Chapter 18
Marcy walks out from the guesthouse, cursing under her breath as she pulls her apron on over her head. Camille veers off past her toward the stairs. Neither of them looks at the other, their moods mirroring each other. She can’t get up to the second-floor fast enough.
Camille uses the palm of her hand to shove her stubborn bathing suit bottoms into her bag, zipping it shut. Her carry-on is next. The anger helps her focus on grabbing everything left of hers in the second-floor loft. The last thing is her sunglasses that she hooks behind her ears, pulling her hair from her face as she sets the frames on top of her head. She shoves the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder in a huff. She has to get out of here. Every second she stays, the harder it is for her to keep her emotions in check. It felt like a dream when she stepped onto the sprawling Los Angeles compound.
What did Delilah tell her? Millionaires have mansions. Billionaires have compounds with breathtaking views.
She was such a pretty little fool. In her amazement at being allowed access to the world’s elite, she was blind to the fact that billionaires become such by stepping on pretty little fools just like her.
And what did she do when she came face to face with the handsome Mr. Bloom?
She fell head over heels.
Camille takes one more scan of the two-thousand-square-foot second-floor guesthouse before heading for the door. She knows that she has everything, but the thought that she may leave even one item of hers is unbearable. The last thing she needs is to give him a reason to come after her. Not that he would.
At the door, she takes one more look around, hearing her best friend’s voice echoing in her head, don’t forget to take pictures for me. She begrudgingly digs her cellphone out. One panoramic photo of the apartment’s meticulous beauty, and then she flings the door open. She steps out onto the exterior stairs, turning to shut the door behind her. She catches sight of her reflection of the door’s window. In the reflection of the yard behind her, she could swear that she sees the silhouette of someone tall standing at one of the main house’s ground-floor windows. She looks at herself, pulling her thick shades down to cover her eyes. She hasn’t allowed herself to cry yet. She would sooner die than let any of them see how they’ve gotten to her.
She does her best to keep her face void of emotion as she trudges down the stairs with her luggage. Catching herself about to turn and look in the direction of the house, she shakes her head.
“Nope,” she murmurs out loud.
She isn’t going to look back. She stops at the gate between the guest and the main house. Out of sight from anyone who may or may not be in the living room, she holds her phone up to snap one more picture of the slightly obscured but still magnificent backyard view of Los Angeles from the hilltop compound.
Whatever fantasies that played in her mind are nothing but a distant memory now. If she wasn’t so angry, she would laugh at herself for her childish daydreaming. He may have been charming, but there’s no happily ever after with someone like him.