Goodbye, Mr. Billionaire

Chapter5

Hazel’s POV

I didn't waste time arguing with Zoey. I left without a word and called myself an Uber, the night wind biting at my swollen, red palms while I waited, the welts across them looking particularly vicious under the streetlights.

The burning pain was sharp, but nothing compared to the stab I'd felt when Bryce chose Zoey's lie over checking on me.

When I got home, Bryce and Madison were nowhere in sight, but the master bedroom light was on. I climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to find Layla crouched by the nightstand, violently twisting apart a model car, the gift I'd given Bryce for our third anniversary. It was a miniature replica of his favorite car.

I'd gone through hell tracking down over a dozen engineers for that thing, calling in every favor I had, and spending a week assembling it.

Bryce hadn't been enthusiastic when I gave it to him, just raised an eyebrow and said, "You went to a lot of trouble."

But I knew he loved it. It sat in the most prominent spot on our dresser ever since.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out ice-cold. "Put it down."

Layla froze, then saw it was only me and turned defiant, clutching it tighter. "Uncle Bryce gave me this room. Everything's mine now."

"Is that so?" I said. "Maybe wait until he's actually your father."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hearing Bryce and Madison approaching, Layla's confidence surged. She smirked at me, then smashed the car to the floor. It shattered, fragments scattering everywhere, and she immediately burst into loud, exaggerated sobs.

Bryce stepped in to find her hysterical and me frozen, his treasured car in pieces. His face filled with pain, as though something inside him had been torn apart too.

Madison rushed in behind him, and Layla threw herself into her arms, sobbing and telling a twisted version of events—that I'd yelled at her, told her she deserved her father's death, and smashed the car myself just to get her kicked out. I almost laughed at how calculating a seven-year-old could be.

Madison's tears welled up right on cue. "Ms. Westbrook, if you're upset with us, take it out on me, not a child recovering from a head injury."

Then as if by accident, her fingers found the most swollen, tender spot on my palm and pressed down hard.

I flinched and yanked my hand back on instinct. Madison cried out and fell to the floor as though I'd struck her, and Layla came at me screaming, pounding my legs with her fists. "You bad woman! You're trying to kill my mommy!"

"Enough!" Bryce scooped Layla up, frowning at me like I was the one out of line. "She's a child, Hazel. Was that really necessary? Apologize to them this instant."

Apologize? Whatever hope I still carried for this marriage died completely in that moment.

"And if I don't?" I asked quietly. "Will you throw your own wife out of the house?"

His anger flared, and without another word he carried Layla out, Madison trailing behind wiping away tears that weren't real. Layla glanced back at me over his shoulder and silently mouthed, *you deserve it.*

Alone, I sat down and let the truth settle over me. Clinging onto this marriage any longer would only make me more pathetic than I already was. Bryce hadn't been entirely worthless once; he'd comforted me, even pulled me from a fire. But that was the past.

I found a bag and began collecting the pieces on the floor one by one, slowly like a farewell ritual, the cold metal stinging my palm. By the time I picked up the last piece, I'd made myself a promise: my marriage to Bryce could never be repaired.

Later, I learned Bryce had gone looking for answers. His assistant reported that Scott had had his servants strike my hands with a rod, and that the whole Westbrook estate now knew about it.

He came back to find me carrying the trash bag to the door, the floor swept clean, and something in his face cracked. "The car... could it be fixed?" he asked, his voice sounding almost frantic.

"It can't," I said flatly. "It's just trash now." I threw the bag into the bin without looking back.

He grabbed my hand before I could stop him, found it swollen and burning, and fury filled his eyes. "They really had the nerve to hurt you like this."

Then he pulled me to the sofa and dressed my wounds himself, gentle and thorough, while I sat there feeling nothing at all. It was almost funny because he only understood that my family had hurt me, but he never once considered that he was the true cause of everything. His belated tenderness couldn't move me anymore.

He wanted to apologize; I could see it sitting right there on his tongue. But his pride won, as it always did, and instead he lectured me about losing my temper with a child.

I only said, "Okay," and told him I was tired.

He stood to leave, clearly thrown by how calm I remained, waiting—maybe hoping—for me to soften first. But I wasn't going to be the one who caved first.

"Bryce," I said, and he turned back, something like hope appearing on his face under the lamplight.

"The studio will be busy the next few days," I told him blandly. "I'll be away from home often."

His jaw tightened with unreasonable anger, as if I'd only said it to provoke him. "Fine." Then he walked out without another glance.

The next morning I drove to Cressie, my studio in Highland Park, the one place that was entirely mine. My assistant Sienna gasped at the bandage on my hand, but I brushed it off. Business was growing, and it was time to expand.

Our broker, Andrew Pierce, showed us several spaces that afternoon, none of them quite right for what I had in mind, until he mentioned a beautiful standalone villa in Malibu, which was empty because the owner was difficult, though available at a steep discount.

The villa was better than I'd imagined: clean white walls, open light-filled rooms, and natural light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The first floor was exactly what I needed for a reception area and dress displays.

But it was the overgrown backyard that caught my eye; a patch of blue-purple hydrangeas pushing up through the weeds, the kind I used to love more than anything, before I'd learned to stop loving things so openly.

"What's the rent?" I asked, and Andrew promised to call the landlord's office right away.

He came back only minutes later, breathless. "Ms. Westbrook, the landlord's offering twenty percent off the market rate!"

I froze instantly. A whopping twenty percent off?

That kind of discount made no sense at all. No one gave away a deal like that, unless they expected something far more valuable in return.

The only question was… who was pulling the strings?