The Billionaire's Hope (A His Submissive Series Novella)

by Ava Claire

  I paused in the main room, curiosity and Hope’s razor gums making me a take a moment, I stroked her dark locks with my fingertips as I squinted at the monitor, my lips rounding with surprise.

  Even disheveled, Dr. Clarkson had a presence. Hell on wheels. Strawberry blonde locks and chubby cheeks that made the unwise underestimate her, a mistake that she made abundantly clear with her quick wit, intelligence, and sharp tongue.

  Our visitor had only slightly bent the truth because she technically had delivered our baby, but what the hell was she doing here?

  When Jacob reappeared, the same question all over his face, Darla was hot on his heels, covered in bright yellow scrubs and an oblivious smile, clutching her purse nervously.

  “Surprise!”

  Chapter Eight

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  I didn’t even bother looking up to answer such a stupid question. It was like a cop, wagging their finger, transforming you into a child who was caught going over the speed limit. I did know why I was stuck in this room, in this place for forty-eight hours. And since I’d already laid out the whole cop analogy, I knew why I was being pulled over. Speeding, or taking a shit ton of pills and being caught by my nosy roommate, same thing, basically.

  The jig was up and now I had to tell my story to some lady who wanted to insult my intelligence on top of everything else.

  “Yes,” I grunted, picking at my grimy t-shirt. “I know why I’m here.”

  She let out a tiny sigh. It was more labored than an exhale. Edged with the same annoyance I felt. She worked in a state mental hospital, so I was just one of a ton of cases she was saddled with.

  I raised my chin high enough to glare at her. She looked as tired as I felt, salt and pepper hair pulled into a hurried ponytail that dipped low, painfully close to unleashing her greasy locks over frail shoulders that were swallowed by an wrinkled blazer. She’d missed a button or two, or maybe the buttons were long gone.

  It was the last place my mind should have gone since he was the reason I was here, but my mind dragged me back to the way his buttons had gleamed. How cool they were beneath my fingertips as I slipped each one through the slender notches. When I felt the solid length of his chest, even sexier in the flesh, I knew he’d ruin me. He didn’t even know my name, but I knew his. Everyone did.

  Jacob Whitmore.

  I’d traced it with the tip of the blade, right at my wrists, ’til I decided to go with all the pills I could find in the apartment.

  “Why would you harm yourself? You’re a successful nurse, have a family that loves you-“

  I tuned her out. She was shit. Terrible at her job. I knew this because I’d been on shift when attempted suicides landed on my service. Usually they were younger. Around the age I’d been when I first met Jacob.

  Asking why was a waste of breath. Once you decided you wanted to end your life, the why was irrelevant.

  But she was itching to get out of the room, and the sooner I could get out of here, the sooner I could get back to making him pay for putting me here. For forgetting me. For using me all those years ago.

  “Because he’s getting married,” I spat it out. Gave her a false sense of confidence in her talents. “Engaged to the most basic woman I’ve ever seen.” I counted out her unremarkability on my fingers. “She’s not an actress. She’s not even all that pretty. At least with Rachel Laraby it made sense, but this chick? Why her?” I asked the question that made me jump from the psychological ledge. “Why not me?”

  That made the doctor perk. She had no idea that I’d just fed her the antidote. As she scribbled on her tablet, she was already writing me off as some jilted lover. Not truly a danger to myself or others. I was just nursing a broken heart.

  The second part was true.

  The first? Not even close.

  The only reason those pills didn’t end me was because I still had work to do.

  Leila Montgomery. I almost felt sorry for her. She didn’t know she’d made a fatal mistake.

  She fell for the wrong man.

  My man.

  *

  Darla leaned in, her voice low and outlined with guilt. "Is he really firing your guard?"

  I let out a clipped chuckle, scooting a little closer to my side, or what was left of my side of the couch. Hope had nodded off after she was finished nursing and I was learning that with a full belly, she would likely sleep through a freight train blasting through our home.

  Well, that, and surprise visitors.

  Surprise visitors that lied about their identity and bested our highly paid security guard.

  Jacob was in his office, doing exactly what he said he’d do. Darla had done her 'surprise' thing and after a curt hello, he'd turned to me and said two words: "He's fired."

  I barely had time to lament the fact that he was definitely not getting a recommendation from my husband before Darla was turning her smile on me full blast, shrugging her shoulders like she didn't understand what the big deal was.

  “Can you just give me a second?” I asked, not really asking. I clutched Hope to me, wanting to put her down, away from the blowup that was going down in the next room. I didn’t wait for Darla to answer, moving gently up the stairs. I managed to get Hope in the bassinet with her barely stirring. I swiped the monitor before I headed back to the living room.

  I pulled at my gown as I navigated back to the couch, wishing I'd pulled on my robe before I came back downstairs. There was something about Darla that was different today. Something...off. I felt exposed, and not because she was in our home. We'd shared this amazing experience; this woman literally helped bring Hope into the world, but the fact that she was sitting in our living room, after lying to Dimitri and claiming she was our doctor didn't sit right with me.

  For my own sense of sanity and because my baby girl was sleeping just a few feet away, I tried to convince myself I was just paranoid. Crazy actresses, long lost brother-in-law, cold as ice mother-in-law, and the Eichmanns? It would make the most loosey goosey, sunshine-filled person a little wary.

  I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt with a little joke. "There's at least 50 paparazzo's lying in wait like Uber cars within a two mile radius. Clearly, 'I'm a doctor' was the golden ticket."

  Darla tossed her head from side to side, letting out a grunt of disgust. "Vultures, every one of them. Probably hoping to snap a picture of Hope and retire for the rest of the year."

  I didn't answer. I worked in the industry, and I knew all too well the cost of marrying a celebrity. Everyone wanted a piece of Jacob. His life was no longer his own, which meant that falling in love with him, marrying him was signing away any semblance of a normal life. That meant that my mom, who wanted to snap half a million selfies with Hope when we brought her into the room after she was born, had to leave her phone in the car. There were no Instagram posts, no Facebook blasts introducing the world to Hope Montgomery Whitmore.

  At some point, a picture would sneak in between the cracks or a photographer would snap something before he was tackled, but until then, I wanted to pretend. I wanted to have her to ourselves before we had to share her with everyone else.

  Darla shifted nervously. "I hope I didn't overstep my bounds." She twisted her lips to one side, holding both hands out in surrender. "I certainly wasn't trying to get that man fired-"

  "Why weren't you honest?" I butted in. Actually, there was no butting in at all. This was my house. It was the question I should have asked before I invited her to sit down, before I let Jacob storm off to give Dimitri the boot. "I don't understand the theatrics-"

  "And I don't understand the hostility," Darla fired back, her fair skin turning red with indignation.

  I crossed my arms and got ready to give her the boot along with Dimitri. I wasn't going to be interrogated about my intentions when she'd lied her way into my home, knowing full well that we had security for a reason. That there was a reason I didn't deliver in the maternity ward, and it wasn't because I was wealt
hy. The public didn't know the half of what we'd gone through. I'd been kidnapped, for crissakes. Twice. During the most recent encounter, everyone with the last name Whitmore had been held against their will by a man who was notorious for making those who crossed him disappear.

  While I was tempted to cut her a little slack because she probably thought this was all overkill for an inevitable picture of Hope, she would catch way more flies with honey versus this vinegar approach. "I appreciate what you did for me, for Hope by stepping in when Dr. Clarkson was unavailable, I truly do—but this is my home. I don't think my question is unreasonable. We've only been home for a few days and we've kept visitors to close friends and family. Heck, Hope hasn't even met one of her grandmothers yet and-" I stopped dead in my tracks when Jacob reappeared, his eyes hooded and his expression reminding me that I didn't owe this woman an explanation. Considering she was stewing for some reason, and in our home, uninvited no less, unless the next words out of her mouth cleared up some of the confusion, the only thing I needed to do was bid her adieu.

  Just in case she missed it the first time, I sat up a little straighter and repeated my question. "Why weren't you honest with the guard about who you were?"

  The annoyance that tinged her face slowly died down, the flames in her cheeks extinguished as she wiped her palms on her scrubs. She glanced over her shoulder at Jacob, then tossed her attention back to me, gulping hard. "I guess I felt...a connection. With you and the baby. And I actually live right up the street and-" Her aquamarine eyes bulged out of her skull. "I sound like a bonafide psycho, huh? How did I know your address?" She didn't pause, talking a million miles a minute. "I know your address because everyone knows where Jacob Whitmore sleeps, and if you don't, the paparazzi make it pretty easy to figure out." She shook out her platinum locks and there was something about the sheen, about her eyes that brought back uncomfortable memories of another blonde who turned my life upside down. "Telling you that I wanted to check in on you and the baby is absolutely true, but all things considered, probably just as creepy..."

  She trailed off, finally taking a breath. She looked like she was moments away from passing out. Seconds from the big game and the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Like she was about to give the presentation that would define her career and she couldn't get rid of the knot in her throat.

  She looked utterly terrified.

  It probably didn't help that Jacob hadn't acknowledged her presence.

  "Babe, can you get Darla a glass of water?"

  Jacob's eyes didn't bulge. In fact, they did the opposite. They turned into tiny, razor thin slits that barely let out a drop of light. Or mercy.

  "She lives in our neighborhood? A happy coincidence that she’s just sharing now, after she posed as your doctor?" He walked right past her, standing beside me. "I'm not buying it. I'm not buying any of it." He looked right through her, the air in the room suffocating with tension and enough unknowns that I rose to my feet, too.

  Darla's eyes batted in between the two of us, and she slowly rose to her feet. All those smiley faces seemed to be smiling too hard. Taunting me. Pulling back the curtains on what I thought was the happiest moment of my life. A nurse who went above and beyond. A nurse I knew nothing about except that she...

  That she...

  Darla hadn't said another word in her defense, rifling through the bag strapped to her body. "I should have just brought this to your office. I have a present for Hope.”

  Jacob and I were finally in sync, a chorus of words colliding with each other. “That’s not necessary-”

  “Ta-da!”

  She presented a baby pink wrapped gift with a flourish. Her smile returned, oblivious to the horror and apprehension on our faces.

  “T-thanks,” I said hesitantly, taking it in my hands and feeling even worse when it barely weighed anything at all. My money was on a snuggly cap or socks or mittens. Jacob was still holding down the fort, smoldering beside me so hard that I was surprised he didn’t melt the paper to ash. I held out the proverbial peace offering to him. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

  Still shedding the last shreds of my nerves, I probably wouldn’t have been able to steady my fingers long enough to open it anyway. Jacob took it off in a single stroke, like he dared anything nefarious to be on the other end.

  He held up a pair of crochet booties. I bit back a snort as I watched the fury drain from his face like helium escaping from a balloon. I’d take a little humor to diffuse the tension. There was something amusing about something so fragile and adorable in his massive, powerful hands.

  What more could he say?

  But then...he didn’t say a word. He held the shoes between his pointer and thumb, like he didn’t want to be contaminated. Apparently he still needed a little nudge. Her showing up was rude, but we hadn’t forgotten our manners.

  I cleared my throat and he cut his eyes at me before he gruffly let out the most half-hearted thank you he could muster. “They’re lovely.”

  I eased them out of his hands and infused a little sunshine in my voice. “Darla, they’re absolutely beautiful. Thank you so much!”

  She clasped her hands together with glee. “I’m so happy! And they’re a gift with a cause. The women that made them are part of a collective.” She hanged her head, her voice filled with sorrow. “They escaped sex trafficking.” And then, like night and day, she raised her chin and smiled. “But now they sell their wares to help other women and children escape and start over. The organization is called The Mischa Project.” The glee was turned on Jacob, full blast. “You should be familiar with it.”

  My smile faltered as I took the paper from him, holding the booties in the other hand. “Oh?”

  “We met at one of their fundraisers a few years ago,” she explained, still wearing her smile. But it didn’t fit the rest of her face. It was stapled there. Painfully fake. “Don’t worry, it was long before you were in the picture, Leila.”

  I pivoted back to Jacob, every feather ruffled by what she was insinuating—and not too jazzed about Jacob forgetting to mention that they’d met. “You two know each other?”

  Jacob didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not familiar with The Mischa Project.” He crossed his arms. “And you must have me mistaken for someone else. I met you for the first time in the emergency room-”

  “Oh, come now,” Darla snorted, dismissing that with a flick of her wrist. “I wasn’t that forgettable, was I?”

  My stomach dropped to the rug beneath my feet.

  When would I learn my lesson? To trust my gut? Who was this woman really? And what was her connection to Jacob?

  These were not questions that concerned my husband. He took all the air in the room and lit a match, his voice low and filled with an authority that made those unfortunate enough to piss him off scatter like roaches.

  Jacob Whitmore was in no mood to play Sherlock Holmes. Cat and mouse games had never been his scene. I definitely had a question or two for Darla, but he clearly didn’t give a shit who she was.

  “I advise you not to say another word,” he told her darkly. “Just turn around, exit the way you came, and we will leave it at that.”

  I was practically choking on the tension, almost reaching for his hand, but I didn’t want to move a muscle. Didn’t want this woman, whoever she was, to take it as a sign of weakness.

  Darla blinked, her smile melting at the edges, turning her friendly demeanor into something sinister. “Why on earth would I leave? This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

  I stole a look at Jacob, but his eyes were locked and loaded on her, not daring to look away. Ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch that rubbed him the wrong way.

  I slowly shifted my gaze back to her, realizing I knew very little about the woman in front of me besides that she worked in the hospital, her name was Darla, and she’d officially worn out her welcome.

  “Think really hard, Jacob,” she egged him on, ignoring his demands. Taking root in our livi
ng room. She adjusted the strap of her bag, her eyes falling to the floor. “You don’t remember meeting an adorable brunette working the coat check a few years back?” She twirled a blonde lock around her pointer finger. “I know my hair is different, but take a good look at my face.” She made a frame with her hands, giving him a moment.

  Jacob said nothing, but I could feel the anger billowing off him in waves.

  She let out a disgusted sigh, dropping her arms to her side. “I shouldn't be surprised. I knew you didn’t remember me when I ran into you in the emergency room. And it’s not like my name would have done you any good.” Something pained and broken raced across her face, disappearing before I could catch it. “You didn’t even bother asking.”

  I was gripping the baby monitor so tightly that I was surprised I didn’t crush it. All the questions that raced through my mind about Darla and her connection to Jacob evaporated.

  I didn’t care. I was done with this bullshit.

  “Who the hell are you?!” I snapped, throwing in the towel. I cringed when ‘hell’ came out, even though Hope was still fast asleep from the silence that radiated from the monitor.

  You have bigger fish to fry than profanity, Leila. There’s some psycho from Jacob’s past, all but cackling ten feet away from you.

  Darla beckoned for me to move closer. I eyeballed her like she’d lost her mind.

  “Fine,” she pouted, moving forward herself. I still didn’t budge, so she turned her attention to the bag strapped to her body, rummaging through its contents.

  This time when she reached in her purse, she pulled out a gun.

  My mind should have been racing with panic, trying to figure out a way to get us out of this. Figuring out how quickly I could disarm her, if I could disarm her. Where my phone was so I could call the police. I should have been stealing a look at Jacob, searching for his plan to get us out of this mess.