Page 64 of Model Billionaire

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The rest of last night, I fucking tossed and turned, barely getting any sleep. I kept replaying what happened over and over, trying to figure out why the fuck she had both of our phones and why she refused to show me hers. By the time the sun began to light up the dark interior of my empty room, I was regretful. Not of anything I did last night, but everything leading up to it. I should have never told Lydia Royce a thing about myself.

Hell, I should have never even slept with her. She’s not worth the hassle. I was searing with anger before I even went out the door to head back to the mansion. The passion in me for what I do, ended up far outweighing the loathing I feel for Lydia. So, here I am, on a flight to Paris.

Did I fuck her just moments ago out of pure anger and frustration? Yes. Did I feel that same feeling that comes every time we’re near each other? Yes. Is that confusing? You do the math— I was never good at that shit anyway.

I know I should be sleeping because I won’t be caught on the runway looking like a zombie later this week, but I feel weird. High off Lydia, angry at myself for feeling that way, and fucked if I know why my brain can’t stop thinking of her naked body. I grumble and groan, pulling my hood over my face and sinking back into the chair I’m in. It takes a few minutes of actively ignoring the rage within, but after that, I begin to doze off.

When I awake, the plane is slowly moving through a terminal to park in its designated spot by very nice, all-black European cars. I watch as we come to a stop on the damp ground, and then I stand up as if I’ve been awake the whole time. I grab my suitcase from the upper compartment and wheel it to the front of the plane, where I see Lydia completely knocked out.

It would be gentlemanly to wake her up, but that's not my job, and I’m still pissed at her. But, I can’t help glancing over a couple of times before they open the doors of the plane. This is the point where my feet should be moving me swiftly off the plane, and Lydia can fend for herself, but I don’t move in that direction. Instead, I find myself reaching over and touching her shoulder.

She immediately wakes, fists up like she’s going to punch me, eyes wide and red like she’s been crying. Has she been crying?

“Fuck.” She breathes when she sees it’s just me and drops her hands to her lap.

“Were you gonna punch me?”

“I would have if you were trying to attack me.”

“You should be thanking me because we're deplaning, and you were still asleep.”

“My hero.” She flatly says, as she tucks glossy strands of auburn hair behind her ears. She's looking around her for something in a panic, and I wonder what it is. Then she sees it and picks it up off the floor. Her phone.

“Not fun to lose, huh.” I prod and turn to head out of the plane. She doesn’t say a word back to me as we make our way down the steps and to the car waiting for us. The man holding up our names on a sign, dark shades and hair, black suit and tie— lets us into the back seat, and we quietly choose our spots. Furthest from one another as possible, of course. It’s a good motto that I’m holding on to until I never have to see her face again.

We weave through the beautiful streets of Paris, past fountains and stony structures, bridges, and cafés that smell like fresh bread. Eventually, we make it to the hotel. We drive through the covered rotunda up to the main entrance. As soon as we come to a stop, I jump out with my bag and head through the doors. I think I hear Lydia thank the driver as she follows me, and we head to the front desk.

“Romeo San Giovanni. Or it might be under—”

“Miu Miu.” The French accent of the receptionist finishes my thought as he works on his computer.

“Yes.” I nod, and he glances up. His small brown eyes toggle between Lydia and me before he continues.

“Here is your key card.” He hands it to me, and I take it. “Please enjoy your stay.” I’m about to turn towards a sign for the elevator when I hear the plural term he used to describe my stay. It’s not actually proper English, but that's beside the point.

“I’m sorry,” I turn back to him, resting my forearm on the desk as he looks at me like he’s very unimpressed by my kind tone. “But, I thought you said,stay.”

“That is correct…stay.”

“Uhm, I think what he’s asking is… why did you give him one key card and insinuate that we’re staying together?” Lydia quietly adds.

“Are you not?”

“No.” We say in unison. He holds up a finger in response and types ferociously fast on his keyboard before shaking his head.

“There is only one Miu Miu suite, and it is with both Lydia and Romeo. Are you not them?”

“We are…” I remark.

“But, we aren’t staying together.” Lydia finishes.

“Is there another room she can have? Not with me?”

“We are booked.” He says without looking, keeping up his rather annoyed tone. “The nearest hotel is about forty-five minutes due west if you have an issue with your accommodation. Though I think they are booked this weekend as well…” he puts a finger on the curvature of his small lips, and I shake my head.

“Whatever. Come on.” I tug at Lydia's arm, and she looks at me in shock. I ignore it and turn towards the elevator. Her feet tap on the floor from behind me as we reach the gold elevator together. We silently make our way to the suite labeled on the key card and enter the room to see one bed in the center, a small balcony, a connected bathroom, and small tv on the wall.

“The fuck is this Holiday Inn? I thought we were staying in a suite.”


Tags: Sophia March Billionaire Romance