Chapter 10

{Hailey’s POV}

I didn’t sleep. You don’t exactly sleep after the man you just accidentally inherited a billion-dollar empire from sends his favorite grandson to your penthouse to accuse you of fraud and witchcraft.

Kiara was passed out in the next room, snoring like she hadn’t just watched me verbally slap royalty and slam the door in his face. Williams stayed stationed outside like a well-paid gargoyle. Clara had gone off to God knows where with her files, her secrets, and her permanent look of “I know something you don’t.”

And me? I sat on the edge of my hotel bed—my hotel bed, apparently—and tried not to open that damn letter again.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry? Sorry for what? The question was still ringing in my mind—two stupid words. Not I chose you. Not this is why. Just… sorry. Screw him. I found Williams and Clara in our suite’s kitchen talking softly.

Too softly for me to hear.

“Hailey.” Williams noticed me first. I wondered if he’d told Clara about Julian. “There are some security protocols I’d like to go over with you.”

Like not opening doors to Julian Lachaln?

“You’re a target now,” Clara told me crisply.

Given that she’d been so insistent that the Lachlan weren’t a threat, I had to ask: “A target for what?”

“Paparazzi, of course. The firm is keeping a lid on the story for the time being, but that won’t last, and there are other concerns.”

“Kidnapping.” Williams didn’t put any particular emphasis on that word. “Stalking. People will make threats—they always do. You’re young, and you’re female, and that will make it worse. With your friend's permission, I’ll arrange a detail for her as well, as soon as she gets back.”

Kidnapping. Stalking. Threats. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the words. “Where is Kaira?” I asked, since he’d made reference to her coming back.

“On a plane,” Clara answered. “Specifically, your plane.”

“I have a plane?” I was never going to get used to this.

“You have several,” Clara told me. “And a helicopter, I believe, but that’s neither here nor there. Your friend is en route to retrieve your things, as well as her own. Given the deadline for your move into Lachlan House—and the stakes—we thought it best that you remain here. Ideally, we’ll have you moved in no later than tonight.”

“The second this news gets out,” Williams said seriously,

“You will be on the cover of every newspaper. You’ll be the leading story on every newscast, the number one trending topic on all social media. To some people, you’ll be Cinderella to some, Cruella to others.”

Some people would want to be me. Some people would hate me to the depths of their souls. For the first time, I noticed the gun holstered to William’s side.

“You should sit tight,” Williams said evenly.

“Your friend will be back tonight.” She says.

“Do you prefer sedans or SUVs?” she queried, holding her phone in a way that suggested she was fully capable of ordering a car with a mere click of a button. “Any color preference?”

“You’re going to have to excuse me before I set this place on fire,” I told her and stomped out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette and glaring at the skyline like it owed me something.

What have I gotten myself into, I know I need money but not in this way. I love my privacy. This is unreal. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been sleeping in a parking lot. Now I'm a billionaire.

This is the world I live in now. All I had to do was speak, and it was handled. This wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Sooner or later, someone would figure out that this was some kind of screwup. So I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

That was the number one thought on my mind when we went to pick up Kaira. As she stepped out of my private jet. I wondered if Clara could get her into the Sorbonne. Or buy her a little cupcake shop. Or—

“Kaira .” Every thought in my head came screeching to a halt the moment I saw her face. Her right eye was bruised and swollen nearly shut.

Kaira swallowed but didn’t avert her eyes. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I will make butterscotch cupcakes and guilt you into eating them every day.”

“Is there a problem I should know about?” Clara asked Kaira, her voice deceptively calm as she eyed the bruise.

“Hailey hates butterscotch,” Kaira said, like that was the problem.

“Clara,” I gritted out, “does your law firm have a hit man on retainer?”

“No.” Clara kept her tone strictly professional. “But I’m very resourceful. I could make some inquiries.”

“I legitimately cannot tell if you are joking,” Kaira said, and then she turned to me. “I don’t want to talk about it.

And I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I’m fine.”

I managed to keep my mouth shut, and all of us managed to make it back to the hotel. The plan was to finish up a few final arrangements and leave immediately for Lachlan House.

Things did not go exactly according to plan.

“We have a problem.” Williams didn’t sound overly bothered, but Clara immediately put down her phone. Williams nodded to our suite’s balcony. Clara stepped outside, looked down, and swore.

I pushed past Williams and went out on the balcony to see what was going on. Down below, outside the hotel’s entrance, hotel security guards were struggling with what appeared to be a mob. It wasn’t until a flash went off that I realized what that mob was. Paparazzi.

And just like that, every camera was pointed up at the balcony at me.

I thought you said your firm had this locked down.” Williams gave Clara a look. She scowled back at him, made three phone calls in quick succession—two of them in Spanish—and then turned back to my head of security. “The leak didn’t come from us.” Her eyes darted toward Kiara and me. “It came from your boyfriend, with the help of Julian. He wants to tarnish your image.”

Kaira's answer was barely more than a whisper. “My ex.”

My voice was steady, but it was kind of calm.

“Clara,” I said sweetly, “Set up a hot-as-hell party at Lachlan House. Invite the press. Strippers. Tabloids. Make it the goddamn event of the year. Let’s give ‘em something to write about.”

Clara blinked. “A… what?”

“Yeah,” I said with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Let’s burn their reputation to the ground, champagne in hand.”

“Yes, boss,” Clara muttered.

Julian wanted a show?

I’d give him a headline. And he’d never forget my name.