Come Back To Me: Billionaire’s Regret

Shirley POV

Three years after our breakup, the shadow of Connor Rogers had long faded from my life, until that afternoon, when our paths crossed again.

It was nearly the end of the workday when Josh called.

"Shirley, there's a problem with the exhibition setup. Can you swing by and check it out?"

I grabbed my bag and car key. "You really know how to pick the timing. Is there overtime pay?"

He laughed. "Double pay!" 

Then his tone turned serious. "I really owe you one."

There were only two of us in the company. With Josh out of town, who else could go if not me?

Two years ago, when I couldn't land a job and was days away from sleeping on the street, Josh took me in.

The studio was broke, salaries were often delayed, but for the first time, I'd felt safe.

I'd found a home.

Thunder rumbled as I reached the exhibition hall. The rain had grown so heavy that my vision blurred into a curtain of water.

"Shit! I forgot my umbrella." I cursed and sprinted into the downpour.

Large drops of rain lashed against my face, stinging like tiny whips soaked in ice water.

I hadn't made it far when a black sedan sped past, brushing dangerously close.

I dodged, but not fast enough—the car clipped me, and I crashed into a puddle.

Pain shot through my body like a lightning strike.

The car screeched to a halt. A door opened.

But the thought of the workers threatening to quit pushed me forward.

I forced myself up, limping into the hall despite the pain.

After a heated argument with the foreman over extra fees, my back felt like it was breaking. Every twist sent sharp pain shooting up my spine.

Dragging my feet toward the exit, I pulled out my phone to text Josh, and walked straight into a solid chest.

A warm hand caught my arm, the heat seeping through my soaked clothes and into my chilled skin. I flinched instinctively.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

I looked up, and froze.

Connor Rogers.

His tailored navy suit perfectly outlined a frame that was broader, denser, radiating a new, dangerous kind of mature authority.

The familiar scent of his woody cologne wrapped around me, unsettling my heart.

That sculpted face, the proud nose, those gray-blue eyes… He looked even more breathtaking now.

But so, so unfamiliar.

My eyes burned. I blinked rapidly, forcing myself to accept the truth.

It was really him.

I yanked my arm free, ignoring the sharp pain in my back, my heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

"My car hit you earlier. Are you hurt?" His deep voice carried concern.

At least he was speaking like a human being now, unlike the day we broke up three years ago.

"I'm fine. Not dead yet," I shot back and turned away.

I barely made two steps before his hand caught my arm, jerking me back.

"Ah—" I hissed as a wave of pain exploded in my waist, freezing me in place.

His eyes sharpened.

"Shirley, my car hit you. I'm sorry. I just want to make sure you're okay. You don't have to run away from me."

A bitter laugh tugged at my lips.

Where was this concern when I was being humiliated?

When I nearly died on the street?

Now he cared about a little bruise? Was I merely entertainment for him again?

The words he'd thrown at me three years ago cut through my chest like blades:

"Shirley, I was only with you for fun. I'm bored now. We're done."

"Take this card. It's more than enough to pay for those three years."

The old pain surged back, cold and merciless.

I ripped my arm away.

"What, you wanted to see me hurt? Congratulations. You win. You can pay up now."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then his gaze softened. His voice dropped.

"I'll take you to the hospital."

"No. I'm going home." I turned to leave.

Connor grabbed my wrist again, pulling me toward him.

"Let go!" I struggled, but his grip was iron.

"You look like you're hurt badly. Let me take a look. I'm not trying to hurt you."

Before I could react, he lifted the hem of my soaked shirt.

Humiliation exploded inside me.

I felt like a piece of merchandise being inspected.

"You bastard! This is sexual harassment!" I kicked and fought despite the pain, but he held my wrists easily.

"Sexual harassment? Shirley, there are women lining up from New York to London just to get into my bed. I'm not trying to do anything to you."

His words were harsh, but his tone carried a strange gentleness. The same tone he used back when things between us were still good.

His fingertips brushed over the bruise on my waist, warm against my cold skin.

Pain shot through me, mingling with something electric that raced across every nerve ending.

My body froze. My breath hitched.

Heat pooled low between my thighs.

Goddamn it. Even now, my body betrayed me.

Every inch of me screamed to lean into him, while my mind recoiled in shame.

"Then go sleep your way from New York to London. Just let me go!" 

I spat, my voice shaking as tears blurred my vision.

His breathing turned heavy, his lips hovering near my ear.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"You've got a nasty bruise here," he said calmly. "It's badly swollen. You need to see a doctor."

Electricity zipped through me again. My knees almost buckled.

The next second, he released my shirt and stepped back.

I didn't know if I was shaking from fear, pain, or the cold. Maybe all three.

I slapped him.

The sharp crack echoed between us.

His face turned to the side, then slowly back toward me. His gray-blue eyes were steady.

"I'm sorry. I only wanted to check your injury," he said quietly, unfazed by the slap.

I yanked my clothes into place. "You don't need to care about me. Just pay the bill. You're good at that."

He gave a bitter smile, pulling out his phone.

"Is money really the only thing we have left to talk about?"

I shot him a cold look. "Yes."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"Shirley," he said hoarsely, "what if I said I take it all back?"