Page 203 of Money Reigns
On the other end, Ella is quiet for a long moment. I can hear her breathing, steady, patient, the way she always is.
Then she sighs. “Well… why haven’t you been honest, Liv? What’s scaring you? If everything he was doing made you feel safe and seen, why wouldn’t you tell him everything?”
I roll my eyes, wiping at my wet face. “God, I forgot my best friend’s a shrink.”
Ella exhales, then says gently, “Do you want friend Ella or psych degree Ella right now?”
“Friend Ella,” I mutter, curling into my mint-green comforter like I can hide inside it.
“Okay, friend Ella says: what the hell is wrong with you? That man is a billionaire—who loves you. He designed a ring for you, Liv. Yeah, the camera in your office is creepy, but you said you liked it. He paid for the Inn… so what? You think he doesn’t already know about Ronnie and just hasn’t said anything yet?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, then soften. “He hates the mob, Ella. They’re literally trying to steal a building that’s important to him. He doesn’t do business with them. And what? The woman he wanted to marry is tied to them? How does that even work?”
“It works with communication,” she shoots back, sigh heavy with exasperation. “God, it’s so annoying when people don’t just fucking talk.”
“Hey,” I whisper, a small protest.
She chuckles, the sound light but tired. “You asked for friend Ella, not professional Dr. Marsh.”
There’s a pause, then her voice drops, quieter. “Did you break up with him before you left?”
My stomachtwists. “…No.”
“Doesheknow that?”
“Why?” My voice edges sharp with panic.
“Check the tabloids, Liv.”
My hands shake as I put Ella on speaker and open the browser, typing his name.Warren Beaumont.
And there it is.
War.
In a restaurant.
With a blonde.
The photo is crisp,cruel.He’s leaning in close, suit jacket off, tie loosened, looking like the man who used to come home to me.
Above it, the headline blares:
“War Beaumont’s New Mystery Woman?”
My breath catches, sharp and shallow.
The phone slides from my hand, landing facedown on the comforter.
And just like that, every cookie, every promise, every whispered forever tastes like a lie.
Chapter forty-two
War
The whiskey burns down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the hollow inside me. Curtains drawn, leaving the penthouse in heavy, self-made darkness. I sit slumped on the couch, glass loose in my hand, staring at nothing.
The elevator pings.
