Billionaire's Broken Plaything - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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"Oops, Courtney—looks like this mocha's mine after all."
Tamara sauntered over, my lost drink clutched in her manicured hand, her smirk stretching wider than the Grand Canyon.
"Though if you're that desperate," she purred, "maybe Clive will let you take a sip. You wouldn't mind, would you, babe?"
Her perfume—something sickly sweet and aggressively expensive—clogged my throat. I pressed a fist to my sternum, sidestepping toward the exit, but she blocked me like a human wall. When I tried to slip past, her fingers dug into my wrist, yanking me forward—
Then came the Oscar-worthy performance: a gasp, a stumble, Tamara tumbling backward like I'd shoved her with linebacker strength.
"Jesus, Courtney!" Clive's voice boomed over the murmurs, but I was already halfway to the restroom, hand clamped over my mouth.
By the time I finished retching into the toilet, my phone buzzed with Trina's rage-text:
[Tamara's milking a papercut like it's a gunshot wound. Boss is playing knight in shining armor—off to the ER, drama included.]
The message vanished—oops, too honest—but it didn't sting. Not anymore.
I'd sworn off letting Clive break me.
Two months ago, when he ghosted me, the nosebleeds started. Then the diagnosis: Probably won't see spring. Funny how your brain short-circuits when death whispers your name. My only regret? Missing the blossoms.
"Any family to notify, Miss Russell?" the doctor had asked.
"Just a tabby cat," I'd said. "Skip the treatment?"
He'd hesitated, then offered experimental meds—might balloon you up, turn your skin gray. I declined. Dying didn't scare me. The thought of Clive remembering me as some bloated, unrecognizable version of myself? That did.
Not that he'd care. His harem already included carbon copies of me—same doe eyes, same stubborn chin. Upgrade models, minus the expiration date.
My phone chimed again:
[Burial plot deposit received. Remaining balance due in 7 days.]
I checked my account. Empty. Again.
Clive called me a gold-digger, a liar, yet his checks always cleared—until Tamara started batting her lashes.
That night, sleeping pills finally dragged me under… until my phone screamed at 1 AM.
"Courtney—get to Royal Court, room 1088. Now."
"Are you drunk?"
"Please! Clive's wasted—crying, begging for you! Oh god—he's bleeding!"
The line died. I called back. Nothing.
Cue the adrenaline dump. Coat? Half-on. Taxi? Ran three red lights. I burst into the lounge wild-eyed, chest heaving—
Only to find Clive lounging like a king, lifting a whiskey glass in mock salute. Behind him, his frat-pack howled with laughter.
"Told you she'd come crawling!" someone crowed.
Clive's grin was razorblades. "Cheers, sweetheart."
Tamara sauntered over, my lost drink clutched in her manicured hand, her smirk stretching wider than the Grand Canyon.
"Though if you're that desperate," she purred, "maybe Clive will let you take a sip. You wouldn't mind, would you, babe?"
Her perfume—something sickly sweet and aggressively expensive—clogged my throat. I pressed a fist to my sternum, sidestepping toward the exit, but she blocked me like a human wall. When I tried to slip past, her fingers dug into my wrist, yanking me forward—
Then came the Oscar-worthy performance: a gasp, a stumble, Tamara tumbling backward like I'd shoved her with linebacker strength.
"Jesus, Courtney!" Clive's voice boomed over the murmurs, but I was already halfway to the restroom, hand clamped over my mouth.
By the time I finished retching into the toilet, my phone buzzed with Trina's rage-text:
[Tamara's milking a papercut like it's a gunshot wound. Boss is playing knight in shining armor—off to the ER, drama included.]
The message vanished—oops, too honest—but it didn't sting. Not anymore.
I'd sworn off letting Clive break me.
Two months ago, when he ghosted me, the nosebleeds started. Then the diagnosis: Probably won't see spring. Funny how your brain short-circuits when death whispers your name. My only regret? Missing the blossoms.
"Any family to notify, Miss Russell?" the doctor had asked.
"Just a tabby cat," I'd said. "Skip the treatment?"
He'd hesitated, then offered experimental meds—might balloon you up, turn your skin gray. I declined. Dying didn't scare me. The thought of Clive remembering me as some bloated, unrecognizable version of myself? That did.
Not that he'd care. His harem already included carbon copies of me—same doe eyes, same stubborn chin. Upgrade models, minus the expiration date.
My phone chimed again:
[Burial plot deposit received. Remaining balance due in 7 days.]
I checked my account. Empty. Again.
Clive called me a gold-digger, a liar, yet his checks always cleared—until Tamara started batting her lashes.
That night, sleeping pills finally dragged me under… until my phone screamed at 1 AM.
"Courtney—get to Royal Court, room 1088. Now."
"Are you drunk?"
"Please! Clive's wasted—crying, begging for you! Oh god—he's bleeding!"
The line died. I called back. Nothing.
Cue the adrenaline dump. Coat? Half-on. Taxi? Ran three red lights. I burst into the lounge wild-eyed, chest heaving—
Only to find Clive lounging like a king, lifting a whiskey glass in mock salute. Behind him, his frat-pack howled with laughter.
"Told you she'd come crawling!" someone crowed.
Clive's grin was razorblades. "Cheers, sweetheart."
End of Billionaire's Broken Plaything Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Billionaire's Broken Plaything book page.