The Billionaire He Threw Away Chapter 14

The Billionaire He Threw Away Chapter 14

Five years later.

I stood on the terrace of the Greenwich house-my grandmother’s house, now mine-and watched Lily chase fireflies across the lawn

She was three and a half, with Nathan’s brown eyes and my stubborn jaw. She ran with the fearless, full-tilt abandon of a child who had never

known a cold floor or a locked door or the sound of someone choosing another child over her.

Nathan came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He smelled like sawdust and basil-he’d spent the afternoon building Lily a

bookshelf and then making dinner.

“She caught one,” he said, resting his chin on my shoulder.

I watched Lily cup the firefly in her tiny hands, her face lit up with wonder, and felt something so vast and warm it almost hurt.

“I never thought I’d have this,” I said quietly.

Nathan kissed my temple. “Have what?”

“A home where no one has to sleep on the floor.”

He tightened his arms around me. He knew the story-all of it. I’d told him everything on our fifth date, sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, and he’d listened without interrupting. When I finished, he’d taken my hand and said, *You deserved so much better. And I’m going to spend

the rest of my life proving that people can be good.*

He had. Every single day.

The foundation had grown. Two hundred scholars a year now, across twelve states. I’d stepped back from daily operations at Wentworth Industries, appointing a CEO I trusted, though I still chaired the board. The company was thriving. So was I.

Liam had rebuilt Prism Digital into a modest success. I heard about him occasionally-through Derek, through industry news. He’d never remarried. Derek said he was quieter now. More careful with people. More careful with himself.

I didn’t hate him anymore. I wasn’t sure I ever really had. What I’d felt was something more complicated-the grief of watching someone you loved become someone you didn’t recognize. The slow, devastating realization that the person you’d built your life around had never seen you clearly.

But I was seen now. By Nathan, who noticed when I was tired before I did. By Lily, who brought me dandelions every morning and called them

“Mommy flowers.” By Diane, who still showed up with tea and unsolicited wisdom. By the scholars who wrote me letters about the lives they were

building.

I was seen. I was known. I was home.

Lily ran toward us, firefly still glowing between her fingers.

“Mommy, look! It’s a tiny star!”

I knelt down and looked into her cupped hands. The firefly pulsed-soft, steady, alive.

“It is,” I said. “A tiny star, just for you.”