Page 51 of The Billionaire and His Forever

“You’re welcome to check yourself. In fact, please do. Because believe me, I’d love nothing more than to find out I’m wrong about this.”

And just like that, the floor drops out from under my feet, my vision going red. Abbie stole from me? She came into my house and integrated into my family andstolefrom me?

But this can’t be right. She wouldn’t do this. “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding. We signed a prenup, on her insistence. Abbie isn’t interested in my money.”

“I’m sure she was happy to sign whatever the fuck she felt like, because she already had the money in her pocket. You didn’t notice two million dollars go missing?”

His tone grates my nerves almost more than the information he’s given. “It’s a mistake.”

“You’ve got blinders on, my man. Thinking with your dick. I’ve got all the paperwork to prove it. I’ll send it right over.”

Fury pumps through me. “Accuse her one more time and see what happens. You’re wrong.”

“Whatever you say, boss. I’m sending over the information, and you’re welcome to do with it what you will. I’ll call you when I know more.”

He hangs up and I stand there, half dressed, unsure what to do. Abbie would never steal from me. I know her too well—that’s not who she is.

But Natasha…

Natasha is just desperate enough to try to pull something like this off.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Abbie

The apartment iscavernous without anyone in it. Lavish, yes, but bleak. Graham offered to keep a skeleton crew of staff here for me, but I declined. It would feel too weird, having all these people wait on me when I don’t have one of the Ratliffs with me.

Because I’m not a Ratliff yet, no matter what Graham and I promised each other under the sheets. Legally, I’m still a Montgomery—and legally, I’m still suspected of attempted murder. Neither of those things scream “wife of Graham Ratliff.” Graham is the kind of man who needs a partner who is poised, confident, someone who the public adores. Someone like…Natasha.

Except without all the crazy.

The longer I sit in this apartment, the more certain I become that I can never live up to that level of person. Yes, I grew up wealthy and my parents still have a large house, but nothing in my life ever compared to the life Graham and Jude have. Who am I, even? The nanny. The help. The daughter of the best friend who never lived up to the same potential. I’m nobody.

I don’t deserve Graham or Jude. All my presence has done is cause drama. Big drama. Follow-you-around-with-cameras drama. Jude, especially, doesn’t deserve this. And now she’s going to know way more about this scandal than we ever wanted her to know, because the police broke up my wedding in front of God and everybody. I shamed the entire family. I am shit.

Though I’m starting to regret turning down the company, even if it would’ve only been a housekeeper or two. I’m curled up on the couch under a blanket, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt I found in Graham’s room, with every TV in the whole place turned on just for ambient noise. I’ve got Turner Classic Movies on in the guest room, the Disney Plus app playing cartoons in Jude’s room, and reality TV (cooking competitions) in the living room. But no news channels, no radio, and no current events. I don’t want to hear anything about Natasha or Graham or myself from the media. Because whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. At least I’ve had a few FaceTime chats with Amanda, checking in and giving me pep talks. That’s about the only thing that’s keeping me sane.

The doorbell rings and I race across the apartment for it, relieved that the Thai I ordered on my food delivery app has finally arrived. I’ve barely eaten since I got here, but this morning I woke up with a craving for pad see ew and green curry. When I open the door, the delivery guy has his phone held up in one hand and the bag of food in the other.

I pull up short. “Um—”

“I knew it was you!” he exclaims. I hear the camera on his phone snapping away as he takes photos.

Holding a hand in front of my face, I grab the food and then back into the apartment, slamming the door in his face. My adrenaline is pumping, anger flaring through me at the audacity of this guy. I will never get used to this kind of notoriety. I feel violated and gross.

I drop the bag on the coffee table and then sink back onto the couch, my stomach twisted in knots. Maybe this is exactly what I deserve. This entire mess. After all, I took the nanny job to get closer to Graham, partly at my dad’s insistence and partly because I just plain wanted Graham. Either way, my intentions weren’t good—I went to the Ratliff estate to infiltrate a family and a home for personal gain. Financial and otherwise.

But God, my dad gave me no choice. We were so broke. He was months overdue on the mortgage, hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, and had already sold off most of his stocks and investments just trying to stay afloat. He’d laid on the guilt, talking about how expensive my upbringing had been, how spoiled I was compared to him at my age. I didn’t want him and my mom to lose the house. Mom especially. She loves that house. She’s poured her love and care into every refinished plank of hardwood, every designer light fixture, every antique figurine and Pantone-approved accent wall and dupioni silk curtain panel. Where would they even go?

I could see my entire future, and theirs, slipping down the drain if I didn’t cave in to my father’s plan.So off I went.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that as I got to know Jude and Graham all over again, I genuinely fell in love with both of them. Maybe there’s no way to make up for my original reasons for coming. Maybe, even if Graham and Jude could forgive me, I can’t forgive myself.

I’m still brooding, listlessly picking at my rapidly congealing pad see ew, when my phone rings. It’s Amanda, on FaceTime. Yes! I scramble to mute the TV and then pick up.

“Hey, you.” I try to sound upbeat, as if I haven’t been wallowing in self-pity for the last several hours. “How’s it going? How’s Jude today?”

“We’re okay, but um…I was actually hoping you could talk to her for a minute?” Amanda says. “She’s not feeling the best. She really misses you.”

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