The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,14

or my parents yet.”

My grandmother is a touchy issue. I haven’t yet told her about the broken engagement. I couldn’t face her disappointment on top of everything else when I went home three weeks ago, I suppose. But I can’t put it off forever, especially if Percy thinks the fact that I haven’t told her yet is a sign that I want to reconcile. Not to mention the fact that if the press gets a whiff that there was an engagement, much less a broken engagement, this whole thing will blow up in my face.

“My grandmother is my problem. I’ll tell her soon. But why make me say things to hurt you?” I lower my voice. “I don’t love you the way a wife should love her husband. You should be glad to see the back of me.”

He tries not to wince but clearly absorbs this the way he would a backhand across the face. Making me feel all the worse.

“I’m not glad. I’ll never be glad.”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Percy.” I try to hide my rising impatience and stick to my kind and gentle script as best I can, but I can’t stop myself from scanning the crowd for any sign of Damon. Can’t help wishing I could swap him out for the man standing in front of me. “But our romantic relationship is over. That’s not going to change. We need to work on being friends now.”

“I’m not giving up on you,” he says.

I can see that.

Feeling suddenly drained and morose, I look away and sip my champagne, wishing I had the power to make Percy move on with his life. And to either permanently eject Damon Black from my thoughts or to make him materialize out of the crowd.

5

Damon

“Don’t lose your shit,” Ryker says as he emerges from the babbling throng and corners me near the bar, where I have been nursing my second dirty martini and doing my best to avoid all human contact.

I’m entering week four of the nightmare that I’ve begun to think of as Carly-gate. My exhaustion-fueled mood has worsened every day that I scan the endless New York crowds for that single glorious face that I never find. I’m tired of these episodes of low-key cardiac arrest every time I spy the wrong redhead. I’m furious at myself for the ongoing prideful paralysis that prevents me from trying to track her down and see her again when I know I’ll never rest until I do.

In short? I’m pissed at her for putting me through this, myself for my inability to get over it, my brother for dragging me to this excruciating event and refusing to allow me to sulk without interruption and the world in general.

I scowl at him accordingly. “The fuck are you talking about? I never lose my shit.”

“Your shit’s been lost since you met a certain British female. Don’t deny it.”

My scowl deepens. I confessed the pertinent details about Carly’s disappearance during a moment of weakness that I now, obviously, regret.

“Speaking of lost shit, where’s your lovely new squeeze Ella? Why isn’t she here?”

Ryker met said Ella at Bemelmans the same night I met Carly. Let’s just say that, from all appearances, Cupid nailed him between the eyes with a particularly big and sharp arrow. This smitten fool can’t stop talking about her. He’s damn near as out of sorts as I am these days.

“She’s, ah, not into cocktail parties,” he says, his ears turning a satisfying shade of red.

“Too bad.” My brothers and I never miss an opportunity to give each other grief. Generally good-natured, but we show no mercy. “Seems like she’d come if she were more into you.”

“She’s plenty into me. Trust me.”

“If you say so.”

“And don’t try to change the subject. I’ve got information that’s about to change your life.”

Sure he does. And my ass shits gold dust and diamonds.

“The clock’s ticking on any interest I may have in this conversation,” I say, checking my watch.

He smirks at me, never a good sign.

“She’s here,” he says with a subtle tip of his head toward the far end of the room.

The she needs no explanation.

My heart stops. Soaring hope will do that to you when you hardly ever feel it. I forget about my nosy audience of one and nearly give myself whiplash glancing around. And suddenly there it is after weeks of fruitlessly searching for it. Hoping for it. Praying for it.

The fiery auburn hair, pulled back in a sleek ponytail this