The Billionaire He Threw Away Chapter 13

The Billionaire He Threw Away Chapter 13

A year passed.

Wentworth Industries posted record profits. The foundation awarded its first round of scholarships-forty-seven students, each one the first in

their family to attend college. I attended the ceremony and shook every hand.

Kathy-the stray tabby I’d adopted from a shelter two months after the divorce-sat on the windowsill of the penthouse every evening, watching the sunset over Central Park like she owned the view. She probably thought she did.

Life was full. Busy. Good.

But sometimes, late at night, I’d stand on the terrace and feel the absence of something I couldn’t name. Not Liam. Not the marriage. Something

else-something I hadn’t found yet.

Then, on a cold Tuesday in November, I walked into a coffee shop in the West Village and saw a man reading a book I loved.

He looked up when I walked past. Brown eyes, kind face, reading glasses slightly crooked. He smiled-not at me specifically, just at the world in

general-and went back to his book.

I ordered my coffee. Sat at the next table. And for twenty minutes, we read in parallel silence.

When he stood to leave, he paused beside my table.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I noticed your bag.” He pointed to the tote I was carrying-printed with the logo of my grandmother’s

foundation. “I received one of those scholarships. Ten years ago. It changed my life.”

I looked up at him. “You’re a Wentworth scholar?”

“Class of 2014.” He extended his hand. “I’m Nathan.”

“Elise,” I said.

His handshake was warm. Not too firm. Not too soft. Just right.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” he asked. “I’d love to tell you what that scholarship meant to me.”

I hesitated. I thought of every reason to say no-the walls I’d built, the trust I’d lost, the part of me that still flinched when someone was kind without explanation.

Then I thought of my grandmother’s letter. “Never let anyone make you feel small.

And I thought of Diane’s words. “Wealth can’t fix the things that really matter.*

What mattered, I realized, was this: I was no longer the woman on the couch. I was no longer the woman who stayed silent, who made herself small, who loved someone so hard she forgot to love herself.

I was Elise Wentworth. And I was allowed to say yes.

“I’d like that,” I said.

We talked for three hours. He was a public school teacher. He’d grown up in foster care. He spoke about books like they were living things and

laughed with his whole body.

He didn’t know who I was-not really. He didn’t know about the penthouse or the company or the billion-dollar empire. He just knew I liked the

same book he did, and that I listened when he talked.

When we finally stood to leave, he said, “This is probably too forward, but-can I see you again?”

I smiled. A real smile. The kind that starts deep and rises slow.

“Yes,” I said. “You can.”

Outside, the November wind was sharp, but the sun was out-thin and golden, the kind of light that makes even the coldest day feel like a

promise.

I walked home through the park, hands in my pockets, breath visible in the air.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn’t walking away from something.

I was walking toward it.