All Chapters of The Billionaire She Rejected.: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Riley’s POV Early afternoon at Gray Enterprises, the revolving doors clicked shut behind me, sealing off the lobby's cool, sterile calm. Outside, the air was cool and cloudy, brushing against my skin, but that wasn’t what made me pause. It was the feeling, that gut-deep tightness. Like something was waiting. “Riley! Riley Jordan! Over here—!” Flash. Flash. Flashflashflash. The world blinked white. I flinched backward instinctively, my hand flying up to shield my face. That was when I saw them, dozens of them, closing in like a tide. With their cameras flashing, microphones raised, and Pointed questions thrown my way. “Riley, how long have you and Michael Gray been together?” “Are you really living in the same apartment with him?” “Did you work with Langford Media during the payout scandal?” “Were you one of the people who exposed everything, or did you just get lucky and end up with a billionaire?” I clenched my jaw and kept my voice steady. “No commen

Riley's POV By late afternoon, my bedroom looked like a war zone, with shoes scattered across the floor, dresses flung over the bed, and lipsticks lined neatly along the windowsill. Aria stood in the middle of it all, hands on her hips, shaking her head like she was a general surveying chaos. “This is what you call ‘picking something simple’?” she asked, lifting a midnight blue gown between two fingers. “Girl, this thing could blind a man.” “It’s one of three options,” I said flatly. “And it’s the least sparkly.” She shot me a look. “You’re going to a billionaire gala, not sneaking into a PTA fundraiser.” I sank onto the edge of the bed and slipped off my heels. The necklace Michael gave me caught the light against my collarbone. I was still wearing it. Aria noticed it. Her eyes narrowed like a cat watching something shiny. “So we’re wearing diamonds now?” I gave her a look. “Don’t start.” She grinned. “Too late. That’s not an accessory, that’s a statement piece. You p

Riley’s POVSoft jazz drifted through the room, smooth and slow. The kind of music that made everything feel more intimate, and a little too easy to say something you would regret later.A half-empty bottle of red wine sat between Aria and me, catching the flicker of candlelight like blood in a glass. My robe had slipped off one shoulder, and my face mask was starting to crack, tugging slightly at the corner of my mouth every time I smiled. The cucumber slice on my eye had already slid halfway down my cheek.Aria was sprawled across the other end of the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, a bowl of chocolate almonds in her lap.“This,” she sighed dramatically, “is exactly the therapy I needed.”“You say that every time,” I murmured, handing her the wine to top us off.“Because it’s always true,” she grumbled, filling her glass like we were on a mission. “Between my toxic job, my mother’s daily texted prayers, and the guy I’ve been hooking up with discovering his emotional allergy

Michael POVThe car pulled away from the curb like it had somewhere more important to be. Maybe it did. All I knew was Riley was sitting next to me, and every second felt like a test I wasn’t sure I could pass.She had just come back from the restroom before we left the restaurant, but it wasn’t the same woman who slid into the seat beside me. Something about her posture, the heat clinging to her skin, the slight flush on her chest that hadn’t been there during dessert. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way her lipstick had faded slightly, the edges smudged like a kiss had almost happened.The ride was supposed to be quiet. Professional. A transition from business to silence.Instead, the air felt thick.She sat too close, though not deliberately or maybe it was. The car wasn’t that spacious, but she didn’t try to shift away when her thigh brushed mine. She stayed. Bare skin grazing my slacks. Warm, soft, electric.The streetlights painted golden ribbons across her arms and co

Riley's POV The room feels too still, like it’s holding its breath with me. Michael’s hand is still on my hip, not moving, just resting there like it belongs. His palm is warm and heavy, like an anchor that I can’t tell if I want to shake off… or pull closer. The sheets stick slightly to my skin. My body is still flushed, covered in a fine sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried. I stare up at the ceiling, watching the faint dance of city light filtering through the half-closed blinds, broken lines of gold and shadow stretching like quiet wounds across the white paint. I try not to breathe too deeply, try not to shift. Because if I do, I might feel too much. Might remember too much. His scent lingers, cologne softened by skin and heat and something rawer. Musk and salt and whatever cologne he wore that now smells like sex and secrets. I hate that I like it. I hate that I want to inhale it like it’ll keep me grounded. He hasn’t said a word since. Neither have I. And yet, the sile