The Billionaire's Manual For Regret

When my little brother, Liam, drowned trying to save a man whod slipped into the river, the rescue team demanded fifty thousand dollars upfront just to recover his body.

It took every ounce of courage I had left to call my secret boyfriend of ten years, the man worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and ask him to lend me the money.

His voice, already distant, felt glacial through the phone.

Are you under the impression that my money grows on trees, Delaney? You think you can just snap your fingers and Ill hand over twenty grand? He didnt even bother to use the correct amount, dismissing the devastation that fifty thousand represented.

I have a meeting in a minute. I dont have time to discuss yourtrivialsum.

Then he hung up.

A moment later, his female assistant, Genevieve, messaged me. Attached was the electronic file I dreaded: the latest draft of the Girlfriend Operations Manual.

Staring at the PDF icon in my text thread, I let out a soundless, bitter laugh. My fingers, trembling with a cold I hadn't felt since Liams body was recovered, dialed another number.

The offer you made, I whispered to the man on the other end. The one where you said youd give me your entire life savings if I married you? Does it still stand?

1

At the funeral, staring at Liams black-and-white portrait on the wall, I looked with deep, raw gratitude at the man who was keeping vigil beside me.

Thank you, Finn. Thank you for making sure I got Liams body back.

Dont worry. In seven days, after I finish dealing with the funeral, Ill come home and marry you.

A flicker of genuine pain crossed Finns face. If you dont want to, we dont have to go through with it

I quickly cut him off. No. I want to.

What reason did I have left not to? It had been three days since the sudden, tragic death of the only family I had left. Id been inconsolable for seventy-two hours. The whole world knew my brother was gone.

The only person who didnt was Grayson, my boyfriend of ten years.

Our social media profiles didn't overlap. He had never introduced me to his friends, and he certainly never cared to meet mine. Given that Grayson was worth a fortune, with every minute of his time calculated in thousands of dollars, he never bothered to scroll through my life.

He not only didnt know that the brother Id raised and loved was dead, but he also didn't know I had nearly failed to retrieve Liams body because I couldn't afford the rescue and recovery fee.

My chest ached with a shivering pain.

But thankfully, Grayson and I were about to be strangers.

The moment the funeral concluded, I sent Grayson a text message ending our relationship.

The response was instantaneous.

Ms. Delaney, Mr. Grayson is traveling tomorrow. Please ensure two pairs of Oxfords, three suits, and appropriate shirts have been pressed and packed.

Staring at the utterly irrelevant reply, the acid in my throat rose. The feeling was like punching a giant cotton pillowdull, sickeningly empty, and frustratingly ineffective.

The text wasn't from Grayson, but from Genevieve, his executive assistant.

In the decade Gray and I had been together, Genevieve had been a silent, efficient partner in our relationship.

In her first year as Grays assistant, she personally drafted the infamous Girlfriend Operations Manual. She stated that for maximum efficiency, she needed my relationship with Gray to be as structured and professional as the rest of his work.

The manual clearly stated: I didn't need to remind Gray about our anniversaryGenevieve would personally handle the gift selection and delivery. I didn't need to bother Gray with household itemsshe would manage all arrangements. Even if I wanted to see Gray, I didn't approach him; I submitted a "Date Request Application" to her, and she would schedule me in.

Beyond that, Genny handled everything from buying groceries and new clothes to ordering our brand of preferred condoms.

I had fought Gray countless times over these ridiculous rules. But every time, hed just look at me with that calm, dispassionate expression.

Delaney. Genevieve manages my entire professional and personal life. She handles half the firms administration. She simply doesnt have the time for your drama or your baseless arguments.

In the past, his words would always silence me. But now, I surrendered.

He was right. Genevieve was his right handIvy League, sharp in negotiations, capable of managing his company, his home, and his girlfriend.

And what was I? A decade-long, low-level employee in the marketing department of his company, utterly forgettable. A girlfriend for ten years that no one, outside of us, knew existed.

Since Grayson admired Genevieve so much, I would just give him to her.

After all, my little brother was dead, his body nearly lost, and when I, his secret, long-term partner, begged the man worth hundreds of millions for fifty thousand dollars, he suggested I file an internal loan request through Genevieve.

2

A fresh wave of shuddering pain seized my chest, but I steadied my finger and typed a reply to Genevieve.

Assistant Genevieve, I wont be able to prepare Mr. Graysons clothes. If you don't mind, you're welcome to go to the penthouse and prepare them yourself.

Also, per the Operations Manual, I am formally submitting my seven-day notice of termination. Please log this and inform Mr. Grayson immediately that we are done.

We are done. The words hit the send button with a violence that felt like my teeth were cutting through my lip.

Genevieves reply was, as always, immediate.

Duly noted, Ms. Delaney. The termination has been logged.

A cold, hollow ache spread through my heart. If my ride-share hadnt arrived exactly on time, I would have burst into tears right there in the downpour. This feeling of hitting a cotton pillow, of generating no reaction, had become my life, and I was utterly sick of it.

I spent the next two days cleaning out Liam's apartment and taking his belongings back to our hometown. Only then did I return to the city and the penthouse I shared with Grayson.

The moment I stepped inside, I saw him. He was stretched out on the sofa, looking relaxed, his hair damp, water still rolling down his chest beneath his open-V silk robe. This was the Gray I had once adored, utterly disarming in his natural state.

I instinctively pressed my lips together and almost walked toward him.

Then, a smooth, seductive voice drifted from the master bathroom.

Mr. Grayson, may I dry your hair for you now?

Genevieve emerged, a slim, scarlet silhouette. My eyes locked with hers, and thenhorrifiedwith the outfit she was wearing: a flimsy, deep-red slip.

It was the only piece of lingerie Gray had ever bought me, a gift I treasured and had worn only once because I found it too revealing.

Now, Genevieve was wearing it.

I drew a sharp, shaky breath.

My apologies. I seem to have interrupted a moment. Ill see myself out.

I grabbed my suitcase and turned to leave.

Suddenly, Gray was on his feet, grabbing my arm, his face twisted in anger. Delaney, what drama are you stirring up now? Genevieve and I were doing an on-site inspection for a new project, and we were caught in the rain. She only came back here to dry off.

I truly wanted to hold my peace. After all, I was four days away from marrying another man. My only purpose in returning was to resign from the company and finalize the breakup.

I didn't care what he and Genevieve did outside of this penthouse. But I could not stomach her wearing my gift, in what was still, technically, my home.

So youre saying the hickeys on her neck arent yours, then?

The red silk was designed for intimacy; it was sheer and low-cut. I couldnt miss the angry, red marks peaking above the neckline, barely covered by the thin fabric.

A flash of genuine panic crossed Grays face.

Genevieve stepped in perfectly. Ms. Delaney, my private affairs are not your concern. You have no right to comment.

If my presence is upsetting you, I can certainly leave the residence. But I wish you would stop running away every time you throw a fit. Mr. Grayson is very busy. You cant put him through this constant drama. Hes human; he gets exhausted.

Genevieve was the Ivy League graduate, alright. In three short sentences, she had perfectly framed me as the irrational, exhausting party.

Fighting back the sickening pain, I was about to unleash a furious retort when Grays cold voice cut through.

Delaney. You will apologize to Genevieve immediately. She is my assistant, not your emotional punching bag. I wont let you challenge my boundaries again and again.

My face went white as I stared at Gray.

Just as always, no matter the circumstance, Grayson would always defend Genevieve first.

My throat tightened, but I managed to speak, each word coated in venom.

Grayson, you want me to apologize to her? You can go to hell.

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