The Billionaire’s Promise (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance)

by Ivy Layne

  “Why are you so cheerful this morning?” he demanded. I took another sip of coffee and smiled, knowing the non-answer would annoy him.

  “None of your business,” I said.

  “Come on, Magnolia, tell me,” he cajoled. Vance was the only person who called me Magnolia. Before Vance, only my Grandmother had used my first name. Even my parents, as formal as they were, called me Maggie when they bothered to speak to me. But Vance insisted he liked my full name and wouldn’t use anything else. I didn’t mind. I liked my name too.

  “I don’t know,” I said, enjoying having the upper hand for a minute and oddly reluctant to share my big news.

  “Tell me, or I put The Dead on repeat.” It was a potent threat. By the time I was thirteen, I’d heard the Grateful Dead’s Sugar Magnolia more times than I could count. I loathed it. Not the first fifty times I heard it. At first, I liked the song, but by now, the opening bars were enough to make my teeth grind.

  “Fine, if you’re going to whine about it. Brayden and I are getting married. Happy?”

  Vance’s face went utterly blank. Devoid of emotion, his eyes flicked to my left hand, then to my face. I curled my naked hand into a ball and dropped it into my lap, out of sight.

  In a flat voice, Vance said, “Where’s the ring?”

  “We’re not getting a ring. Not yet. We’re waiting until he finishes his residency.”

  “Because he’s spending all that money on rent,” Vance said, sarcasm heavy in his words. He knew very well that Brayden lived with me and I didn’t make him pay rent. “Student loan bills?” I ignored that. Vance also knew Brayden’s family had paid his tuition to medical school.

  “If you’re going to be an ass—”

  “When’s the date?” Vance interrupted.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “We just got engaged last night.”

  “I don’t need the exact day, just a general idea. Are you going to be a spring bride? Summer? I’m assuming you’ll want time off for the honeymoon.”

  Deflated, I said, “We thought we’d wait until—”

  “After his residency? Isn’t that a year away?”

  “Sixteen months,” I admitted, my sparkly joy drained away under Vance’s relentless questions.

  I’d wanted a real proposal. I won’t lie about that. The ring, Brayden down on one knee, the whole deal. I didn’t need Vance to remind me it hadn’t worked out that way. But the proposal wasn’t what was important. We were getting married. We had a whole lifetime together.

  “You’re not engaged,” he announced, standing up, his tight shoulders now loose, the sympathetic smile on his face at odds with the hard expression in his eyes.

  “I am,” I insisted.

  “You’re not. When he gives you a ring and you set a date, then you’re engaged.”

  “What do you know about it?” I demanded. “You’re the least romantic guy I know. You sleep with a different woman every night. You’ve never even had a girlfriend.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he shot back. “I still know how it’s supposed to work. You give the girl a ring, get down on one knee, and do it somewhere special she’ll be able to remember her whole life. Did he even give you flowers?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. I didn’t need to. He saw the answer in my eyes. “What did he do, announce over pizza that you should get married when he finishes his residency?”

  I looked into my coffee cup and nodded, my throat thick with unshed tears. At the time, even a few minutes ago, I’d been happy about it. After hearing Vance rip it apart, I wanted to cry. When Vance crouched down beside me, one hand on my shoulder, I did, hot tears spilling over my cheeks.

  “Tell him, no, Magnolia. He’s not good enough for you. Not even close.”

  “I want to get married,” I whispered, so quietly I might have been talking to myself. “I want a family.”

  Vance’s hand squeezed tight. “I know you do, Babe. But you can’t make up for the past with the first asshole who comes along. Trust me. I know.”

  “So what, I should just drink away the pain like you do?” I said, knowing it was mean but unable to stop myself. Vance just shook his head and stood, giving my shoulder another squeeze before letting go. “No. You should dump that twat and get some therapy to help you deal with having neglectful assholes for parents.”

  “I’m the one who needs therapy?” I asked, incredulous through my tears. When it came to sad childhood stories, Vance had me beat by a mile.

  “Hey, do as I say, not as I do.” He winked at me and disappeared. I knew he was headed for the kitchen to get some coffee. I also knew when he came back and sat at my desk to review the day’s work, his coffee would smell of whiskey.

  I wiped my face clean of tears and stared blindly at my laptop screen. I had no place to judge. Vance was probably right. A therapist would tell me that I was rushing into marriage because my parents had dumped me in an English boarding school at the age of eight while they partied their way across Europe and had never really come back. I’d seen them only a handful of times since then. My father, now loosely connected to the embassy in Belgium, had come home for my Grandmother’s funeral and stayed only long enough to scowl over the reading of the will before heading back overseas. Now that my Grandmother was gone, I was alone.

  I wanted a family. I wanted children. I’d watched my friends at school go home on the weekends, the way they’d run out to the car and thrown themselves into their mothers’ arms, the way their fathers would pull them into a hug and kiss the tops of their heads. I’d wanted that. I couldn’t change the past, but I could create the fantasy with my own family. I would. I just had to get married first.

  I’d been with Brayden for four years. It wasn’t like a ton of other guys were knocking down my door. This was my chance to change my life and I was taking it. Vance could just shut the hell up about it.

  He came back a few minutes later and pulled up his chair beside me. A cup of Irish coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, he got down to business.

  “The Cane-Webber proposal. Where are we with that?”

  “I emailed you my analysis yesterday afternoon.”

  “Got it,” he said, flicking his finger to scroll through my report. “I read it last night.”

  “So you know I think the market is oversaturated and they’re over-leveraged.”

  “I agree. We’ll let them reel in some other sucker. What about the security app?”

  “That one is interesting,” I said, pulling up the file on a proposal from a new tech company with some ideas for social media security. “I highlighted the key points I liked, as well as some questions I have.”

  “Your screen is bigger,” he said, moving his chair closer. “Pull up your report, and we’ll go through it. I agree, I’m intrigued by this one.”

  Heads almost close enough to touch, we studied my report and the proposal side by side, breaking it down until we could put together a game plan. This was what I loved about working for Vance. He could be frustrating, rude, and annoying, but he was smart, and he valued my opinion. I’d learned more in the last six months with him than I would have anywhere else.

  Despite the crazy morning routine, I loved my job. Most of the time, we got along well. I’d even say we were good friends. We were close enough that I worried about him. Clearly, he worried about me, too. The difference was, only one of us had anything to worry about. I’d be fine with Brayden. We’d get married, and everything would be good. But if Vance didn’t get a handle on his drinking, he wouldn’t be around to dance at our wedding.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MAGNOLIA

  * * *

  T-MINUS ONE YEAR

  * * *

  I was early to work, but I didn’t go in to wake them up right away. Later, I’d regret that. But Amy had been there most nights for the last few weeks, and I was getting tired of being their morning wake-up call.

  Vance’s drinking had escalated. In the past month, it
was rare to see him without a glass in his hand. The week before, he’d burned his leg badly while working. We’d spent the afternoon in the emergency room, Vance silent and sullen with pain, me trembling in rage at his carelessness. I hadn’t spoken to him for two days. He’d been lucky the burn on his leg was the worst of it. Between the blowtorch and the huge pieces of metal he used in his sculptures, he could easily kill himself if he kept working while he was drunk.

  Even his family was getting concerned. No, that’s not accurate. They’d always been concerned. They just didn’t nag. His cousin, Charlotte, rode his ass the hardest, along with his oldest cousin, Aiden. Charlotte and I had struck up a friendship. We were the same age, and it turned out we knew a lot of the same people despite my going to school overseas. She’d confessed that the family was worried, but they couldn’t figure out what to do about it. I could relate.

  I hated his drinking. Every time I smelled alcohol on him, it made me sick. Vance was impervious to nagging or suggestion. When I gave him a hard time about it, he either made a joke or changed the subject. He did the same to Charlotte. Aiden, he shut out completely.

  According to Charlotte, only Vance’s twin sister, Annalise, could get through to him, and she hadn’t come home to Atlanta in almost two years. His older brother, Gage, was also absent, an Army Ranger serving in the Middle East. His only immediate family was his younger brother, Tate, who was busy running two companies, one of which was a night club. Not the ideal choice to talk to Vance about his partying.

  I still loved my job. I even loved Vance, in a way. Despite his drinking, we’d grown close. If I were being honest, I’d have to admit he was one of my closest friends. That’s why it was killing me to see him like this. I never would have thought it was possible, but lately, he was even losing his looks. His golden skin had a sallow tone, and he’d lost some of his muscle as his workouts had tapered off.

  He was turning a corner with his drinking, and I didn’t know how to haul him back.

  I’d figure it out. We all would. I refused to think we’d lose him. But if there was a solution, I wasn’t going to find it today. I’d had a fight with Brayden the night before, and I was feeling raw, annoyed at the world, and in need of solitude. Instead of hitting the coffeemaker and the blender, I went straight for my office.

  A half hour later, I heard stirring in the bedroom and got up to make some coffee. I didn’t care if Vance and Amy wanted any, but I needed a cup. Ready to indulge myself, I got the coffee going and mixed up some hot cocoa and creamer for mine. After being up half the night yelling at Brayden, I deserved some chocolate in my coffee. A good mocha could fix almost anything.

  I couldn’t get the fight out of my head. It had been so stupid, one of those fights you get into when you’ve been in a relationship for a long time. The kind that starts over something small and escalates until you’re pulling up everything that’s ever bothered you until, by the end, you have no idea why you’re still fighting. Or why you're still together. Brayden was in the last stage of his residency with a plastic surgeon and had suggested I think about getting some work done. I’d been a little upset.

  Massive understatement.

  First, I’m only twenty-three. And second, while I’m sensitive about my body shape, I’m not getting plastic surgery. I’d been planning on starting a workout program. Soon. Eventually. While I’d been nagging Vance to stop drinking, he’d been nagging me to exercise more. He said sitting at a desk all day was bad for my heart. Maybe, but not as bad as drinking all day was for his liver.

  While Vance wanted me to work out for my heart, Brayden was all about my ass. Mainly that it should be smaller. He said my breasts would shrink when I lost weight, but I could get that taken care of too. The women he mentioned as good role models were all super skinny, at least ten pounds underweight.

  I was more like fifteen to twenty overweight. By my definition, not his. The thing is, I’d been basically the same size since the day we met. Just thinking of the argument had me adding another spoonful of cocoa to my coffee.

  When I wouldn’t agree to get surgery or go on a diet, he started on buying a vacation home at the beach. With my money.

  My Grandmother left me provided for, but she’d also left me her house. While it was gorgeous and had been in my family for generations, it was also a money pit. Between the house itself, the carriage house, and the grounds, it took a chunk of cash to keep everything running. Since I was never selling my family home, I needed to be smart about the way I spent my inheritance. My Grandmother had put some money aside in trust for the house, and I’d transferred a portion of my inheritance over as well—another thing that pissed Brayden off.

  Not that the fight was only him yelling at me. I had plenty to say about his long hours and his always weaseling out of helping with the bills. I didn’t have a mortgage, but there were still utilities, groceries, and a bunch of other expenses we should have been sharing. Technically, we did share them, but more often than not, he came up short on his half of the bills. I hadn’t minded at first, but lately, it was starting to bug me. Especially when he said he was saving for my ring. That excuse wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

  I gulped at my homemade mocha, letting it scald the top of my mouth. Chocolate made almost everything better. A thump sounded from Vance’s room, then the sound of glass breaking. Swearing to myself, I put the mug on the counter and strode to the door of the bedroom.

  I’d check on them, but I wasn’t cleaning anything up. I’d put my foot down about that when one of Vance’s one-night-stands had puked all over the bathroom. I was his business manager, not the clean-up crew.

  As usual, Vance was passed out naked in bed, the sheet pushed to the floor. It was a measure of how cranky I was that I barely spared him a glance. The bathroom door was open halfway, the light on, the room silent.

  I stopped, struck by the eerie quiet. I’d heard something break. Shouldn’t the girl be cleaning it up? I didn’t even know who Vance had slept with the night before. I wondered if he did.

  Suddenly nervous, I pushed open the door. It moved less than a foot before it struck something and stopped. I called out, “Hello? Are you okay?”

  No answer. Vance shifted in the bed behind me but didn’t wake. My annoyance was turning to alarm. I edged closer to the bathroom and peeked around the door. What I saw made me dizzy with fear.

  Amy lay on the floor, motionless, eyes open but unblinking, her arms splayed. A ceramic soap dish lay beside her, shattered. On her other side, I saw a leather folio with a zipper, hanging open, a burned spoon and a needle clearly visible.

  Shit. Shit, Shit, Shit. I pushed frantically at the door, shoving it open far enough to let me through. My heart pounding, I screamed, “Vance! Vance, wake up!”

  Terrified of what I would find, I leaned in as close as I could. Amy didn’t react to my presence. I heard the faint rasp of her breathing, ragged and shallow, but there. It took me too long to find her pulse, thready and faint. Her lips were tinged blue. So were her fingernails. Her pupils were pinpricks in her light blue eyes. I thought I was going to throw up. I hadn’t had any idea she even used drugs. Did Vance know? Was he using drugs too?

  Terror seized my chest and I almost threw up. Was he just passed out, or had he overdosed too? What if he was dying, and I’d walked right past him?

  I left Amy and slipped from the bathroom.

  “Vance,” I shouted his name and pulled at his shoulder, trying to turn him over. He rolled to his back and spread out, one arm coming around me as I put my ear to his chest.

  “Magnolia,” he murmured, tightening his arm. I barely heard him over the strong thump of his heartbeat. Relief flooded through me as I shoved away from him.

  “Wake the fuck up, you asshole,” I shouted, shoving at him one more time. My phone was in the kitchen. Vance could wait.

  I called 911 and was assured that they were on their way. After unlocking the street door so they could get in, I went back to Vance. I
was pissed. Scared, sad, and royally pissed. Grabbing the nearest pillow, I whacked him in the face, yelling his name. If he didn’t wake up soon, I was dumping a whole fucking pitcher of water on his head.

  I grabbed his wrist and leaned back, pulling until his torso rose a few inches off the mattress. Vance was seriously heavy, even though he’d lost some muscle mass in the last few months. I let go, dropping him, tears pricking my eyes.

  "Wake up," I shouted, jerking on his arm, half dragging his heavy body across the bed. My heart pounded in my chest. Cold sweat dripped down my spine. Amy was dying in the bathroom, and Vance was passed out. I didn't know what to do.

  There was nothing I could do for Amy. The 911 operator had told me to leave her where she was once she’d determined that Amy was in a safe location. I just had to pray she could hang on long enough for the paramedics to get to her. But Vance was another story. I'd already been at the edge of my tolerance with his drinking, but now he was leaving me to deal with Amy by myself. I was sick of the men in my life leaving me to deal with their shit on my own.

  Vance stretched his arms over his head, his fingers briefly holding on to the headboard before letting go. He curled on his side and rolled his head into his pillow, apparently settling in for another hour or two of sleep.

  Forget that.

  He was getting his drunk ass out of bed right now. Rage and fear warring inside me, I smacked him in the face with the pillow again. No response except for a quick wrinkle of his nose. If I hadn't been so mad, it would've been cute.

  I stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a vase of fresh-cut flowers off the island. Dumping the flowers on the granite countertop, I carried the vase into the bedroom and upended it in Vance's face.

  That did the trick. Kind of. His eyes blinked open, bloodshot and unfocused. "What the fuck, Magnolia?" he groaned.

  Fury bloomed in my chest. I snatched up the pillow I'd used before and whacked his wet face. Hard. Vance snatched the pillow from my hand and hurled it across the room.