THE BILLIONAIRE WHO STOLE MY SECOND CHANCE

"You're going to stand there and tell me I imagined it?" Vivienne Hart's voice did not sound like her own. It was too steady, too composed, considering the fact that she could still taste the champagne from her engagement party and her ears were still ringing with the applause that had followed when Gregory's mother announced the wedding date. Eleanor Whitmore did not flinch. She stood in the doorway of Gregory's penthouse bedroom wearing Vivienne's silk robe—the ivory one with the monogrammed initials V.H. that she had received as a gift from her grandmother two Christmases ago. The robe hung loose on Eleanor's shoulders, and underneath it, Vivienne could see the strap of a lace camisole that certainly did not belong to her. "You're being dramatic," Eleanor said, crossing her arms. "Nothing happened." "Nothing happened." Vivienne repeated the words slowly, as though she were translating them from a foreign language. Behind Eleanor, on the bed, the sheets were rumpled in a way that told its own story. Gregory's tie—the navy silk one Vivienne had bought him for his birthday—was draped over the lamp like a flag of surrender. "Vivienne." Gregory emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked at her with the expression of a man who had been caught doing something mildly embarrassing rather than something catastrophic. "You need to calm down." "Calm down." "Yes. You're making a scene." She looked around the room. The scattered clothes. The half-empty bottle of wine on the nightstand. Her stepsister's heels kicked off by the window. And then she looked back at Gregory, the man she had agreed to marry six months ago, the man her father had approved of, the man her mother had called "a solid choice." "I'm making a scene," she said quietly. "In the bedroom where I was supposed to spend my wedding night. With my stepsister. I'm making a scene." Gregory sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. "It's not what it looks like." "Then what is it?" Vivienne asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been screwing Eleanor behind my back. But please, correct me if I'm wrong." Eleanor stepped forward. "You always do this. You always make everything about you." Vivienne turned to look at her stepsister—the woman who had been part of her life for fifteen years, ever since their parents remarried. The woman she had defended when their classmates called her a social climber. The woman she had confided in when Gregory first proposed, showing her the ring before anyone else had seen it. "About me?" Vivienne asked. "You're in my fiancé's bedroom. You're wearing my robe." "It's a robe, Vivienne. Don't be pathetic." The words landed like a slap. Vivienne felt something shift inside her chest—a door closing, a lock turning, a chapter ending. She had spent years being the peacemaker, the reasonable one, the daughter who smoothed things over and smiled through family dinners and pretended that her father's disappearing acts and her stepmother's cold comments didn't hurt her. "I'm not going to fight you," Vivienne said. "Either of you." Gregory stepped forward. "Vivienne, let's talk about this. We can work through it." "I don't think so." "Don't be impulsive. You're upset. I understand that. But think about what you're throwing away. The wedding. Our families. Everything we've built." She looked at him—really looked at him—and wondered how she had ever found him attractive. Gregory Whitmore, with his polished smile and his expensive suits and his family name that opened doors. Gregory, who had never once asked her what she wanted. Gregory, who had assumed from the beginning that she would be grateful for his attention. "I'm not throwing anything away," Vivienne said. "I'm walking away from something that was never worth keeping." She turned and walked out of the bedroom. Her heels clicked against the marble floor of the hallway, and she heard Gregory calling after her, but she didn't stop. She walked past the photographs on the walls—her and Gregory at charity galas, her and Gregory on vacation in Santorini, her and Gregory pretending to be happy for the cameras. She walked past the living room where just hours ago they had toasted to their future. She walked out the front door. The hallway was empty save for a man leaning against the wall by the elevator, arms crossed, watching her with an expression of mild curiosity. He was tall, dark-haired, dressed in a black suit that fit him too well to be off the rack. There was something about him—a stillness, a patience—that made her think of a predator waiting for the right moment. "You look like you could use a drink," he said. Vivienne stopped. "I don't drink with strangers." "Then let me introduce myself." He pushed off the wall and extended his hand. "Damien Cross." She knew the name. Everyone in their circle knew the name. Damien Cross was the billionaire who had dismantled three rival companies in the past five years, who had been investigated by the SEC twice and never charged, who was rumored to have connections that went far beyond his financial empire. His hand was cool and dry in hers. His grip was firm but not aggressive. "I know who you are," Vivienne said. "Then you have an advantage. I only know that you're the woman who just walked out of Gregory Whitmore's penthouse without looking back." He paused. "I've been waiting for someone to do that for years." "Excuse me?" "Gregory is a fool," Damien said simply. "And he just made a mistake that will cost him everything." Vivienne released his hand. "I don't know what you think you know—" "I know that you caught him with your stepsister. I know that your family will pressure you to forgive him. I know that Gregory will beg, and your mother will tell you not to make a scene, and your father will disappear because he always disappears when things get difficult." Damien's eyes were dark, unreadable. "And I know that you deserve better." "Did you follow me here?" "I was in the building. Business with another tenant." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. "But I've been watching you for a long time, Vivienne." She took the card. It was simple—black with silver lettering. His name, his number, nothing else. "What do you want?" she asked. "I want to make you an offer." He glanced toward the door she had just walked through. "But not here. Not now. You're angry, and you're hurt, and you're not ready to hear what I have to say." "Then why are you here?" "Because I wanted to see the moment it happened." His mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "And because I wanted to be the first person to tell you that your life is about to change." He pressed the elevator button. The doors opened immediately. "Have dinner with me tomorrow night," Damien said. "I'll explain everything. And if you don't like what I have to say, you can walk away and never see me again." "And if I do?" "Then you'll never have to worry about being treated as disposable again." The elevator doors began to close. Vivienne watched him disappear behind the polished steel, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She looked down at the card in her hand. Damien Cross. There was no address, no company name. Just his name and a phone number. Behind her, she heard the door of Gregory's penthouse open. "Vivienne!" Gregory's voice echoed down the hallway. "Vivienne, wait!" She didn't turn around. She stepped into the second elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. As the doors closed, she felt something she hadn't felt in years—a sense of possibility. A door had closed. Another had opened. And for the first time in her life, Vivienne Hart was making decisions for herself. She had no idea what Damien Cross wanted from her. She had no idea what she was walking into. But she knew one thing with absolute certainty: She would never be humiliated again. The elevator descended, and Vivienne looked at the card one more time. His handwriting was sharp, deliberate, precise—the writing of a man who measured every move he made. She didn't know if she would call him. But she held onto the card as the doors opened onto the lobby, and she stepped out into the night air, a free woman for the first time in years.