Page 93 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” I wove elegantly through the tables towards him. Okay, that’s a lie. I stood on a lady’s coat and tripped over a chair leg. But anyway, I made it, flung my jacket down, and dumped my shoulder bag. “And I’m absolutely busting for a wee.”

Jonas smiled. No dimples, though. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Yes”—his eyes flicked away, then back again—“of course.”

I dove into the loo and, y’know. Then washed my hands and came running back. And Jonas wasn’t there. Honestly, I just thought he’d gone to get another drink. Or also to the toilet. But I couldn’t see him in the queue. And if he had gone to the bathroom, it was getting to the point where he’d been gone so long I was worried for his gastric health. So I did a quick circuit just in case…well, I have no idea. In case we’d managed to miss each other. Peered out of the window on the off-chance he’d stepped out onto the street to take a call or have a ciggie. He wasn’t anywhere.

“Um. Excuse me. Sorry.” I shuffled back to the woman whose coat I’d trashed earlier. “But did you see a man? I mean, not just any man. A specific man. Dark jacket, floppy hair, glasses?”

There’s pretty much nothing more painful to the English temperament than having to talk to strangers. But it does mean that, when we do, the other party is aware it’s fucking serious.

The woman looked gently anxious—possibly on my behalf, or more likely her own on account of the wholetalking to a strangersituation that was happening to her. “I don’t think so…oh, wait. Maybe. I think he left.”

He left? Because I was late? Because I’d needed a wee? Or because of an emergency of his own? Was he okay? Had he had some kind of freak-out? Or decided that I wasn’t what he was looking for in a person he had given sperm to create? It made no sense. He’d given every impression of liking me. Asked questions about my life. Listened when I talked. Told me he was proud of me. Even today, he’d said he was glad I’d come—although running the scene backwards and forwards through the dusty DVD player of my mind’s eye—he had seemed a bit on edge. I’d assumed it was because he’d thought he’d been dumped by his kid. But I barely knew the man. It could have been anything.

Fuck it. I was going to phone him.

Grabbing bag and jacket and muffin—waste not, want not—I headed out. After all, people who make calls in Starbucks are the devil’s spawn. Shit, where was my phone. Bag? Jeans? Left jacket pocket? Right jacket pocket? Bag again. Front of bag? Lining of bag? Lining of jacket? Some other obscure part of bag? What. What. What the fuck? It had to be somewhere. I’d definitely had it on the Tube, because I’d been playing Alphabear. Was it in Starbucks? On the table? Under the table? Had the lady whose coat I’d stood on seen it? Apparently not. Had someone handed it in? Nope. Fucking hell, had someone nicked my phone? So bloody typical after I’d blithely refused to fork out an extra fiver a month to have it insured.

I lost my grip on the muffin and it smashed into squidgy chocolate shrapnel on the pavement. Of course someone had stolen my phone. Jonas had stolen my phone. Right now, he was probably in some dodgy shop in Soho getting it unlocked so he could find out where Mum was. Because my dad was an abusive sociopath who was obsessed with her. And I was an idiot beyond reckoning.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh fucking God. I’d just ruined the lives of the people I loved most in the world.

***

Half an hour later, I was bursting out of a taxi at Hart & Associates. And yes, I know. Fucking pathetic. Immediately running to the guy I’d told I never wanted to see again the second something went wrong.

But God. Fuck my pride. This was my family. Myfamily. And I didn’t know what else to do.

Unfortunately, the other thing I didn’t know how to do was get into the building. It was outside office hours, so the front was locked up tight, the atrium just a blur of marble and shadow on the other side of glass. I’d have had more luck against a wall of briars and a century-long curse. Caspian was probably still working—if I stood on the far side of the pavement and tilted my head so far back it felt like my spine was about to snap, I even thought, or maybe it was wishful thinking, I could see a light up there. But how could I reach him?

When we’d been dating, I’d had access to an app that worked as a code for Caspian’s personal lift, which linked the underground car park directly to his office or his penthouse. Probably my privileges had been revoked by now, though. And, oh wait, Jonas had stolen my fucking phone.

Fuck’s sake, Arden, think.Think.

The way I saw it, I had two options. Sit on the pavement and cry. Or keep running around in a wild panic. I opted for Option B (with a little bit of Option A thrown in for good measure). For all I knew, there’d be a security guard in the car park. And maybe I could convince them to take me to Caspian. Or I could trigger some kind of alarm by…like…attacking the lift and pressing all the buttons. Or cameras…there could be cameras. And I could wave at them until someone noticed me or writeHelp me Caspianin Lamborghinis on the floor or…or…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’d always been whooshed in and out of the car park by chauffeurs, so I hadn’t really noticed how ridiculously enormous it was. It took me about five minutes just to run down the entrance ramp, my breath rattling in my throat, and my bag bashing me on the arse with every step. The security gates I dodged round and wriggled under, and I’m pretty sure I did, in fact, trip the security system, a series of cameras whirring round to catch my image with dystopian efficiency. Not that I cared. Being arrested wouldn’t have been great. But it would get Caspian’s attention, right?

I mean, assuming I didn’t just have a heart attack and die on the concrete floor. God, I hadn’t had a stitch this bad since having to do PE at school. In the end I had to stop, put my hands on my knees, and wheeze, perilously close to throwing up from sheer terror and exertion. My jacket was tight under my arms, sealing me in my own sweat like a thermos flask. Also: running and crying. Don’t recommend it. It’s soggy in all the ways. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, because it was that or choke. Then resettled my bag of the damned against my shoulder and forced myself into a shambling canter.

Far in the distance, between the cold gleam of expensive cars, I at last caught sight of the lift, shimmery as a mirage—a boring grey mirage—through my teary eyes. I pushed forward, hair in my face, legs replaced by noodles that were on fire, and collapsed against the door, panting, and banging on it in what would—under other circumstances—have been a hilariously futile fashion.

Then came the clatter of shoes against concrete and I twisted round to see a couple of security guards bearing down on me.

“I…I need to see Caspian Hart,” I said, plastering myself over the lift door like it was my child and elephants were stampeding towards us.

Both the guards had a burly professional look to them. “I’m sure you do, sir. But this is private property and so you’ll have to come along with us.”

“No, but…it’s…my name’s Arden St. Ives. I used to date Caspian. It’s an emergency.”

“This way, please.” They advanced. And while I could tell they weren’t actively trying to be threatening, there was something purposeful about the way they came forward that made me feel very small suddenly.

“Yes, okay.” I peeled myself off the lift because I was pretty sure if I didn’t they’d drag me away from it. “But if I go with you, will you…will you tell him? Will you tell him I was here?”

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