My Accidental Proposal to the Billionaire

Chapter Five: Rosehall

"Out. Now." My face, hot. My hands, shaking. My fists, clenched. I could break his perfect jaw. But I don't know what I'm more mad about: that he said it, or that he's right. I'm mad that my brain keeps fluttering back to my apartment, back to my bed. I keep remembering all the nights I stayed up at my desk, while Jason sat there, the tip of his glasses in his mouth. Waiting. I belonged to my sketchbook. I belonged to my dreams. I'd given up my s*x life; a sacrifice I was more than willing to make.

But my thighs are clenched. My stomach is tight. Each breath is suddenly a ragged gasp. I want him to run his finger along my lip again, I want to feel the warmth. I want... "Did you hear me? Get out. Now!"

Jack tucks his hands into his lap. His expression shifts; he looks angelic, almost innocent. A sweet smile, half-lidded eyes. "As you wish, Sinclair. But you can't run forever."

My chest tightens. He doesn't know how far I've run. If I wanted to, I could be in Australia tomorrow. And still, his statement makes my breath hitch. I click the 'unlock' on the driver's side and watch him slip soundlessly out of my car. His smell, that deep, erotic musk, lingers. A dark cloud.

"One more thing?" he asks, his voice surprisingly sweet. I don't have time to respond; I can only spare him a wounded glance.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"I want my ring back."

He shuts the door. I watch him walk away in his perfect suit, watch the way his pants cling to what must be described as a perfect ass. I want to look away, but the confident sway of his stride entrances me. He has the perfect silhouette, the broad shoulders, the perfect hips. He must've been cooked up in a lab.

I have to sit there for a minute to catch my breath. I have to clutch the steering wheel, have to press my head against it. Wine. Fries and Coke. And...

My dog. I have to see my dog.

I haven't seen my dog since Christmas. When I left the family estate, I made a bargain with Mother: I would be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I knew this year would be different, what with my inheritance. I knew there'd be a chance I'd be back on my birthday. I guess I just never expected it in these circumstances.

I'm going back to Rosehall.

***

The rich love the country. Not the little things about it; not the chores, not the smell of horse manure. Not the general stores that have belonged to families for decades and the smattering of Family Dollars and gas stations in states of disrepair.

They love the idea of the country. The golden fields of wheat seem so nice to them. They're tired of city life. Skyscrapers and yellow taxis and concrete slabs everywhere. They like to imagine the manors and the pastures and the stables and the horses. They like to cosplay Gone with the Wind and Anne of Green Gables. They like to pretend to be southern debutantes, with their country clubs and polo.

I would know. My family home, Rosehall, is the biggest sham of them all.

Grandfather was a cleaner, and Grandmother sold jewelry crafted out of wires and metal salvage. They took their life savings and bought a little piece of land in north Virginia. There is where they built their first house. They had enough money to put Daddy through college when they sold that house. And Mother, well, she might as well have been born in an evening gown and a martini in her hand. She's from old money. How lucky for us.

Daddy got lucky. He made the right website at the right time and sold it for stupid money. Grandmother was still alive and finally got her wish of making jewelry not out of copper wires and old coins, but out of gold and gems. These sold for ridiculous money.

All this new wealth in the family, and Mother insisted that we had to have an estate. A real estate. Just like the old plantations.

Rosehall is always dripping in fresh white paint; it's five stories tall and needs columns to support it. It has curling gates, a pink horseshoe driveway, and is only minutes away from the nearest country club. Hours away from almost anything else.

On the drive up, I keep having to remind myself to breathe, but the day's events keep looping in my head. I keep imagining the hard press of Mr. Valentine's shoulder against my chest, keeping me pinned in my seat. I keep imagining those feelings in my body, feelings I'd always deemed as 'too distracting.' The heat. The squeezing. The lust.

I do not want to think about my mother. I order two large fries from McDonald's that wilt, uneaten, in my cupholder. I listen to podcasts. I have to mute my phone because I have three hundred notifications, and climbing. On the drive, I try to imagine a new design line based on my experiences. Blood-reds, taffeta. Dramatic. Intense. I can learn from this. I can build something out of this. In every dark cloud, there's always a silver lining, yada yada.

I have it in my mind: A red gown, the reddest you've ever seen, flowing layers of almost see-through fabric swirling around the outside. The base of the gown itself is a body-squeezing mermaid cut. The wearer would feel like a rose.

It's the only thing I can think about to distract myself from the shitshow I'm walking into and from the shitshow I just left behind. The roads become smoother, the exits farther away, less and less soaring buildings in the distance and more giant, waving trees.

Finally, I make the turn onto the back road leading to Rosehall. It's all bumpy gravel at first, and then turns into the smoothest pavement I've ever driven on. Like butter under my tires. I sigh softly; why does hell always have to be so beautiful? Why does hell always feel so nice?

And finally, I arrive at the gates. They're open tonight. There are too many cars. And they're all cars that belong to the wealthy; the newest models of Mercedes, of course, the newest Lincolns, but there's also Ferraris and Lamborghinis (probably driven by the trust fund babies. The kids I went to high school with).

My heart plummets. Rosehall itself looks just as it always has. Just as white, just as massive, just as intimidating with its pointy roof. I think about being sixteen, being trapped in one of the rooms on the top floor, and being an i***t. I remember tying all my bedsheets together just like in the movies and climbing out the window. I remember what it felt like to fall around the third floor and break my leg.

That is what Rosehall has always been for me. Pain and stupidity and a place you do anything to run from. With its hundreds of windows, all lit to a sweet yellow glow, it looks like a spider. Something alive with lots of eyes, watching me.

I draw in a deep breath and pull up into the driveway.