The Billionaire's Intern. Maisey Yates

day.

      “So…I don’t know where I’m going.”

      The corner of his mouth lifted. A smile attempt. She’d seen him do it a couple of times now, and each instance rang false. “End of the hall.”

      “Okay, thank you.” She turned away from him and continued walking, stopping at the ornate black door at the very end of the corridor.

      “You can program the door with your own code,” he said. “It can be whatever you like. You can do it all from your phone. Now, I can override it, but I probably won’t,” he added, reaching past her and entering in number on the keypad quickly.

      “You probably won’t?”

      “Never say never.” The light on the door handle turned green, and then he stood back, as if waiting for her move.

      “You really could say never to invading my privacy,” she said.

      “With the way my life has gone so far, I never discount anything. Now go in. Or go home.”

      “Is this my out?” she asked, her throat dry.

      His lips curved upward again, and this time, there was no mistaking—at all—that this wasn’t a smile in the way other people meant them. This was predatory. Deadly. Once again, she had the strange feeling she’d gone from the frying pan into the fire.

      “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

      “No,” she said, trying to keep her breathing steady.

      He moved away from her then, his gaze steady on hers. “Interesting.”

      “What does that mean?” she asked, keeping her tone steady. “Interesting.”

      “Just what it means. Interesting.”

      “Well, then.”

      She reached past him and pushed the door open. The room was…well, as expected, she supposed, but unexpected in a way that she never could have anticipated either. A giant four-poster bed with black, wooden columns that nearly touched the ceiling took up most of the space in the room.

      There was a desk in the corner, fashioned like an ornate writing desk, but obviously equipped for modern conveniences. In the opposite corner was a large wingback chair and a little table. Probably intended to be eaten at. Or not. Perhaps the person this room was designed to accommodate was supposed to eat out with friends or family.

      But not her. Because her family had their own issues, her friends—such as they were—were gone. And if she dined out, it would just be Addison and the paparazzi.

      “I only meant I will be interested to see if that changes,” he said, still in the doorway. He hadn’t crossed the threshold. “I have plenty of time to frighten you.”

      The air in her lungs contracted, making it difficult to breathe.

      He almost sounded as though he wanted to scare her. And the really strange thing was…not even that scared her. She was…numb. Numb except for that strange bit of something she felt when she looked at him.

      “Could I have a few moments?” she asked. She needed time alone. Needed some time to try and orient herself to her surroundings. To her life.

      “If you need to. But I expect to see you again in a couple of hours.”

      “As you wish,” she said, unsurprised when the movie reference failed to make him smile.

      He turned away from her, his broad back filling the door frame, before he closed the door behind him without giving her another glance.

      She walked over to her bag, like a robot completing motions it had been programmed to do. She opened it and took out her computer, going to the wingback chair and setting the laptop on the small table, situating herself so that she was in a rather uncomfortable, rigid position.

      She typed in her password and opened her email, waiting for the client to wake up and connect to her inbox. No new messages. Well, that sounded about right.

      She thought back to all the people she’d known over the years. To cocktail parties and luncheons and teas. She did well in those venues. She always knew what to say, knew how to keep inoffensive conversation flowing.

      But outside of those settings? She didn’t know those people. They didn’t know her. Were they in her position, a liability to the ease of a dinner party, she doubted she would be in touch either.

      Because dealing with serious issues required a depth that none of her relationships seemed to have. She was aware of a lot of people, and a lot people were aware of her. She wasn’t certain if anyone knew her. If she really knew anyone.

      Especially after discovering her father had a secret life…she wasn’t sure she knew anyone at all.

      The closest thing to friends she still had were Nora and Harlow. And that meant there could be no more contact avoidance.

      She took her phone out of her pocket, typing in a quick text.

      Things are OK. Austin got me an internship with Black Properties, so I’ll be busy. Don’t worry.

      She also felt as if her insides were imploding, but she didn’t want to tell anyone that. Because there was no place for that. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t what people wanted to hear.

      If there was one thing she’d been trained in, it was the fine art of talking about what people wanted to talk about.

      Pain was not one of those things.

      A message pinged back a couple of seconds later.

      Great news! Hey, have you heard from Harlow at all lately? She’s not answering texts.

      No. But I haven’t tried in a while.

       K. If you hear from her let me know?

      Sure.

      Addison put her phone down and frowned before pulling up a new email message. She typed in Harlow’s name.

       Hey, sorry to bug you. I know you’ve been working hard. And I really hope things haven’t been shaken up too much, given…recent events. But Nora and I are getting concerned, so please touch base?

       —A

      She closed her computer and let the silence in the room settle over her. It felt thick. Oppressive. She was used to a large house full of staff and movement. A sorority house full of talking and laughter.

      For a hotel, the Black Book was strangely quiet. At least on this floor.

      She felt like throwing herself on the bed and crying. Wailing. Filling the silence. But some voice, her mother’s, her father’s maybe, whispered in her ear and said ladies in Chanel skirts didn’t thrown themselves around.

      Not that she felt much like a lady. She felt like a wraith. And she imagined they were genderless. Or, at the very least, that they didn’t have to care about what anyone thought about the way they lay down.

      Still, she sat in the chair, her posture so rigid her neck ached. Her eyes ached too.

      She was arid. Her eyes were dry. Her brain was dry. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. Not anything other than this stale, crackling burning that pervaded her entire body and left her feel like that patchwork dirt you saw in desert climates.

      She just felt fuzzy and disconnected.

      She suddenly noticed a little white card, folded like a tent on the edge of the table. She reached out and picked it up, reading the embossed lettering on the front.

      Welcome to Black Book. Download the Black Book app to create your unique pass code.

      She pulled up the app store on her phone and searched for Black Book, finding the app with an insignia matching the little white card and loading it.

      Then