The Billionaire Game 3(18)

And the worst part was, I knew the solution to all my problems: I needed to talk to Asher. Alone.

I needed to tell him, openly and honestly, exactly what was bothering me. I needed to tell him how I felt, and how I hoped he felt, and what I felt he needed to do in order to earn my forgiveness and my trust.

I knew all this, but somehow I couldn’t make myself do it.

No, not somehow; I couldn’t make myself do it because I was a coward.

I was afraid of being hurt again.

After all, he’d already lied to me once; what if I told him what I wanted, and he just used that to craft better lies and fool me again?

And that was why I kept having loud outbursts and pulling dumb stunts. Because I wanted to not have to tell him. I wanted him to be able to guess.

If only he could just figure it out for his damn self! Too bad telepathy wasn’t a thing.

Too bad that even if it were, Asher didn’t really care about me, and I was spending way too much time thinking about him.

“How much longer is this guy’s speech going to go on?” Asher whispered in my ear, his breath tickling my skin and heating my blood. I tried to pretend indifference as he went on: “I think universes have born and died since he started explaining the rules.”

I made a heroic effort to focus on the words of the auctioneer, a little man in a striped purple vest and a battered top hat. He seemed to have just finished explaining that everyone should have their tickets with the serial number out and that they could either claim their item immediately, or after the show; he was now getting into the part of the speech about the noble purpose of the auction, and how everyone who was throwing down handfuls of cash for a prized item was actually a hero and leader of the community. Asher was right: it was as long and tedious and dry as Death Valley.

The auction finally began, at the opposite end of the table. A sixteenth century French wardrobe went to an oil baron, a rare photo of Bettie Page went to a businesswoman in a sharp power suit, and a handwritten poem by Pablo Neruda went to a grizzled old man in a wheelchair.

And then the auctioneer came to the first edition of The ABC Murders.

I held my breath as he pored over the page, squinting at the writing. “And for forty thousand dollars, this rare signed edition of the 1936 classic goes to…”

He rattled off a serial number.

No one came up to claim it, and he moved on.

I let my breath out. It was silly to have been so tense, to feel so disappointed now. I hadn’t even been able to afford to buy a number to bid with. And there would be other opportunities in the future; soon enough I’d be able to afford a beauty like that first edition, even at that inflated charity auction price.

But it was harder to stay upbeat with Asher by my side, reminding me of all the things I could never have, no matter how successful I became.

I was so disappointed about the book, I almost forgot that I had an item up for auction as well, until the auctioneer finished awarding the diamond necklace to a pretty IT company CEO and moved on to the lingerie set. I held my breath, hoping for a figure at least high enough not to be embarrassing—

“Fifty thousand dollars!”

I reeled, sure I had misheard. You could have knocked me over with a feather that’d been on a diet.

I turned to Asher, all enmity temporarily forgotten in the face of what had just happened. “Oh my God. Did you hear…? Can you believe…?”

“I did hear, and I certainly can believe,” Asher said with a grin. “And it’s worth every penny.” His fingers caressed mine so gently I almost missed his next words. “Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to go collect my prize.”

He let go of my arm and bounded onstage, collecting the lingerie and the gift certificate for a fitting to applause and howls of delight.

I stood stock still, mortified, trying to smile as cameras flashed at both him and me. How could he do this to me? I’d thought the high winning bid had been because I’d been valued, because the community at large had recognized my skill. But no, it was just another of Asher’s publicity stunts.

Asher returned, sweating slightly from the run onstage and the bright lights of the cameras, and draped an arm around me.

“The hell did you do that for?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth as we smiled for yet more cameras. “What, do you want all your girlfriends to have matching lingerie so they won’t notice when they find someone else’s panties at your place?”

Asher’s grip tightened around my shoulders and he wheeled us discreetly out of sight of the cameras. I looked up into his eyes and saw to my surprise that he was…furious?

“Has anyone ever told you that you make it impossible to be nice to you?”