My head was still hot. Benson’s great idea was for me to be set up with some kind of match making service for billionaires, run by the famed Eliza Rousseau. But so far, the plan wasn’t working out as well as Benson thought it would, and I was getting antsy.

I called Eliza, and even went by to tell her what I wanted. But she didn’t have anything for me… yet. She said she’d find someone quickly for me. But I was already running out of time. I should have known better than to trust that Benson’s idea was any good. He was king of overpromising and underdelivering.

Pulling up into my driveway, I parked my Maserati and grabbed my cane. I caught a glimpse of its shine against the cherry oak body and admired it for a second. It was pretty to look at. Too bad I actually had to fucking use it.

I managed to drag myself out of the car with a few grunts. Day by day my legs were gaining more strength. Eventually, I was hoping I could soon ditch this shitty cane and walk on my own like I used to.

I limped up to the door, a small ache radiating from my hips. I hobbled up to my double doors and opened them. Willow said that she would’ve preferred I get a lighter, simpler door, but I was always the kind of man who went for the best.

I slipped inside and gained a little speed to my bedroom— well, to the bathroom that was off my master bedroom. Rushing into the bathroom with an exaggerated limp, I turned on the hot water and poured some Epsom salt into the jacuzzi.

The water filled up, and I watched it slowly creep up near the water jets. Throwing my jacket off, I got undressed and dipped myself into the hot water, hissing at the tremor of my nerves that relished in the heat.

“God, that’s good.” The only thing better than this was probably sex.

If I would ever be fortunate enough to experience that again…

The heat massaged my body along with the gentle shots of water from the water jets. Today was almost unbearable. Benson just threw me into a pile of steaming shit, and now that two hundred million dollar deal that was a beacon of popularity gone viral might be nothing but a puff of dust.

Even if Eliza called. A fake wife would only be a temporary fix to a permanent problem—

Suddenly, I heard the buzz of someone ringing the security monitor button outside.

“Huh?” I grabbed the waterproof tablet that sat by the side of the jacuzzi and looked at my camera. It was Mr. Johnston, from the bank my company uses.

“Mr. Johnston,” I said, through the voice feature of my security network. It helped not having to run to the door. Especially since running wasn’t an option for me. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Reign, we need to speak. This is urgent. Very urgent!” he hushed into the speaker.

“Give me five,” I said, using my arms to propel me out the bath.

Grabbing my robe and cane, I went to the front door and let Mr. Johnston in.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Johnston?” I asked him. I hurried to add, “Please excuse my state of dress. I take frequent baths to help my hip and leg—”

But he wasn’t listening. He zoomed inside, huffing and puffing, pacing around and slapping a hand on his forehead.

“Mr. Reign. Do you know what you did?!” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Mr. Johnston, you’re making me nervous. Spit it out!”

“You lied!” he yelled. “You lied, and the bank is demanding the money they loaned you back!” he said, throwing his arms in the air. His face even shook with worry and irritation.

“Lied? Loan? What loan?!” I asked, limping towards him.

His eyes widened and he took a few shaky steps back. “You know nothing about a loan for ten million dollars? For your company? You and Benson’s names are both on there!”

Shit.

I prayed to God that this wasn’t another Benson move. But I wasn’t willing to see him in jail… not now at least. Not until I figured out what the fuck was going on and what part he had played in it.

“Oh! Yeah, I remember that. What about it again?”

“The bank looked into your application during a random audit. Some things didn’t line up during deeper inspection. When banks get scared, they demand their money back!” He calmed down and rubbed his neck.

“I spoke up for you, so the bank won’t do anything drastic. But they want the money or else this will get messy!” he said in a calmer tone, pulling at his brown, tight-fitting blazer.

“Fine.” I motioned to the door, “Now, I do need my rest. I’ll be in touch in a day or two.” After I strangle someone…

Mr. Johnston left, but not without continuing to mumble that I’d better take care of it, and soon. Relieved once he was finally gone, I closed the door behind him.

I shifted my weight from one leg to another, feeling a bit relieved in the hips from the small soak in salt.

I had Benson on speed dial and called him.

“Hey, Sam, did Eliza—”

“Benson, what the actual fuck?! Fraud? You’ve gone way over the goddamn line!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. If only my legs were strong enough, I’d run over to his house and hit him.

“Woah, Sam, what’s going—”

“The bank just visited me! What’s this about ten million dollars? My name is on that?”

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

“Yeah, oh God is right, Benson. You’d better be praying to Him hard right now, because He may be the only thing that can get us out of this mess.”

Silence. “I fucked up. It was to get us going.”

I sat down on my bed and leaned back. My blood pressure was bound to go through the roof. “They want it back in two weeks. They want ten million dollars back or else it’ll get messy.”

“Shit,” he hissed.

“Yes, shit. Shit that you shoveled on us, you ignorant fucking prick. Giving them ten million will ruin us. Look, I know you just wanted to help but—”

My phone began to ring again. “Look, we’ll talk later. Let me take this call.”

“Sorry, Sam.”

I didn’t respond and hung up. The number ringing my phone wasn’t too familiar, but I still answered it anyway. “Hello?”

“Dear Sam! I have a match for you!” Eliza sang over the phone.

“A match, this quick?”

She chuckled. “Yes, I’m good like that.”

The confidence was booming in her voice.

A crazy thought entered my mind.

Maybe I could do this. If this all worked out, then I’d be able to pull through.

That small glimmer of hope— or maybe it was just temporary insanity from stress—

made me say, “When do I meet her?”

“Tomorrow! She’ll be all ready for you. When you come to meet her, then we can hash out more details. But she’s lovely and fits all your desires.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, swing around tomorrow at seven. Oui?”

“Not a problem. Enjoy your evening, Ms. Rousseau.”

I hung up and closed my eyes.

What the hell was I doing?

I didn’t even know anymore. I only knew that it had something to do with trying to save my business— and maybe myself, too.