Billionaires Dollar Series

“You still want to invest in his company.”Belongs © to NôvelDrama.Org.

Steely green eyes meet mine. “Of course I do. Nothing has changed.”

“Did you bring me here today for Albert’s sake? Or to show me off in front of Ethan?”

His eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You hadn’t told him I was your fake fiancée.” Does this all go back to that stupid kiss in childhood? The one he told me he hadn’t been able to get over? That would be beyond immature.

Liam’s chest rises with his breath. Once, twice. Our eyes remain locked, and in his, the answer is written across endless green.

“It wasn’t the reason,” he admits, “but shocking him did cross my mind.”

I lean against the wall of the house. My champagne glass is long since empty, but I look down at it regardless. The hand-blown flute is easier to face than the man I’ve started to care about. “Your world is complicated, Liam,” I breathe. “Too complicated for me.”

A few seconds later, his long fingers curl around my chin. His face is one of determination.

“Let me make a quick round and do damage control with Nick, Cole and Ethan. Then I’ll drive you home.”

“Okay.”

His lips against my temple are perfunctory, and then he’s gone, and I’m alone on the side of Cole Porter’s house. The sounds from the kitchen are faint but unmistakable, reaching me through a half-cracked window.

I sink down onto the stone steps and put my head in my hands. I’m feeling too much, all of it at once, and parsing through my feelings is never something I’ve been particularly good at.

We’ve never spoken about what’ll happen after tomorrow. After he plays my boyfriend for the last time, after our ruse is up.

I stare down at the band of platinum around my finger. An adornment. A curse.

It’s not a fake, but it might as well be.

The sound of a door opening breaks me out of my musings. Someone walks past me on the steps. I follow the boots up along black pants, a chef’s jacket, and…

No, not this too-not tonight. My already frayed self-control snaps, the sound almost audible to my ears.

Jason’s eyes widen. “Madison?”

His lips tighten into a thin line. “You’re here as a guest?”

“I am, yes.”

“So that’s why you couldn’t work tonight.” He gives a laugh that doesn’t sound the least bit amused. “Gosh, I barely recognize you these days.”

I stand, brushing out the skirt of my purple dress. “I could say the same for you.”

He shifts the icebox he’s carrying to his other arm, shaking his head. “Dating one of these suit-clad pricks, ruining your chances at the fellowship by competing one-handed.” He shakes his head again, this time with something that looks awfully like pity. “Maddie, you’re a great chef. You have real potential. Don’t waste it tomorrow, in front of chefs who’ll remember it for the rest of your career.”

Funny, how I once thought he was the largest man in the world. How he could accomplish anything-the glow stretched from his knife-work to his social skills.

Now he looks small, standing in front of me, and so transparent I can almost make out the shrubbery through him.

“The only thing I’ve wasted is time, and only because I spent it on you,” I tell him. “The one thing I’m done wasting is my potential. So you better do your best tomorrow, Jason, because so will I, and I’m a damn good chef.

“And do you know what else I’m done with? You. I don’t want your opinions about my life, about my work, about who I’m dating. You forfeited the right to that when you screwed the waitress.”

Jason’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “That was months ago, Maddie. I thought we could-”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Taking a move straight out of Liam’s playbook, I pretend to flick a piece of lint off the sleeve of my dress. “Good luck tomorrow, Jason. You’ll need it.”

Not looking back-never looking back again-I head toward Cole Porter’s driveway, the same path I’d walked all those weeks prior. And when I call the cab, and text Liam to let him know he doesn’t have to drive me home, all I feel is a giddy sort of relief.

At last, all I have left to do is cook.

Nerves race down my spine as I follow the attendant into the large teaching kitchen. My eyes search row after row of cooking stations for the one with my name on it.

There, Madison Webb. And of course my cooking station is the one at the front, closest to the table of judges. It’s not enough that they’ll eat our dishes-they’re judging us as we work, too.

It’s math homework all over again, and the little note at the side. Show your work.

I’d failed at that, back then.

But there’s no way I’m failing today.

I have to clasp my hands behind my back to keep from double-checking that my hair is still firmly knotted into a chignon.

I scan the scattered chairs beyond the judges. Culinary critics, journalists, family members, a few partners, friends to the contestants-all ready to watch the six of us prepare dishes for the best culinary tastebuds on the West Coast.

I don’t see Liam anywhere.

I’d texted him detailed instructions this morning, and he’d responded with a thumbs up. But the piercing green eyes are absent from the crowd.

Alma waves at me, her eyes wide. I wave back at her and smooth my hands over my apron. She’s here. I’m here. My ingredients are here.

That’s all that matters.

A familiar voice mutters behind me, because that’s just my luck. Of course Jason was assigned the cooking station behind me.

I don’t look back at him. I keep my eyes peeled on the judges who enter instead, one by one. My nerves rise as I recognize them-harsh food critics and famed chefs alike.

But it’s the last one that makes my nerves soar, as Marco steps into the room.

Marco is one of the judges?

Why hadn’t I known that?

He sits down at the judging panel, slender hands folded in front of him on the table. Perhaps he sees my gaze, because his lips quirk up at the corner, a bushy eyebrow rising in acknowledgment.

Both Jason and I are cooking-and both of us are his employees. A nervous sweat breaks out at the nape of my neck. He’s always praised Jason’s skills with meat.