A Secretive Deal with My Billionaire Boss (by Gregory Ellington) novel Chapter 391

Alexander

We ate in silence for a while. The food was good, better than I’d expected from a family restaurant in Connecticut. Around us, conversations flowed, families laughed, the kind of normalcy I’d never quite managed.

“Katherine called me yesterday,” Anthony said suddenly.

I looked up. “What did she want?”

“To ask about you. Said you’ve been distant lately. Not answering her calls.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With work or with stalking your ex–assistant?”

“Can we drop it?”

“No.” Anthony set down his fork. “Look, I like Katherine. She’s smart, ambitious, and good for your public image. But you don’t

love her.”

“This again.”

“Yes, this again. Because someone needs to say it.” He met my eyes. “You’ve been engaged for five years without setting a date. That’s not normal. That’s avoidance.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Everything with you is complicated.” He signaled for another beer. “What if Madison really has moved on? What if she’s dating that Christopher guy, or someone else entirely? What then?”

-I didn’t answer.

“You need to figure out what you actually want,” Anthony continued. “Do you want Madison? Do you want Katherine? Do you want to be alone with your empire and your expensive cars?” He paused. “Because right now you’re in limbo, and it’s making you miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“You’re absolutely miserable. I’m a doctor, I can diagnose these things.”

Despite myself, I almost smiled. “That’s not how medicine works.

“Close enough.” He grinned. “So what’s the plan? Are you staying in Connecticut?”

“For a few days. Need to complete the property assessment.”

“And coincidentally be near Madison’s café.”

“That’s not the primary reason.”

“Sure it isn’t.” The waitress brought his beer, and he thanked her with another charming smile. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like showing up at her house. Or her café every day. Or hiring a private investigator to dig into her personal life.” He raised his beer. “Wait, have you already done that last one?”

I said nothing.

“Jesus Christ, Alex.”

“It’s called due diligence.”

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“It’s called stalking.” He shook his head. “What did you find out?”

“That Christopher Allen is single, successful, and apparently a regular at her café.”

“And that bothers you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your face did.” Anthony took a long drink. “Look, maybe Christopher is her boyfriend. Maybe he’s just a friend. Either way, it’s none of your business unless you make it your business.”

“How do I do that?”

“By talking to her like a normal human being instead of conducting covert surveillance operations.”

The rest of dinner passed with lighter conversation. Anthony told stories about his medical program, I provided minimal updates about work, and we successfully avoided the topic of Madison for exactly twenty minutes.

After dinner, we settled the bill and headed out. The parking lot was moderately full, families coming and going, the kind of wholesome scene that felt foreign to someone who spent most nights in Manhattan high–rises.

We reached my Aston Martin. Anthony climbed into the passenger seat, stretching his legs.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “Even if you were terrible company.

“You’re welcome.”

I started the car, the engine purring to life with satisfying precision. We pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward Anthony’s

hotel.

We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Anthony patted his pockets, frowning.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“My wallet.” He checked his jacket, his pants. “I think I left it at the restaurant.”

I glanced at him. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He twisted in his seat, searching. “Must have fallen out when I got up to use the bathroom.”

I sighed, already looking for a place to turn around. “I’ll drop you here. You can take a cab back to Mario’s, get your wallet, and take a cab back to your hotel. Consider it punishment for not bringing your car to Connecticut.”

“I left my car in New York for servicing,” Anthony protested. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Still your problem.”

“Come on, Alex. Just drive me back. It’s five minutes.”

“Five minutes there, five minutes back. That’s ten minutes of my life I won’t get back.‘

“You’re such a generous friend.” Anthony grinned. “This is why people love you.”

“People don’t love me. They fear me or want something from me.

“And Madison?”

I shot him a look. “Don’t.”

“Just asking.”

I made a U–turn at the next light, heading back toward Mario’s. The parking lot was still moderately full when we pulled in, though emptier than when we’d left.

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“I’ll wait here,” I said, parking near the entrance.

“You’re not coming in?”

“To watch you retrieve your wallet? No.”

Anthony climbed out, shaking his head. “You really are a piece of work.”

I sat there for exactly 30 seconds before the car’s confined space became suffocating. The air conditioning hummed, efficient and cold, but it did nothing for the restlessness crawling under my skin.

I stepped out, leaning against the Aston Martin’s hood. The metal was still warm from the engine, a contrast to the evening air that carried the smell of marinara sauce and garlic bread from the restaurant.

The parking lot was moderately busy, families coming and going, the kind of wholesome scene that made me feel like an intruder. A couple walked past holding hands, laughing about something. A teenager climbed into a beat–up Honda, music already blaring before the door closed.

Normal people living normal lives.

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