I could have asked Lana to clear my office out for me, but I didn’t want Dmitri to think I was afraid of him.

He’s in there on a conference call when I arrive. I see him through the glass walls of the conference room.

Everyone looks at me nervously, but Aiden gives me a knowing smirk.

I see Dmitri, his hands waving up and down as he speaks fast. He throws a palm up at Craig and Dylan, and he storms out of the conference room, right toward me.

He looks at me, then at Aiden. “Why the fuck are all the accounts who jumped off Eric refusing to talk to me?”

Aiden smirks, and I shrug.

“Aiden,” Dmitri says, locking eyes with him. “Did you take care of that thing I asked you to?”

“You mean did I go after Ruth to hurt Eric?” Aiden asks.

The office is getting quiet now, and everyone is craning their necks to listen in on the drama.

Dmitri’s face twitches as he draws the lines and connects all the dots. He realizes Aiden is betraying him on some level, but he’s not quite sure how it all went down.

“You useless, spineless fuck,” Dmitri spits at Aiden. “You’ll die poor.”

“It’s up to him,” I say. “I’ve transferred my stake in the cooperative to him. He’s taking over all my old accounts. Even if he retires in a year, I doubt he’ll die poor.”

Dmitri shakes his head in disbelief. “You what?”

“I’m out,” I say. “Money corrupts.”

I turn my back and walk away. Some part of me wants to see Dmitri go down in flames. But blaming him is looking at things all wrong. I have to own up to my own responsibility in all of this. Dmitri was a catalyst, but I was the one who hurt Ruth. Not him.

My move with Aiden will at least slow Dmitri down, and quitting after doing it will annoy the hell out of him. He’ll recover though, and he’ll trample hundreds of other people to claw his way back up. It’s what he does, and fighting against that—or clawing my own way back up—has lost all appeal to me.

I just need to get Ruth back. She’s what matters. The only thing that matters.

As I ride down in the elevator, I get an idea. God, it’s a stupid idea, but sometimes the stupidest ideas are the ones that end up working.

I stop at an art supply store on the way home.

“Can I help you?” The woman asks, raising her eyebrow at me. I can tell she recognizes me, but can’t quite place me as “asshole billionaire who broke poor girl’s heart.”

“Does this paint work on human skin?” I ask.

She looks at me like I’m some kind of crazy serial killer. Probably saying “human skin” wasn’t the best way to phrase it.

“Like, bodypainting, I mean,” I say, giving my best not-an-axe-murderer smile.

“Ah,” she says, and takes it out of my hand. “No, it will clog your pores up and do a lot of other nasty stuff. You want this.”

She hands me another tube. “You just want black?”

“It’s nothing too complicated,” I say. “I just want it to be visible. Some writing.”

“Is this for you?” She asks. “You painting yourself?”

I nod.

“You’re pretty tan,” she says. “I’d go for this bright blue.”

“Sure,” I say. “Give me both.”

I take the paint home, along with a thick brush.

I tear off my clothes and realize that my chest hair is a bit too much, so I shave it all off. I pop open the paint and start writing on my chest in huge letters.

Then I realize I can’t reach my back, so I barge into my chef’s quarters, shirtless and with wet paint dripping off my chest.

Jacob, my chef, is watching TV while he dices some onions, he looks up at me with a surprised expression. “Eric?”

“Can you paint my back?” I ask.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“My back,” I say, turning around.

“I was just reading your chest,” Jacob says. “Why are you painting that you’re sorry all over your body?”

“To win a girl back,” I say, grinning.

Jacob winces, and I can tell he’s seen the news.

“You think it will work?” I ask.

I tell him the full plan, and he shrugs. “What do you want your back to say?”

“I love you,” I say.