The Billionaire's Regret
“He said he wanted to talk.”
“And?”
I let my head fall back against the seat, close my eyes for half a second. Poppy’s face flashes in my mind, messy bangs, green eyes, waffle-filled mouth. Her tiny voice filling a boardroom like a cheerful siren.
“I told him he could go to hell,” I mutter.
Daniella is silent for a moment, then nods, absolutely satisfied. “Good.”
My phone vibrates again.
A video from Hazel. Poppy at the breakfast table, cheeks stuffed with waffle, thumb up in triumphant glory. The caption is one sentence: