My Dark Romeo: The Unputdownable Billionaire Romance

Days after Dallas detonated a truth bomb in my study, she shimmied into one of her many Chanel gowns, shackled on expensive jewelry, and swiped her favorite red lipstick across her pouty lips.

Shortbread flipped me the bird as she passed a security camera on her way out and slipped into the back of Jared’s Maybach, going out for the day.

From my corner office in Costa Industries, I dialed Alan, the trained martial artist I’d hired to tail her.

“My wife left the house. See to it that she is safe.” I wondered if the lie sounded more convincing to him than to me. “Don’t forget to text me where she is and whom she is with at all times.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is Jared taking her now?”

“Looks like she’s headed toward your office, sir.”

My treacherous, good-for-nothing heart thumped out of whack in its bony cage. I sized up the picture of Shortbread I kept on my desk for appearances’ sake.

Did you somehow discover I secretly manipulated the sudden congressional support for your crib bumper ban?

Are you on your way to thank me with a sexy number under your dress?

Dumping my engraved pen over my documents, I reclined against my backrest, laced my fingers together, and tapped them against my lips.

I supposed enough time had passed since my last lapse to grant me another taste of her.

The ease in which I snatched the remote to the glass shade and rolled the curtain all the way down in advance should have clued me in to my increasingly poor judgment regarding Dallas.

Unfortunately, my brain didn’t take the hint.

In lieu of using my brain cells to do something productive like work, I wore down my gum and tidied up my already pristine office space.

As though neatness was something she appreciated.

When ten minutes became twenty, I began to ponder the eternal question—what the fuck? Yet, calling Alan and nagging him about my wife’s whereabouts was beneath me.

Perhaps they’d hit traffic. Gnarly car accidents were not out of the ordinary in my neck of the woods.

Plenty of foreign envoys protected by diplomatic immunity, whose extracurriculars included running over people as if it were a GTA assignment.

When twenty minutes turned into thirty, my fingers itched to call Alan. As it happened, my phone danced on my desk, his name appearing on the screen.

I picked up. “Yes?”

“She reached her destination, sir.”

Impossible.

Had she truly reached her destination, she would be on her knees under my desk, sucking my cock.

“Is that so?” I smashed my gum between my molars, rightfully wary, given the sovereignty with which Shortbread conducted herself. “Where is she, exactly?”

“She just walked into Le Bleu. Got a street-facing seat on the balcony and a bottle of champagne. Looks like she’s waiting for someone.”

She sure as all hell wasn’t waiting for me.

Le Bleu was a two-Michelin-star restaurant right across from my building. In fact, Bruce’s office offered a direct line of sight into the place.

Two things became immediately clear to me:

1) This was another power move on Dallas’s end, designed to piss me off.

2) This was the last time she would tamper with my life.

There’d be no more second chances.

No wiggle room for negotiation.

“Check if there’s paparazzi nearby.” My jaw locked around my gum.

I’d bet my entire personal wealth and right testicle there was.

Alan cleared his throat, taking a moment, presumably, to search. “Yes, sir. There is. Across the street.” Another company’s headquarters all but kissed the Costa Industries building. Licht Holdings. “Sir, someone is approaching her. I’m going to hang up and initiate a video call, so you can—”

“No need.” I stood, shouldering into my coat. “Let me guess—tall-ish man, blond hair, and busted-up nose, sporting a tailored suit and zero charisma?”

“Wha—how did you know?”

“I’ll be there soon.”

I hung up, proceeding to the conference room across the hall.

Somehow, Shortbread had spotted her tail, didn’t like it, and retaliated by meeting with Madison somewhere public.

Message received.

Now it was time to deliver mine.

Madison’s objective in this arrangement could be spotted blindfolded from the top of the Washington Monument. Being seen with my wife—documented by the local tabloids, no less—humiliated me.

But I played the long game.

Besides, every passing minute I didn’t burst into the restaurant and cause a scene would increase their discomfort.

My index finger sank onto the intercom button. “Cara.”

My assistant materialized, scurrying behind me on high heels, an iPad clutched between her manicured fingers. “Yes, Mr. Costa?”

“I’ll send you a list of people I need to be put through with for an urgent call.”

“Urgent when?”

“Urgent now.”

For fifty-five minutes, Dallas and Madison simmered in their own awkwardness as I finished a conference call, followed by a full plate of Brussel sprouts and chicken breast prepared by the company chef. Alan’s texts buzzed through in periodic increments.

   ALAN REECE   

  Very odd, sir.  

  They’re just staring at each other without talking.  

  Looks like they’re waiting for something?  

That something was me.

   ALAN REECE   

  They’re both eating bluefin tuna.  

  The man is checking his watch every two seconds.  

If Madison hoped for me to beat the living lights out of him in public, he was in for crushing disappointment. I’d give my young wife one thing.

For a man who prided himself in having a flatlined range of emotions, she somehow made me feel. Anger, frustration, annoyance, and disgust—but feel nonetheless.

Finally, an hour after Dallas and her ex-fiancé paraded into Le Bleu, I made my way there.

I met Bruce in the elevator downstairs.

“Seems like there’s more drama with your little Southern belle.” He pressed the lobby button, watching the numbers atop the sliding doors roll down. He must’ve seen Madison and Dallas from his office. Hard to miss the sea of paparazzi out front. “Can’t be good for your reputation.”

I smoothed a hand over my suit. “Neither would a Page Six item about a certain CEO candidate’s affair with a golf-course attendant.”

His smile disappeared faster than a complimentary breadstick basket in front of Dallas at the Olive Garden. “That is a blatantly malicious rumor.”

“Tell it to little Ginny, who promised me she’d write a tell-all about you if I cover her student debt.”

As soon as I marched through the revolving entrance door of Costa Industries, the paparazzi circled me like hungry piranhas, snapping hundreds of pictures.

Sixty minutes of smug anticipation melted together as I crossed the street.

Shortbread was slouched on the edge of a Wassily chair atop Le Bleu’s balcony. At the sight of me, her back went ramrod straight.

She pored over every inch of me, hawkish eyes desperate to read my blank face.

Following her line of vision, Madison glared at me, too.

With a rare sunny smile—and using every drop of serenity in my bloodstream—I breezed up three flights of stairs to the restaurant.

At the double doors, a hostess and two waiters offered deep bows as they opened both sides.

So. Word had gotten out to management.

Already, I enjoyed the fruit of my labor.

I proceeded to Shortbread, seized a chair from an occupied table without permission, and invited myself to join my wife and her ex-fiancé.

“How’s the tuna, my dear?”

I swiped her fork and carved myself a nice, juicy piece, popping it into my mouth. Dallas scratched her temple, brows squishing together.

Camera flashes glittered in my periphery.

“Darling, please close your mouth.” I used the tip of my finger to shut it for her, then speared a chunk of dead fish, hovering it between us. “It is so unbecoming to look like what you eat.”

Madison cleared his throat. “We were in the middle of something.” Sweat bled from his pores, as he sought a meltdown that would never come. “No one invited you to join us.”

I faced him. “You’re absolutely right. But I’m here with a proposition.”

He arched a single eyebrow. “Whatever it is, it won’t allure me.”

“Humor me.”

“Romeo…” Shortbread captured her glass. Water sloshed to the rim, courtesy of her shaky hand.

Whatever happened to the fountain of defiant attitude she drowned me in every waking moment of the day?

Surprisingly, I did not find this timid version of her as appealing as the fiery one I’d grown accustomed to. That I thought of her enough to develop preferences should have concerned me.

Madison’s jaw flexed. His failed attempt to stare me down elicited rare, genuine laughter from me.

I plucked Dallas’s linen napkin and patted the corners of my lips. “Since you two obviously find it difficult to stay away from one another, I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I can no longer stand in the way of what is clearly a once-in-a-lifetime love story.”

The silence at the table was so thick and loud, you’d think this was a morgue.

Madison spoke first. “You married her.”

“That, I did. See, there is a certain invention called divorce. It is incredibly effective and quick, especially for people with iron-clad prenuptial agreements such as ours.” I squeezed Dallas’s rigid hand. “Isn’t this true, sweetheart?”

She was pale as freshly fallen snow—and just as frozen.

As always, her feelings were clearly written on her face.

Yes, your plan backfired.

Yes, I know you want Madison Licht a little less than you want to have your limbs amputated by a shark.

And yes, we both know that Madison is, in fact, more rotten than yours truly.

Madison tossed his napkin over his plate. “You took her virginity.”

“Don’t be such a prude, Licht. Your own virginity was lost so long ago and so scrupulously, I’d be surprised if it’s even in the same cosmos as us. Besides…” I spun my head back to Dallas. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? A way out of this marriage?”

“Yes.” The word shoved past her lips. “But not so I could enter another toxic relationship.”

Tsking, I fingered my jawline. “Should have specified.”

Madison’s eyes darted to Shortbread. “I’m not marrying her.”

She pushed back in her chair, unaffected by his rejection. “Same.”

“How devastating.” I yawned. “And here I thought an angel would earn its wings through my matchmaking skills.”

When I stood, they mirrored my movements, glued to me with an intoxicating mixture of horror and trepidation.

“Mr. Licht…” I angled my entire body toward him. “Kindly evacuate the premises.”

Madison pulled his shoulders back, straightening to his full height, ready for the showdown he’d anticipated. “You can’t tell me what to do. This is not your restaurant.”

“Actually, it is.” I collected my phone and slanted the screen in his direction. “The deed was signed earlier this hour. Admittedly, waking Jean-Pierre from his slumber in France to convince him to sell me this fine establishment was a challenge, but as you’re well aware, I never shy away from those.”

Madison gaped at the contract. “You bought this restaurant just so you could kick me out of it?”

“And every other restaurant and food cart on this street,” I confirmed, aware of the cameramen still surrounding us, too far away to eavesdrop. “Which means lunch breaks have become particularly challenging for you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“What is the point in telling me I cannot do things I clearly just did?”

“You’ve officially lost it. I heard rumors, but now I see it’s true.”

“Doubt I ever really had it.” I sighed. “Any parting words before I call security?”

Sadly, if there were such, I did not get the opportunity to hear them, because Madison all but stomped out of the place without as much as a farewell to the woman he’d shared brunch with.

I swiveled to Shortbread.

This was the second workday in a single month she had completely ruined for me. Though one couldn’t blame me for not being fond of Senior’s company, I needed to at least pretend to care about it.

“Feel free to enjoy any of our wonderful desserts. My apologies for your lack of company.” With that, I strode away.

She followed me, as I knew she would. I slid into the back seat of my Maybach, not sparing her a glance when she scooted in from the other side, uninvited.

“You have two options.” I lounged in the brown leather seat while Jared weaved his way out of Le Bleu’s parking lot. Dallas leaned closer, drinking every word, knowing her entire life depended on them. “Since I know how badly you want to both have children and return to your family, I shall grant you neither, instead tucking you away in my Hamptons mansion, where you will remain far enough from everything and everyone you love while stripped of your ability to inflict serious damage on my life. Or…”

I stroked my chin, giving it some thought.

As a general rule, I did not reward bad behavior.

But in Shortbread’s case, I often found myself making exceptions, including but not limited to the box of books I’d gifted her for attending the charity gala despite her unruly behavior during the third dinner course.

(She’d tried to take an uni shot off a pop star’s tits. When I’d pried her away and lectured her on behaving in public, she shrugged me off and informed me that with great power comes great responsibility.)

And this time, the same forgiving part of me I’d never unearthed before she’d swaggered into my life wanted to give her a second chance.

Or rather, a trillionth chance.

I chucked it to my ruining her life. That must have been the reason I still possessed an iota of patience for the creature in front of me.

Shortbread’s eyebrows flew up, almost kissing her hairline. “Or?”

“I will give you what you want. I’ll grant you a divorce. You will return to Chapel Falls and become a living, breathing scandal. Ruined for all intents and purposes. You will probably marry a widower or a divorced man with kids. But you will have the freedom you crave so much.”

It angered me to no end that my breath recoiled in my lungs as we stared each other down, waiting to see which option she would choose.

I purposefully left out anything remotely appealing for her to fall back on. Dallas needed to comprehend the graveness of the situation.

Finally—finally—she ruptured the silence. “Can I think about it on our way to the house?”

Somehow, it was the worst thing she could have said.

The waiting would be pure torture.

I shrugged, diverting my attention to my texts. Once Jared dropped us off, a waiting Hettie and Vernon stood on the driveway.

“Well?” Hettie said before Shortbread’s door even opened all the way. “Did you piss him off?”

Vernon ambled forward after her. “Will we finally have a little munchkin in the house?”

I entered my home first, which meant my disloyal staff—turned against me by my own wife—fell back, furious blushes glued to their cheeks, eyes pinned to the floor. “Both of you, get the hell out.”

Vernon, the gentle giant, blinked. “But where should we go?”

“Anywhere out of my eyesight if you want to keep your jobs,” I advised, ridding myself of my coat and advancing to the stairs. I did not spare Shortbread a look. “You have another thirty minutes to consider your answer while I make some calls. I’ll come to your room when I’m ready.”

Through the tall glass window sprawled along my stairway, I witnessed Shortbread collapsing on the bottom stair in her beautiful dress, her head tucked between her arms, her hair cascading all the way down her back.

She wasn’t going to get a baby.

She wasn’t going to get a divorce, either.

All she would get was a reality check.

As for me?

I always, always got what I wanted.