She’s Not The One (Last Billionaire Standing #2)

Chapter 1

ALEC

I’ve got king-queen suited, but the card faces keep moving in and out of focus. I blink, refocus, and the numbers steady for a second before blurring again. Something is off tonight, and it’s not the hand.

I take a sip of my whiskey, watching for tells in Damien Langley’s face over the rim of my glass. Nothing. The bastard’s always played with a robot’s emotion, but tonight I’m having an even harder time reading him. Or the other four men seated around the table with us.

“Your move, Beckett.” Finn Bardot leans back in his leather chair, sandy-blond hair catching the amber light from The Retreat’s crystal chandelier. His greenish-blue eyes are lit with mischief. “You’ve been staring at those cards for five minutes. Everything okay over there?”

He’s right. I’ve been holding this hand too long, overthinking what should be a simple decision.

There’s this nagging exhaustion sitting behind my eyes, making everything feel slightly off-kilter tonight.

Like my body’s running on fumes but my brain won’t get the memo to slow down and figure out what’s wrong.

I shake it off and toss two chips into the center of the mahogany table, the sound echoing off the dark wood paneling that lines this back room. “Raise. Just trying to decide how much to take you idiots for tonight.”

Brad Hayes snorts from across the table, his ice-blue eyes sharp with amusement. The guy’s built like a linebacker. “Rich, coming from the guy who’s lost two games to us already. Not that I’m complaining. I like easy winnings as much as anyone.”

“Except for your ex-wife, maybe. That eight-figure divorce from Alessandra’s got to sting, even for someone with your bank account.” I take a sip of whiskey, hoping it’ll clear whatever fog is creeping into my head. The comeback lands with just enough bite to sting without drawing blood.

Brad grins and flips me off. “Touché, you bastard.”

These assholes are my closest friends, which means I trust them in everything except poker.

In business and friendship, information is currency, and emotion can get you killed.

Figuratively speaking. But on game night with this bunch, it’s every man for himself and there is no such thing as mercy.

Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Wyatt deals the flop, his dark wavy hair perfectly styled even at this hour, those dark brown eyes calculating odds like he’s already three moves ahead. “Speaking of disasters, Mason’s been sending photos from his island hideaway with Lucy. Guy looks disgustingly happy.”

“Poor bastard.” I add another chip to the growing pile. “A week with a cute temporary assistant and he chucks it all to go build sandcastles and make babies.”

Finn chuckles. “You got to admit, Mason got lucky with Lucy. She seems perfect for him.”

“Damien didn’t fare too poorly with Willow, either,” Wyatt adds. “At least she lets you continue coming to poker night.”

“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” Damien says with a smile, something that used to be so rare as to be shocking. Now, the sonofabitch always seems to be in a decent mood. Even if falling in love with Willow did cost him a cool million when he forfeited his stake in our group bet a few weeks ago.

Gabriel sits statue-still across from him. His mouth quirks. Barely perceptible, but I catch it. “What about you, Alec? Still confident you’re immune to whatever got Mason and Damien?”

“Immune?” I lean forward, stacking my chips and trying not to notice the slight tremor in my fingers. “I’m not immune, Sinclair. I’m strategic. Love is just bad risk management.”

Finn smirks, his athletic frame lounging in the chair like he’s on a yacht instead of in Manhattan’s most exclusive club.

“Jesus, Alec. You sound like one of HoloTech Security’s robotic assistants more than a human.

Are you letting your R&D guys mess with your programming? Even I’m not that cynical.”

The mention of my company’s latest product success makes me smirk, though it takes more effort than it should. “At least I wasn’t programmed by Red Bull and bad decisions.”

“Hey, my decisions aren’t bad. They’re just... adventurous.” Finn’s grin widens. “There’s a difference between calculated risks and whatever the hell you call your dating life.”

“You assume he’s actually got a dating life,” Wyatt quips, nudging my arm with his from where he’s seated beside me. “If I’m the Casanova of our little group, Alec here is our resident monk.”

I snort. “Trust me, I’m no monk. I just don’t do relationships.”

Not since Victoria. I learned my lesson with her back in college, and it’s a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.

I try to laugh, but it comes out strained.

My chest is starting to feel like it’s caught in a vise.

“While you idiots are sitting ducks for the first woman to come along and crack your emotional firewalls, I’ll be claiming the Last Billionaire Standing title and counting my winnings from our wager. ”

Wyatt’s fingers stop drumming against his glass as he stares at me. “Seriously, man. You look like shit. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Sleep is for people without empires to run.” I try to keep my voice steady, but the cards in my hand blur slightly around the edges.

This is ridiculous. I don’t get sick. I don’t have time to get sick. I run five miles every morning at exactly 5:30 AM, eat a precisely calculated diet, and haven’t missed a scheduled workout in four years.

Except right now, my body feels like it’s about to throw a connecting rod.

“Beckett.” Wyatt’s voice cuts through the fog settling over my thoughts. “You’re pale as fuck. You okay?”

Every instinct screams to deflect, to turn the observation into another cutting remark. But the words stick in my throat as my chest seizes up like someone’s wrapping steel cables around my ribs and pulling tight.

“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter in my throat and feels about as convincing as it sounds. “Just deciding whether you’re bluffing or—”

The room tilts sideways.

One second I’m sitting upright, the next I’m gripping the edge of the mahogany table as The Retreat’s exclusive poker room spins like a carnival ride. My chips scatter, the sound of rolling plastic on marble tile sharp in the sudden silence.

“Shit.” Finn’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Alec?”

I try to straighten up, to salvage whatever’s left of my dignity, but my body has apparently decided to stage a hostile takeover of its own. My carefully maintained control, the thing that’s defined every aspect of my life for the past decade, cracks like a badly written contract.

“I’m...” The words won’t come. My chest feels like it’s being crushed in a hydraulic press, each breath a negotiation my lungs are losing.

This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in front of them.

Wyatt’s already moving, his chair scraping as he signals to someone behind me with the kind of subtle gesture that means ‘handle this crisis without making headlines.’

“Sir?” One of the club’s attendants appears at my shoulder, his voice discreet but edged with urgency. “Dr. Vaughn is available immediately.”

Dr. Vaughn. The Retreat’s on-site physician, whose patient list must read like a Fortune 500 directory. The fact that he’s been summoned means this has moved beyond ‘are you okay?’ into ‘we may be planning your funeral’ territory. Fuck.

“That’s...” I try to wave off the concern, but my hand feels disconnected from my brain. The tremor in my fingers has nothing to do with whiskey or fatigue, and I don’t want to think about what it does have to do with. “Not necessary.”

“Actually,” Wyatt says, “it fucking is necessary.”

I want to argue, to assert the control that’s slipping through my fingers like water, but my legs aren’t cooperating and suddenly standing feels like climbing Everest in a business suit.

But as the attendant helps me to my feet and the room spins again, I realize that my body doesn’t give a damn about my reputation, my empire, or my carefully constructed emotional walls.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m completely, terrifyingly, not in control.

“You’ll be fine, Alec,” Finn calls after me, but as I glance blearily at him I notice his usual cocky grin is replaced by something that looks suspiciously like worry. “We’ll keep your seat warm, brother.”

Brother. The word hits harder than it should, considering these men are the closest thing to family I have outside my parents.

The only people who knew me before the empire, back when I was just a driven kid with a full-ride scholarship to Harvard Business School and the confidence that I was going to live forever.

Right now, I’m not so sure about that last part.

The hallway outside the poker room is all polished mahogany and oil paintings of long-dead industrialists as Wyatt and the club attendant guide me toward the consultation room off the nearby corridor.

Dr. Vaughn is already standing in the doorway of the consultation room, a space that manages to feel both medical and luxurious.

More dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and equipment that looks like it belongs in a five-star hospital rather than a gentlemen’s club.

He’s a distinguished man in his sixties, silver-haired and wearing the kind of understated elegance that screams old money and older secrets.

“Mr. Beckett.” He gestures to the examination table with the casual authority of someone who’s told countless titans of industry to remove their shirts and shut up. As soon as I’m seated, Wyatt and the attendant leave me to face the physician in privacy.

“I understand you’re experiencing some difficulty, Alec.”

Difficulty. Like my chest isn’t trying to cave in on itself. Like my body isn’t staging a rebellion against everything I’ve built.

“Minor chest tightness.” I perch on the edge of the table, refusing to fully commit to the patient role even as my hands shake. “Probably stress. Nothing that requires—”