Dominic

A fifth of a second.

That's all it takes to fall in love with someone, according to some researchers.

That's also all it takes for love to flip to disillusionment…and then hate. I know from my own personal experience with Elizabeth Pryce-Reed.

I'm finally at a charity dinner party she's hosting. She's a difficult person to get close to, especially when she's been actively avoiding me. It's taken a billion dollars and a year of sneaky maneuvering to get into the same room with her.

She hasn't just been keeping her distance, but done everything in her power to screw with me. I've built my empire against the tide of her endless interference, but I credit her for my success anyway. A general need only be as good as his enemy.

As though she sensed my presence, she wasn't there to greet me at the entrance. Apparently she had to step away for a moment. So her cohost welcomed me and my date instead.

The charity dinner is as grand as I expected.

Live string music. Lots of marble, stone and crystal. Enough wealth to feed a small army draped over guests — on their bodies, their ears, necks, fingers and wrists.

But this event is for a good cause, they say. A good opportunity to network with the right kind of people. Every penny donated is tax deductible, they say.

As I scan the crowd for Elizabeth, I pick up whispers and comments. A couple of men behind me are discussing a new business venture they're thinking about. Three women to my left gush over the jewelry one of them is wearing. Nobody says a word about the inner-city kids the event is supposed to raise money for.

“Did you see that dress? I don't know how she pulls it off. It could've looked ostentatious.”

“It's the halo,” her companion says, tittering. “I'm sure she has one.”

“Her grandmother was right to have her lead the foundation. It's done so much more since she took over.”

Another titter. “What man could say no to her when she asks for money?”

I tense as I realize they're talking about Elizabeth.

“Does it matter? She's changing the world for the better. You have to admire that.”

“No kidding. I don't think I could do it. Not the way she does anyway.”

They don't sound particularly petty. No. They sound admiring…and slightly self-deprecating.

Up on the second floor, a couple of men in their thirties in tuxes are staring, their eyes gooey with infatuation. I follow their gazes and see…

…Elizabeth.

My heartbeat picks up speed, each thump deafening. Everything around me fades to black and white…except her.

She glows like a beacon, the only light in a sea of darkness.

She fills my vision until I feel like she's standing right in front of me. And I feel like I'm smelling that familiar vanilla and lavender scent of hers again, the blood in my veins getting hotter, electricity prickling my skin…

She stands alone on the stairs, her back straight, her shoulders square.

A cape dress clings to her. Maybe it's the pure white of the dress, but with the cape behind her, she looks like a newly crowned queen, the diamond pins in her hair sparkling like a tiara.

She's still the same — heart-stoppingly gorgeous — but also different…lusher, more feminine, the girly youthfulness having matured into womanly beauty. Her eyebrows are carefully shaped, her nose small and straight and her mouth full and pink.

Only the eyes are different. They are no longer winter-storm gray. They are as sweet and brown as dark chocolate. It's a remarkable change. She no longer looks like an angel that would make Lucifer piss himself. Oh no. She looks like the kind of angel who hands out nice, fuzzy shit.

But a split second after she blinks, I glimpse the barest hint of weary wistfulness that leaves a little hitch in my chest. But the sadness vanishes so fast, I can't help but wonder if I imagined it all, even if the little catch in my chest is real.

She looks my way and suddenly our gazes collide. Her lips part, while every drop of saliva dries in my mouth. She stares at me as though she doesn't recognize me.

Did you expect me to be that poor, pathetic kid forever?

Abrupt fury roils through me. Fury because she's walking up the stairs with her head held high, as though she's never done anything wrong in her life. Fury because people don't know what kind of a hypocritical cunt she is and fawn over her charity work. Fury because, even knowing her true self, I can't stop my body from reacting to her. My dick's too happy to see her, my mind too eager to bring up memories that still drive me crazy with their poisonous sweetness…

…how she used to caress my cheeks…

…how she used to clutch my shoulders…

…how she used to chant my name as she came…

My date, Annabelle Underhill, pulls me around, saying something I can't quite hear over the dull roar in my head.

I look at her for a moment, then turn back to try to locate Elizabeth again…but she's gone from the stairs.

Damn it.

My gaze runs over the crowd, but I can't find her. Annabelle's still talking, and I pretend to listen, nodding a few times. As annoying as I find her, she's a business associate's wife. She was also my entrée to this party, so I'm doing my best to humor her.

After what feels like an eternity, she catches sight of some “friends” — vapid trophy wives — and I seize the opportunity to get away. She won't miss me. They're busy bragging about gifts from their wealthy husbands, so sure the old men are besotted.

Idiots. Besotted men don't usually become rich…or stay that way for long.

I walk up the steps. The crowd is fairly thick here too, although not as bad as below. A few people I know stop to say hello, and I make pleasant small talk because I have no choice.

I finally find Elizabeth on one of the balconies. She's alone, holding a crystal tumbler half-full of clear liquid, facing the dark garden.

Goosebumps break out on her skin, and she shivers. The wind is chilly here in the Bay Area, and her dress wasn't designed to keep her warm.

Acting on instinct, I take off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. And get a whiff of vanilla and lavender.

That fraction of a second seems to slow and stretch. Goosebumps of my own break out. I bite back a curse. What the hell was I thinking, putting that jacket on her like I still care? It's a move I might have made ten years ago because I was pussy-whipped. But don't I know better now?

Thank God I have the sense to not cradle her cheek with my palm, or run my thumb over her cheekbone like I used to. That would be the ultimate farce, especially if she closed her eyes and placed her hand over mine as though she was afraid I'd withdraw…like she used to.

She turns to face me, her fingers digging into my jacket and pulling it closer.

“Dominic.”

My name on her lips is poignant…even though she sounds like nothing like she used to. Ten years ago, she always sounded slightly breathless, slightly bubbly. Now her voice is all polished warmth.

And I hate it because that warmth isn't real. She might fool others, but not me.

She lowers her gaze to look at her drink. “How did you get in?”

“The usual.”

“I don't recall the foundation receiving a donation from you.”

“Because I never gave one. I need to be wooed. Personally. If the cause is good enough, I'm sure you can manage…unless my money isn't good enough for you and your precious foundation.” Damn it. I didn't mean to sound so bitter — like I give a fuck about her approval.

The sadness crossing her face causes a small twinge in my heart — and pisses me off. Why is she sad? If she can use my money for a good cause, she should just pinch her nose and take it.

Because I hate it that I might still care, I add, “The only thing you wanted from me was my dick.”

Her eyes flare, and red tints her cheeks. She stares at me as though I'm a monster.

The reaction galls me. I've never said anything untrue, as infuriating and humiliating as our past was. How little I meant to her became crystal clear when she started dating all the rich boys in her proper social circle soon after my world crashed and burned. She didn't really want me back then — a twenty-one-year-old college kid with no money, no prospects and a younger sister to care for.

Humiliation still burns me every time I think of the way I told her about my dreams and plans. How she must've laughed in private. How ridiculous — a kid with nothing, having such grand ambition.

But here I am — with a multibillion-dollar empire I built. And I'm honest enough with myself to acknowledge I want to rub it in her face. I want to see her regret betraying me. I want to hear her admit she was wrong and apologize.

That's the least she can do.

That's the least I'm entitled to.

Her brown eyes linger on me. They're sad, but not for the reasons I want her to be sad. It's the same expression she had when she realized she couldn't dupe me anymore. But this time, she doesn't bother with tears. Or maybe she figures it'll be more effective without them.

“Who brought you here?” she asks.

“Annabelle Underhill.”

Her lips tighten, but it isn't from jealousy. And that annoys me more.

“She's bad news.”

“Really?” Stick a knife in her and twist. “I could say the same about you.”

“If you feel that way, why are you here?”

“To make myself clear.”

She tilts her face, looking up at me with eyes so dark and deep I feel like I'm falling.

I can't look away without appearing weak, so I steel myself and add acid to my tone. “In the last ten years, you've built a reputation. People call you an angel, compare you to Mother Teresa, call you the champion of the poor and suffering.”

She blinks nervously.

“But I know the real you. You throw crumbs to the crowd, all the while dining on caviar and basking in unjust adulation.” I shoot her a cynical look. “I'm going to strip you bare, expose you for what you are.”

Silence, then suddenly she titters. The sound grates on my nerves — reminding me of a phone call we had five years ago.

Shaking her head, she says, “You should keep your plans to yourself. That way, it's easier to do what you set out to do. Didn't you also vow to take what matters the most to me?”

So she hasn't forgotten. That explains her endless interference early on. Maybe she gave up after a while because she realized she couldn't stop me, or maybe because she's confident she's untouchable.

“I'm not like you, Elizabeth.”

Until I found out the truth, she was Liza to me — her grand full name of Elizabeth Lucrezia Catherine Pryce-Reed reduced to two simple syllables, as though she was just a sweet, everyday American girl.

“I don't hide behind a pretty, friendly mask,” I continue. “And exposing you is the least I can do for what you did to screw with my life after we were through.”

She lets out a long sigh, the sound heavy with fatigue and sadness. “You're right. You were always honest about everything.” She gives me a bright smile, the change in her mood too abrupt to be natural.

Don't get sidetracked. She's faking everything, just like always.

“I don't have anything that matters much to me, but I suppose you can have your pick.”

I almost snort. Like I'm supposed to believe that?

“As for ‘exposing' me… I doubt you'll succeed, Dominic, but if you do…I hope it brings you nothing but joy.” She shrugs out of my jacket and gives it back to me, her motions elegant and refined.

I take it, murmuring, “Oh, it will,” as I watch her walk back inside, her head held high. Her disgrace will finally assuage the empty, aching void in my heart I haven't been able to fill.

Not with success, not with fame, not with women.