My Dark Romeo: The Unputdownable Billionaire Romance

Cages aren’t made of bars. They’re made of thoughts, expectations, and fear.

My favorite quote—now ruined by Romeo Costa, who made a liar out of Henry Plotkin.

The cage Romeo trapped me in was a Corinthian palace made of cobblestone piazzas, antique pavements, and gold-plated everything. A home clean and tidy. With a floor so spotless, you could eat off it.

When I ran out of rooms to explore, I slipped into the garden and soaked the last sunrays in the sky, tucked between lush lilac bushes.

Afterwards, I retreated inside to scour through every landing, hallway, nook, and corner.

The haunting quiet made the little hairs on my arms stand on end.

Absolute, utter silence.

To the point where I couldn’t hear a thing.

Not the birds chirping, the AC buzzing, nor the appliances humming.

Each wall must’ve been padded from within. How fitting that my future husband—the one with thick, unbreakable layers of ice around his heart—guarded his house in the same exact way.

No wonder he hated me.

I had zero inhibitions, wore my heart on my sleeve, and as Daddy often said, could be heard from most states in North America.

Around six in the evening, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in almost forty hours. Not since Romeo forced me on that plane and I binged on cheese, crackers, and shrimp chips.

It was time to explore the most important room in the house.

Squaring my shoulders, I paraded to the lavish chef’s kitchen. The faint scent of cooked food drifted from pots and pans on the stovetop.

I placed a hand on a lid—still warm—and peered inside.

My face fell.

“Ugh.”

Brussel sprouts and chicken breast?

I knew the man didn’t have a heart, but did he lack taste buds, too?

“Problem?”

The voice was so loud compared to my recent noiseless existence, I jumped.

Swiveling, I came face to face with a woman.

Hettie, I assumed.

Petite, edgy, and no more than a few years older than me, she wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

Though I hated my future husband, I couldn’t help but feel a little panicked by the idea that someone so lovely roamed his house all hours of the day.

He literally put you between his legs and patted your head.

You should be rooting for these two to fall in love.

I pursed my lips, moving to the fridge. “No problem.”

Why did the hot-pink tips of her blonde hair look so cool?

And why did her lip ring make me want one of my own?

Momma would have a heart attack.

Hettie wrinkled her nose. “Then why the ugh when you opened the lid? Is my food not good enough for your majesty?”

“I’m sure it’s great.” I threw the fridge open. “But I want something comforting. And this is…”

She snorted. “Terrible?”

I whipped my head to stare at her.

Despite my dark mood, a smile tugged on my lips. “I was going to say healthy, but…Brussel sprouts? Dude, hardcore.”

She giggled. “Blame Romeo. His diet is so strict. It’s all oatmeal and lean protein and leafy greens twenty-four seven. That six-pack-flaunting peacock.”

So, she knew he had a six-pack.

A wick of interest ignited in me.

“Is that all you make for him?”

Hiring a personal chef to make you chicken breast and Brussel sprouts every day was like going to a Chanel store to buy nail polish.

Unless she was doing more than cooking.

“Yes!” Hettie flung her arms up, leaning back on the stool she’d claimed. Her cropped Joy Division shirt rose, exposing flat abs above her skinny jeans. “It’s terrible. I took this job straight from Le Cordon Bleu. Figured it’s rent free and pays a ton, so I could save up and pay back my student loans. But it is painfully boring to make healthy, fat-free food.”

Had I found my kindred spirit?

Maybe she’d be open to slowly poisoning him.

I made a mental note to dive into some murder-mystery books for inspo.

I shut the fridge, giddy from the prospect of having someone who actually talked and behaved like she was living in the same era as me.

She was just like a friend from home, only cooler.

And worldlier.

And probably sleeping with my fiancé.

“Think we can make something else?”

She quirked a brow. “What do you have in mind?”

“Truffle fries, bacon-wrapped pork roast, candied yam, and monkey bread.” I licked my lips. “You know, just as an example.”

Hettie stood, literally rising to the challenge.

Instead of preparing the meal alone, she doled out tasks to me. As we cooked, she told me about herself. That she hailed from Brooklyn, traveled the globe on a food tour, and would kill for another round.

She spoke of Romeo with respect and curiosity. Like he was an unsolved puzzle she still hoped to find all the pieces for.

Hettie slid the monkey bread into the steam oven. “So, can we address the elephant in the room?”

I stabbed a yam I was supposed to cube. “All right.”

“Hmm…who the hell are you?” She laughed. “Like, what are you doing here?”

Romeo hadn’t told her?

Actually, now that I thought about it, he hadn’t told Vernon, either.

I added poor communication skills to my never-ending list of things I disliked about him.

“I’m…well, I guess I’m Romeo’s fiancée.”

Her brows shot up. “You guess?”

“Can you ever be sure when it comes to men like him?”

Hettie poured the truffle fries into a basket padded with paper towels, signaling for me to try one. I picked one up and popped it into my mouth.

Heaven.

“You don’t look too surprised.” I studied her, stealing another fry. “Is this a normal occurrence? Romeo bringing a fiancée home?”

“No.” Hettie sucked honey off her thumb. “But his dad was on his ass about getting married, so I figured it was bound to happen eventually. I just expected something…different.”

“Mail-order bride?”

She snorted. “Girl, that man has women lining up and down his gate twenty-four seven. It’s a nuisance at this point. Can you water spray them away or something?”

Despite my good senses, I blurted out, “Who does he normally go for?”

Hettie frowned, setting the table with two plates. She was sharing the meal with me.

Stupid butterflies fluttered across my rib cage.

“Actually, I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend before. But the women that usually hang on his arm during events are kind of stuck up, I guess. Pencil skirts and season tickets to the opera. They barely say a word, and they definitely don’t indulge in truffle fries. Not that it should matter to you. He never brings them home.” She gestured around. “Guess he’s too freaked out about them dirtying up the place or something.”

I filed this as crucial information. I intended on being especially loud, uncultured, and tacky just to spite my neat-freak fiancé.

We tucked into the food, which was totally delicious.

I moaned, earning a grin from Hettie.

“So good, right?”

I nodded.

About the only decent thing about this place.