pulse races. It’s so outrageous.

“So, about tomorrow,” I say.

“We’ll send the car at two,” Lawrence says. “We’ll call when it’s on the way and you can go down to the lobby. And you heard his thing about no more postal costumes.”

“Downstairs?”

“Notthislobby, the Four Seasons? Why would we make you come all the way back here?” He looks up, dubious about me, now. “It’s all in your packet. We take off at around four.”

Then a bad thought strikes me. “Wait, my plane ticket…” The plane ticket would say Stella’s name. No way will they let me on without a driver’s license with a name that matches.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I…brought my license and…the airport.”

“It’s a company jet,” he says. “You don’t need a ticket on a private jet. We know who you are, right?”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Right.”

“Have you even looked at the packet? The itinerary?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He sighs. “You need to read it. And you need to be out there, ready and on time.” He holds up Stella’s card. “Is this the best number to reach you at?”

“No,” I say. “Let me give you my personal phone.”

He slaps down the card. I cross out Stella’s number and write mine over it and hand it back.

“Don’t be late,” he says.

Iassure him that I won’t, and grab the next elevator, punching the lobby button. The elevator stops at the second floor.

Janice gets on.

Gulp.

She nods at me. I nod back. We both turn to look at the closed door in front of us. I wait for her to say something but…nothing.

Apparently the only person in the world who recognizes me in my uniform is Malcolm, for whatever strange reason.

I pull out my phone and look up the nearest Four Seasons. I’m going to have to check in there if I don’t want to raise suspicions. Will they need my driver’s license? I’ve stayed at plenty of roadside motels, but never a hotel.

As luck would have it, there’s a Four Seasons two blocks away. That has to be the place.

My feet take me there. A smiling doorman opens the door for me. I fish out my last few one-dollar bills.

He gives me a confused look.

“Right,” I say. I’m in uniform. He thinks I’m on the job.

The Four Seasons lobby is incredible—luxuriously hushed in contrast to the cacophony outside, and there’s a fountain and posh rugs and chandeliers—a regular palace.

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