Descent: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Black Heart Romance presents Heaven & Hell)

  Descent

  By Sam Mariano

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Descent © 2021 by Sam Mariano

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for supporting the author’s hard work and not being a pirate!

  Were he not a supreme scoundrel, he would be a great man.

  -George Templeton Strong

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Hallie

  “One more round!”

  As my best friend orders up another round—on me—I look at the fruity drink in front of me that I haven’t even finished yet.

  It’s my fault. I’m not a fast drinker. Charity could drink a brawny old biker under the table, but when I drink, I tend to pace myself.

  “Come on,” she says, her butt hitting the chair as she sits back down and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Why are you still on your first drink? It’s a bachelorette party, for fuck’s sake.”

  “This is my second drink,” I tell her, though I can see it doesn’t make a bit of difference. “And I know it’s your bachelorette party, that’s why I’m at this loud-ass bar to begin with.”

  When we were younger, I enjoyed going out drinking with Charity, but as I approach 26, I’m finding the whole scene a little tired. If I’m being honest, I would have preferred to spend the evening at home in my pajamas, curled up on the couch with my cat.

  Even in twenty years, I doubt that will be Charity’s idea of a good time, so instead we’re taking a party bus from bar to bar. This is our first stop, and I think Charity is starting to get bored of the place.

  “We need to get you a man,” Charity says off-handedly, like it’s a to-do list item she just remembered to bring up.

  “We don’t,” I disagree.

  “We do.” She signals the bartender, and he runs right over to get her a shot while we wait for that second round. She throws it back like a champ, then brings the glass down on the bar top with a hard thud. Looking over at me, she says, “I’ve got just the guy for you. When I get back from Bermuda, I’m gonna set you two up.”

  I’m shaking my head before she even finishes her thought. We have gone down this road before, and Charity’s idea of the man I need and my idea of the kind of man I need do not line up. “I appreciate the sentiment, but really, I’m good.”

  “I know that last guy didn’t turn out so great,” she acknowledges.

  Recalling how rude he was to the waiter and the bathroom break he took which resulted in him returning to the table with white powder residue beneath his nose, my lips thin. “No, it sure didn’t.”

  Undeterred, she goes on, “But if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

  “An excellent mentality in most cases, but honestly, I’m fine hanging out with Marie and my own company for right now.”

  “I feel like you’re afraid to get back out there.”

  “I am definitely not afraid to get back out there,” I assure her. “Fatigued, maybe, but not afraid.”

  Nodding with remarkable solemnity for an almost-drunk girl, she says, “I get that. I do. Dating can be exhausting when you’re actually trying to find someone to settle down with. But I know you, babe. You’re not meant to spend your days with Marie. She’s a lovely cat, sure, but you are a relationship girl. You’re the marrying kind. You are not a future cat lady spinster. You’re just not.”

  Sighing, I grab my drink and take a slow sip. “No, that’s not how I see my life going, but honestly, I’d rather be a cat lady spinster than date someone who makes me feel…” I pause, trying to encapsulate the feelings I’ve been left with after every failed relationship. Finally, I come up with, “unfulfilled.”

  “I don’t want that for you, either,” she says. “But you won’t feel that way with the right guy. I don’t feel that way with Tyler, and I’m not the marrying kind. If I can find that, you sure as hell can.”

  I shrug. “Maybe someday. It’s just not my turn yet, and I’m fine with that.”

  Charity shakes her head. “It will never be your turn if you never go out with anybody. Let me set you up. I know the guys I pick for you aren’t usually your first choice, but sometimes the most perfect person for you is someone you never thought to consider.”

  I cannot stomach the idea of going out with another of Charity’s picks. I also seldom win arguments with my professional lawyer bestie, so rather than engage, I lean forward and look down the bar. Surely shiny new drinks will distract her.

  “And I know, I shouldn’t try to run your life for you,” she says, even though I haven’t said a word. “I promise to get better about that as long as you get better about stepping outside your comfort zone and taking chances from time to time. It can lead you somewhere really unexpected, but really good. Look at me. Party girl extraordinaire. I took a chance and stepped outside my comfort zone with Tyler, and now we’re getting married tomorrow. Me. Married. Who ever thought you would be the maid of honor at my wedding before I got to be yours?”

  It’s true, between the two of us, I am the more romantic. I’m the one who actually hoped to find someone to share my life with, while Charity was more about just having fun. No one expected her to get married anytime soon, but then Tyler came along and changed the game.

  I’m happy for them, and I would like to find that special someone for myself, but I’m so sick of dating. It’s exhausting chasing dead-end after dead-end, trying again and again to find someone to connect with and being disappointed every damn time.

  After my last hollow relationship, I’m content to be si
ngle for a while. I need to recharge, take a little time to myself before I’ll have the energy to dive back into the dating pool again.

  My phone buzzes. As if the universe is eavesdropping on our conversation and wants to contribute, the name of my most recent ex-boyfriend pops up on the screen.

  Charity grabs my phone. “Ew. Why is Jackson texting you?” Eyes wide, she looks up at me. “I’m over here trying to set you up and here you are…” She trails off as she opens the text message to read it for herself. “Tell me you are not drunk-texting this hopeless asshole.”

  “How could I drunk-text anyone? I’m not even drunk.” I snatch my phone from her. “And no, I didn’t text him.” Frowning faintly, I open the text to see what Jackson wants.

  The message reads, “I need to see you.”

  “Don’t you dare text him back,” Charity says. “You dumped him. It’s over. He sucks. C’est la fucking vie.”

  My grip on the phone tightens almost protectively as I text him back to ask what’s wrong.

  I can’t be like Charity when it comes to things like this. She has dumped plenty of guys over the years, so it’s nothing to her. Like ripping off a Band-aid. Jackson is only the second guy I’ve ever dumped in my whole life, and I let the relationship drag on for three months past the time of death hoping to avoid it. I don’t like being dumped, either, but I would’ve preferred if he got bored and dumped me instead of making me dump him.

  It didn’t work, though. Jackson is a workaholic. I’m not even sure he noticed I pulled back until a couple of weeks before I finally got up the nerve to end things.

  Honestly, I didn’t think he would be too bummed about it by the time it happened. We hardly even saw each other anymore. We texted a few times a week, but even that wasn’t daily anymore. We were barely together, hanging by a thread. I didn’t think he would care when I finally snipped it.

  In the moment, it didn’t seem like he did. He seemed stunned, but not sad. I think his ego took a bigger hit than his heart. Jackson is successful and attractive. People like him, and he’s just not the kind of guy a lot of women dump.

  For me, though… there was always something missing with him. Our whole relationship felt almost rehearsed, like a scene he’d run through with countless other women. There was nothing special or personal about it.

  We didn’t connect on any deeper level, we just spent time together. It didn’t even feel like spending time together, really, it felt like passing time in the same vicinity as one another.

  It wasn’t what I wanted. Since I knew we couldn’t meet one another’s needs, I finally called it.

  I suppose because there was no big dramatic end, no final incident to pound the nail into the coffin of our relationship, it came as a shock to Jackson. I also don’t think he’s ever really been told no—by a woman, at least—and he responded as if I’d spoken to him in tongues.

  Once the shock passed, he started texting me again. Wanting to know why—was there someone else? There had to be someone else, right? Why wouldn’t I just admit there was someone else?

  He got a little pushy about it, needing to believe this scenario he’d made up entirely in his own head to explain why I didn’t want to be with him anymore, so I finally stopped responding to his messages altogether.

  It has been weeks since I last heard from him, and given the tone of this first message he’s sending me tonight, I am not excited to hear from him again. Dread churns in my gut as another text from him pops up.

  This one reads, “What if no one ever loves me?”

  I sigh, reaching for my drink and taking a big gulp. Then I text him back, “That’s absurd, Jackson. You just haven’t met the right girl yet, that’s all.”

  “I thought I had,” he responds.

  I try not to feel guilty, but it’s hard.

  I remind myself it’s no one’s fault if two people are poorly matched. It’s better we acknowledged it and let each other go so both of us would have a better shot at finding happiness elsewhere.

  Besides, if the way he treated me was the level of attentiveness he would devote to “the one,” then I feel a little sorry for anyone who is meant for him.

  Another text comes through. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  I’m less sure about how to answer this one. I text back, “You don’t have to be alone. Meet up with some friends, go out.”

  “I’m already out. I need to see you. Please, you owe me this much.”

  He almost had me until that last part. I make a face at my phone, instantly turned off.

  I don’t owe him shit.

  We dated and then we stopped because it wasn’t a good fit. The end.

  I owe him.

  He’s got some fucking nerve.

  To put a swift end to this interaction, I shoot him one last text. “I can’t meet you tonight. I’m at Charity’s bachelorette party. And I don’t owe you anything, Jackson. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but it didn’t, and that’s no one’s fault. I’m not interested in rekindling anything, ever. I hope you find someone that fits you better than I did and that you’ll both be very happy together. Good night.”

  To avoid the temptation of further engaging with him, I open the flap of my pink leather purse and slide my phone inside.

  There.

  No more Jackson.

  This is Charity’s night.

  ___

  As the night wears on, I drink until I am a little past tipsy.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Charity, even though I doubt she cares. She’s busy flirting with the cute bartender.

  I stumble and giggle a bit as I get off the stool and steady myself. After blinking a few times, I make my way through the crowd to the cramped restroom.

  While I’m peeing, I get the bright idea to dig out my phone and see if I have any missed notifications.

  There are several from Jackson. The longer I ignored him, the angrier he got until he finally stopped texting me. He started again, though, about ten minutes ago.

  Since I’m a bit drunk, I finally answer this one. “Omg what?”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Out with Charity, I told you.”

  “I need your help, Hallie. I got into some trouble.”

  Sobering just a bit, I try harder to focus on the screen. I squint, then close one eye and type back, “What kind of trouble?”

  “I need you to meet me. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, but I’m in big trouble. Please come, I’m fucked if you don’t.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I’m out with my boss and some of his friends.”

  That’s not an answer. Sighing, I tuck the phone back in my bag so I can get out of the tiny bathroom stall. As I’m standing at the sink washing my hands, I hear my phone vibrating more insistently than it would for a text message.

  Someone’s calling me?

  I grab a paper towel and quickly dry my hands, then I dig my phone back out.

  The number flashing across the screen is Jackson’s, so I expect to hear his voice when I pick up the phone.

  It’s not Jackson.

  “Hello, Hallie.”

  The deep, unfamiliar voice of the man on the other end gives me pause.

  I respond uncertainly, “Who is this?”

  “I’m sending a car for you,” he says, not answering my question. “Where are you?”

  My heart sinks. I’m not even sure why, but there’s such authority in the man’s tone, it doesn’t even cross my mind that I could simply tell him to fuck off, that I’m not leaving my friend’s bachelorette party for reasons still entirely unknown to me.

  Instead, I stumble out of the bathroom, trying to pull myself together as I make my way outside to see where I am.

  This is our third bar of the night; I have no idea where we are.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask since this man called
me from Jackson’s phone. “Is Jackson all right?”

  “For the moment,” the man says evasively.

  My heart jumps to my throat at the implication that he might not be for much longer. “Did Jackson… get into trouble? Are you his friend, or…?”

  Or what? Do I really think some bad guy who put him in peril would want to chat with me on the phone?

  “We’ll discuss that when you get here,” he tells me, his firm, decisive tone brooking no arguments.

  “I’m not sure what I can do to help,” I say, growing more anxious as I near the door. In the texts Jackson sent before this man called, it seemed like he needed to borrow money, but I don’t understand why. Jackson has significantly more money than I have. The only thing I can even rationalize is that for some reason he can’t access his own funds right now, but if he’s out with friends, why can’t one of them help him?

  The bouncer looks my way as I burst out of the club. It occurs to me belatedly that maybe I should’ve told someone before I left. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get right back in. There’s a line to get into the club, and I don’t want to have to wait to go back inside.

  I look up and tell the man on the other end of the call the name of the club I’m at.

  I did it because he told me to and I’m bad at falling short of people’s expectations of me, but as I stand alone on the sidewalk outside the noisy club, it occurs to me… I could be putting myself into danger if I get into this stranger’s car.

  I don’t want Jackson to be in trouble, but I don’t want to endanger myself for him, either. If Jackson did something stupid and now he’s in trouble for it, that was his choice. I’m not even his girlfriend anymore; it’s certainly not my job to bail him out.

  I don’t really believe he would deliberately put me in danger, though. He may have been a crappy boyfriend, but surely he’s not that much of an asshole.

  Once I’ve told the man on the phone which club I’m at, I try to go back through the door I exited out of, but it turns out it doesn’t go both ways.

  Shit.

  I walk over near the bouncer and lean over the rope to get his attention. “Excuse me.” His hard gaze meets mine. “Hi. Um, I was inside with my girlfriends, it’s my best friend’s bachelorette party—I’m the maid of honor. I had to step outside to take a phone call, but now I need to go back in and tell my friend I have to leave. Can I slip back inside real quick?”