The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants Read Online Free PDF Page B

twisted notion of honor.
    That is, if anyone knew.
    But what if this awful thing had happened to a Regency girl and she hadn’t been discovered? What if she had to keep this secret? Given that a woman had to be a virgin on her wedding night, it would prevent her from marrying—or feeling like she could. And if a woman did not marry? Then she was a failure. A spinster. No man would want her—right? Or so she would believe. It was stupid, but true.
    Suddenly, I knew Prudence’s story.
    “Prudence, I’m sorry,” I whispered.
    But I’ll give you an unimaginably wonderful happily-ever-after.
    I slipped out of bed, taking care not to disturb Duke, and I tiptoed through the bedroom, and walked down the hall and into the large living/dining/kitchen area, where I found Duke’s laptop. I opened up a Google Doc so I could access this later from my own computer and started to write.
    The words came easily. Too easily.
    Are you there God? ’Tis I, Prudence.
    Her voice wavered. Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, her back sliding down against the wall.
    God didn’t answer, which was just as well. Prudence didn’t have the words to describe this thing that had just happened to her . . .
    I wrote and wrote and wrote while the storm raged outside. My brain wanted to shut down every time Duke asked me a question about what Sam had done. I couldn’t even imagine trying to make sense of what had happened, and why, and how I would ever feel alright again. But as Prudence, I could explore all those knotty feelings. As Prudence, I could examine what would keep happening to me if I let this trauma close its cold bony fingers around my heart.
    The hours passed. I had written pages upon pages of a new novel. They were messy, confused, full of fragments and in dire need of revision. But the words were on the page and that was all that mattered.
    Everyone once in a while, I was interrupted by a notification from Duke’s Twitter. People were up late reading and tweeting articles about his ex-girlfriend’s tell-all book.
    I ignored them all. Then I gave in, clicked the link and started reading.
    Their relationship began over late nights at the office . . .
    I cringed, knowing how many late nights Duke still spent at the office.
    . . . and carried over to business trips and more. They fought constantly and, according to the book, “had the most fantastic make-up sex.”
    I immediately clicked away the browser window. I did not need to see anymore. In fact, I quit Tweetdeck and email and all the other distracting Internet things until I was just left with the Google Doc of my novel. I tried to focus on Prudence’s story, but still, I wondered . . . how well do we really know those who we love? Sam was not the man I had known and loved. What did I still have to discover about Duke? What didn’t Prudence know about her hero?
    Earlier tonight I had felt helpless. Weak. Silenced.
    Now, with my fingers waltzing across the keyboard, giving voice to the dark, twisty, scary feelings, I began to feel stronger. As the story took shape and as I controlled every thought, every breath of my characters, I felt powerful. There was no feeling more empowering than capturing a bad thing in words and beginning to shape it into a beautiful love story.
    At some point, the power went out.
    There was a soft sound as all the appliances shut off. Little lights vanished—the clock on the Microwave, the red power light on the flat screen TV, the soft glow of a charged appliance. The streetlights darkened.
    It never really gets dark in Manhattan. Even when you turn the lights off and close the curtains, there is still light from the streets, neighboring apartments, and bright neon signs. You can still see in the dark. Tonight was different. The city was dark, and quiet, except for the rain and occasional wail of a siren.
    I kept writing until the laptop battery died.

 
    Chapter Five
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    W HEN I AWOKE the next morning, it was still raining. The