Page 36 of Arrogant Heir

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘It’ll all be okay. The media mob us like this occasionally at the slightest excuse. I know it’s overwhelming when you’re not used to it.’

He rubs his fingers through his hair and his eyes search mine again. ‘To be honest, it’s overwhelming even when you are used to it.’

My stomach feels like it’s been rammed up into my throat and I hold back tears, which is ridiculous.

What have I got to cry about? It’s him they’re after.

I attempt a feeble smile and rush from the car, thanking John and clutching my bags. My mind is in a fog, and I can’t think straight. The shoes I wore to the store are in a Rochesters bag and I race along the gravel path, desperate to reach the haven of the cottage.

Collapsing onto the safety of the giant sofa, I fling my stuff on the floor and let the tears spill down my face. I can’t hold them back anymore, and I don’t want to. There’s no one to see me here, and it’s like all the emotions I’ve pushed away flood out. Not only do I cry—I wail and my fingers are wet as I cover my face with my hands.

I’m shocked by my outburst. Is it the heartbreak over Simon I’ve locked away since leaving London? But it feels like something else that’s tipping me over the edge. I can’t explain the jealousy and hurt that ripped through me when Damian showed me the headlines on his phone. It was as if he cheated on me. I’ve begun to think of him as mine. We’ve been in our little bubble for months now, with only Arthur, Sebastian, and the occasional visitor to disrupt our idyllic interlude. And he’s been so warm with me lately that I must have unconsciously convinced myself he wants me too.

No matter how great he is in business, he’s still a playboy, and I realise I’ve made a terrible error of judgement.

I should have been using this time away from Simon to heal and get clear on what I want, but somehow, I’ve been falling for Mr Rochester. More fool me. I have only myself to blame. He promised me nothing. We’ve not even kissed, so I don’t know why it feels as though we’re connected. All I know is it does. It feels like we have a special bond—an invisible chord—and I realise it’s been there since the day we met. Or at least I thought it was, but it’s obviously a one-sided unrequited love and I’ve let it get the better of me because of some silly romantic notion.

Googling his name, I see he’s not wrong. Headline after headline about the latest antics of the Rochester heir appears as I scroll and click. There’s a close-up of the girl’s face, and I see she’s absolutely stunning. I scan several of the articles and get the gist of it. She’s given an exclusive to one paper, but the others have picked it up and reported on it too.

Even in my desperate slump, the thought occurs to me it must be a slow news day for this to be a headline. Surely, they have bigger fish to fry than a horny billionaire hooking up with a girl.

I can’t stop reading, even though every word is like a thorn in my chest. The girl said she’s sharing her story because she’s tired of being treated like a disposable plaything. There’s another closeup of her looking sad and it all seems contrived.

The article says Damian picked her up in an elite club and whisked her away to his luxury Chelsea penthouse, where he proceeded to take advantage of this young woman who only went home with him because she thought he was serious about her. They say she was devastated to discover that the minute he’d had his way with her; he told her to go.

In addition to the interview, there are old photos of Damian with glamorous women, including his ex, and I recognise a few of them from my research. One of him in a jacuzzi features heavily and my gut twists.

What a bloody idiot I am to think he has feelings for me when he can have any woman he wants, anytime.

The tears continue flowing down my face, and I feel as sorry for myself as the day Simon called off our wedding. But the pain in my heart cuts deeper this time. My phone rings, and I see it’s Damian, which is odd because he only ever messages me.

‘Are you okay?’ He asks when I pick up. His voice is strangled.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I croak, trying to sound normal and stop my sniffs.

‘You don’t sound okay,’ he says. ‘I’m coming over.’

Before I can say anything, the line goes dead.

Oh my God. He’s coming over and I’m in a complete state.

I race to the bathroom and dab my swollen, pink face with a tissue. My heart’s hammering and making me jittery. I’m still reeling and don’t know what to think. He can’t see me like this, or he’ll know I’m crying over him. No doubt he’s used to girls weeping over him, and an iron resolve sets within me. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing I have feelings for him.

I can’t believe I’ve actually fallen in love with him, but can’t deny even to myself this is much more than lust. When I saw that headline, it turned me over. I feel so foolish.

How gullible am I to imagine a man like him is cloistered away for months, alone?

A treacherous voice in my head whispers, ‘He wasn’t alone. You were together every day.’

The shock of knowing he’s coming over has stemmed the flow of my tears and I moisten a Rochesters hotel flannel I dig out of a basket of shower products Sebastian brought for me a while back. I dab it around my eyes. I wish I could wash my face, but that will only do more damage, and my mascara will run down my cheeks.

There’s a rap at the door and I jump, not quite believing he’s here.

I dry my face and rub my fingers around my blackened eyes. My face is still red, and I look dreadful. The last person I want to face is Damian.

But there’s the insistent knock again. ‘Hold on,’ I call, my voice croaky. Taking a deep breath, I stride towards the front door, smoothing down my top as I walk. My heart’s still racing and I’m freaking out.

As the door swings open, he fills the gap, and is impossibly handsome, standing there as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. My breath hitches in my chest and I feel as though all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

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