REJECTED, THEN THEY FOUND OUT I WAS A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER THREE: THE MAN WHO HAD NOTHING

The walk home felt longer than usual. Richard didn't remember much of it, only the cold, the sound of his shoes against the pavement, and a couple outside a restaurant, the woman laughing as the man held the door open for her. He looked away.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't need to check the screen. Cara. He kept walking. A few seconds later, it vibrated again. Then again.

Richard finally pulled it out.

Cara: Please let me explain.

Cara: Richard, please.

He stared at the words until the screen blurred. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Explain what? That she had been seeing Marcus? That the watch in her apartment had somehow belonged to a brother she didn't have? That she had allowed him to kneel in front of two hundred people while already holding another man's hand?

His jaw tightened. He locked the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He wasn't going to beg. Not tonight.

When Richard finally reached his apartment, the hallway lights were flickering again. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was exactly as he had left it that morning: a cheap sofa, a small television, a dining table with one chair, a kitchen barely large enough for two people to stand in. Normally, he would have noticed how small the place felt. Tonight, he didn't care.

He took off his jacket and dropped it onto the sofa, then stood there, completely still. The silence was unbearable. Richard looked down at his left hand. There was still a faint mark around his finger where he had spent months imagining a wedding ring. His chest tightened.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Almost empty. A bottle of water. Half a carton of milk. Some leftover rice. He stared at it for several seconds before closing the door. He wasn't hungry.

His phone vibrated again. This time it was Lucas. Richard answered.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"I'll come over."

"No."

"Richard..."

"I said no."

There was silence on the other end. Lucas knew him well enough to hear what was hiding behind those two words.

"You shouldn't be alone tonight."

Richard swallowed. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

Richard leaned against the kitchen counter and closed his eyes. For a moment, he almost broke. Then he heard himself laugh quietly. "Lucas, she chose another man in front of an entire ballroom.

I think I've earned one night to feel sorry for myself."

Lucas didn't laugh. "You're not alone, Richard."

"I know."

"Call me if you need anything."

Richard nodded even though Lucas couldn't see him. "Good night."

"Good night."

The call ended. Richard placed the phone on the counter. Then his eyes landed on the small photograph beside it. He and Cara, three years ago, sitting on the steps outside a cheap restaurant, sharing one plate of noodles because Richard couldn't afford two. Cara had been laughing. Richard had been looking at her instead of the camera.

He picked up the photograph. His fingers trembled. "How did I get this so wrong?" His voice cracked. He immediately looked away, embarrassed by his own tears even though nobody was there to see them.

One tear slipped down his cheek. Then another.

Richard wiped them away angrily. He refused to cry. But his shoulders began shaking. He sank onto the kitchen floor, pulled his knees toward his chest, and buried his face in his hands. For several minutes, the only sound in the apartment was his breathing.

Then his phone rang. Richard ignored it. It rang again. He grabbed it. This time, it wasn't Cara. It was an unknown number. He almost rejected the call. Instead, he answered.

"Hello?"

A man's voice came through. "Is this Richard Black?"

Richard frowned. "Who is this?"

"My name is Elias Grant. I'm an attorney."

Richard sat up slowly. "An attorney?"

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

There was a pause. "I need to speak with you regarding your father."

Richard's expression changed. "My father?"

The room suddenly felt colder. Richard rarely spoke about his father. Alexander Black had died when Richard was six, or at least that was what Richard had always been told. His mother had died several years later. Richard had grown up believing there was nothing left. No family. No inheritance. Nothing.

"What about my father?"

"Some matters concerning his estate have recently come to light."

Richard gave a bitter laugh. "Estate?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Grant, whatever you're selling, I'm not interested."

"I'm not selling anything."

"Then what?"

"I need to meet you."

"Why?"

Another pause. "Because your father left instructions that were to be carried out only after you turned twenty-eight."

Richard's smile disappeared. His heart began beating faster. "How old did you say I had to be?"

"Twenty-eight."

Richard slowly stood. He was twenty-eight. Exactly twenty-eight. "Why now?"

"Because the conditions attached to the documents have been fulfilled."

Richard stared at the wall. "What documents?"

"I can't discuss them over the phone."

"Then tell me where to meet you."

"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Blackwell and Grant. Thirty-second floor."

Richard reached for a pen. "Address?"

The lawyer gave it to him. Richard wrote it down. Before hanging up, the man's voice softened.

"Mr. Black?"

"Yes?"

"There's something else."

Richard waited.

"I strongly advise you to come alone."

The call ended. Richard stared at the phone. His first thought was that it was some kind of scam. His second was that it couldn't possibly have anything to do with his father. But something about the man's voice bothered him. It had sounded too serious. Too careful.

Richard walked to the window and looked out over the city. He could see the lights of Westbridge Corporation in the distance. That building had been his entire world for years. Tomorrow, he was supposed to go back there and pretend nothing had happened. He didn't know if he could.

His phone buzzed again. This time, there was a message from Cara. I know I don't deserve another chance, but please don't hate me. Richard stared at it. He typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too. Finally, he switched off the phone.

He had spent three years putting everyone else before himself. Maybe that was the problem.

Tomorrow, he would stop being the man who apologized for wanting more. Whatever waited on the thirty-second floor, he was done being easy to overlook.