My Ex Lost Me, But Another Billionaire Was Waiting for Me

Chapter 2

The gala wasn't even over before Adrian received a call from the board.

By the time I caught up with him outside the club, his driver had already opened the door of a black Bentley.

"Mr. Voss."

He stopped.

The rain shimmered beneath the streetlights, settling across his shoulders like a thin layer of silver.

"Thanks for tonight."

"No need."

Adrian looked at me. "Our wedding is in four weeks. If anyone asks again, just tell them the groom is me."

I pressed my lips together. "I don't want to trouble you with my mess."

"A man acknowledging his fiancée isn't trouble."

He said it so naturally that I didn't know how to respond.

Three months earlier, I'd returned to Kingsley City from Harborbridge.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, a black Bentley pulled up in front of me.

The rear window rolled down. Adrian was sitting inside.

The first thing he asked was, "You came back for Grant?"

I stood there for a long moment before answering,

"I heard he's getting engaged."

"He's not." Adrian paused.

His voice stayed calm. "But once he finds out you're back, he won't let you live in peace."

I gripped the handle of my suitcase. I didn't deny it.

"The Voss Family Foundation requires me to establish a stable marriage before the end of the year. Otherwise, the board will transfer part of my voting rights to my uncle."

Adrian looked at me as though we were negotiating a corporate acquisition.

"I need a fiancée. You need someone Grant won't dare touch. 12 months. A prenuptial agreement. We both keep our freedom. Yes or no?"

I said yes.

Even now, I still didn't understand why, out of all the people, he'd chosen me.

"I'm sorry you got dragged into all of this tonight," I said.

Adrian was quiet for a moment. His eyes settled on the way I was unconsciously leaning toward my left side.

"Your right knee hurts?"

I answered on instinct, "No."

"Whenever it hurts, you shift your weight to your left leg."

I froze.

He didn't explain how he knew. Instead, he reached into the car and handed me a small paper bag.

Inside were pain patches, anti-inflammatory medicine, and a lightweight cashmere knee brace.

"The forecast says we're getting a storm tonight. Text me when you get back to your apartment," he said.

"You've been keeping these in your car?"

His gaze rested on my face. "Since the day you came back."

Something inside my chest stirred.

After the Bentley drove away, I stood in the rain for a long moment.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from Grant.

Grant: Don't drink the club's medicated whiskey. You're allergic to that painkiller.

Another message appeared almost immediately.

Grant: And don't drive yourself home tonight.

I stared at the screen. I could practically picture him, expression cold as ever while typing those words.

Three years ago, he was the one who pushed me away.

Three years later, he still remembered exactly which pain medication I was allergic to.

But he never believed that kind of concern was love.

To him, it was nothing more than the lingering possessiveness of a man who still thought I belonged to him.