Page 61 of Model Billionaire

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I grit my teeth because the pain in my chest is worse than being shot. I lift my phone to my eyes, see the message I’ve typed up divulging everything to Kias that could secure me the spot of my dreams, and delete it all.

Hot tears roll down my cheeks, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I let them fall. Let them make their mark on me as I trudge to my room that I’ve only slept in once and crawl onto the bed with the last sliver of energy I have.

I lay there as the tears continue to roll, and I know I can't stay here tonight. Not if I want to get actual sleep. Quietly I grab my things and head downstairs while calling for an Uber. This entire thing is horrible and tragic, and I feel like a joke. How the fuck have I screwed up so badly? I head out the front door and walk down the long driveway to the open gates. The Uber arrives just as I do, and I slide into the back without saying a word.

I’m usually not allowed to take Ubers. We take security precautions in the Bratva, and Ubers are not very safe for someone on a mission. Right now, I don’t care because I just ended it and need to get the fuck out of here. Within the hour, he drops me off at the Magdalin, and I sneak past the security through one of the back entrances, climb up a fire escape and jump through my open window. I don't remember leaving it open, but it’s helpful to me now, so I don't think much of it.

I toss my bag to the floor and flop back into my bed. It doesn't feel much like home, never does these days, but at least I can stay here without being reminded of Romeo everywhere I look. The fucking drive back tomorrow morning will be killer, though. I roll over to my side, feeling the weakness set in my muscles as I try to get comfortable. For some reason, I can't.

Then I feel something under me, something strange that makes me roll over to look, though I don't feel like doing anything. A thick piece of paper folded up and attached to it is a tiny gold whistle. What’s left of my heart drops out of my body because only my parents used to call me Little Whistle (I was a bossy, stubborn kid– not much has changed). I fiddle with the edges of the paper, unfolding it carefully, eyes blurry from tears continuing to fall despite my change of attention.

Inside is a note that reads:

“Dearest,

The Eiffel Tower is not far from where you need to be. Enclosed in this letter is a number you must reach. If you do, you won’t be sorry, unless you tell another party.

Good luck.

– Shadow”

On the back of the letter is a number that I’m meant to text “Red” to. I pull out my phone, type in the five numbers 56920, send a text as instructed, and wait. I must stare at it for too long because my eyes begin to burn. Nothing happens. I get nothing in return. I toss my phone to the end of the bed and throw my head back against my pillows.

The aches in my body remind me of Romeo, and I cry even harder because I know the feeling of his absence in the weight of their reminding presence.

I think I pass out from exhaustion and lack of air between the deep sobs full of emotions I’ve not let in since I was first initiated into the Bratva. In the morning, there’s a text that I’m squinting at for far too long because my brain isn’t comprehending anything but the fact that I’m alone. Is it the mysterious number I got? Is it a message telling me that my parents are still alive? Have they tried to reach me for some reason? When I eventually sit up, I’m more awake; I read it with a pounding head.

It's from Kias.

Where’s my report?

I sniff through a swollen nose and type back.

It’s complicated, but I’ll get it to you by the time I land in Paris. Promise.

He types back immediately,you better not fuck this up.To which I turn off my phone and slide out of bed. My body feels heavy. Like I’ve been in space for a year and am back on earth. My bones have hollowed out and can no longer take the weight of earth’s gravity.

I make my way to the bathroom and splash my face with water before going back to my room and realizing I’m still wearing Romeo’s t-shirt. I fight with it as I take it off, balling it up and throwing it onto the floor. My duffle bag for Paris has the clothes I packed for the plane, so I rummage through it to find a white ribbed tank top, black silk Miu Miu track pants, and a hair clip. I twist my tangled hair and clip it back before sliding on the tank and track pants.

My white slides wait for me at the door, and I shove my foot into them, duffle bag in hand, as I make my way back out the window, calling another Uber on my way down the first escape. I walk a block to catch it and make my way back to the Miu Miu mansion. When I arrive, the sun is just beginning to rise, so I hope I'm on time. I slide through the entrance and shut the door. As I turn around, I feel someone watching. Lamé is standing by the steps, a look of observance on his face.

“Where are the rest of the models?” I ask, looking around as he shakes his head.

“They already left, lovely. We have a car to bring you and Romeo to your own private jet.” He looks past me. “Where is he?” I look to my feet, not wanting to answer him and not even knowing how to.

“I see.” He nods as I look up. “Well—”

“I’m here!” Romeo bursts through the front door, not glancing at me as he kisses Lamé's cheeks.

“Wonderful!” He snaps at us. “Go on now. Mel will take you to the airport.” He points through the open door, where a pasty woman in white stands by a black Range Rover with chrome wheels. We immediately listen and make our way to the car. The anger boiling between us is nearly too much for me to bear, but I have to endure it.

When he’s asleep on the plane, I’ll just quickly get the information I need and not be such a pussy. I can send it to Kias before we land, and all will be as it should be— with the Bratva, anyway.

The drive is short, and we’re on the runway, walking up the steps of the private jet and finding seats on completely opposite sides of the plane. I’m at the front right corner, and he’s at the very back left. He puts headphones over his ears before I can even try to reconcile with him. But you know what, I would rather not reconcile with him. He fucked up too— lost his temper and acted like an asshole.

I’m not going to baby him and try to make up with him if he isn’t even willing to apologize. Of course, it doesn’t actually matter. It shouldn’t matter anyway because I don’t need his forgiveness or reconciliation to get what I want. I’m through with him. So, why doesn’t it feel like it?

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve asked myself this question, I could pay for a therapist to answer it for me. But we don’t have therapists in the Bratva. Emotions are weakness, and that’s that. I grit my teeth and turn towards the front of the plane and order a cocktail from the waitress, who asks what I want before the plane even takes flight. I can drink my way out of feeling because today I’m weak, and my chest is swelling with enough emotion to get us to Paris and back.


Tags: Sophia March Billionaire Romance