How Not To Be Seduced By Billionaires BOOK 2: COURTED

By: Marian Tee

Lesson #1

There’s only one way to get over your billionaire.

And that’s for you to see he’s over you.



It had been exactly thirty-one days since I first worked for Kastein Inc. and eighteen days since Constantijin and I had parted ways in Vegas.

Constantijin Kastein was a Dutch billionaire, a gorgeous blond giant of a man whom the media loved to call Netherlands’ #1 Playboy. Together with two of his other billionaire friends, he made up the society’s infamous Three Pussketeers because of their long line of sexual conquests.

Constantijin was totally out of my league, but for some strange reason he had desired my body. I had desired his back – but I also wanted more. I had asked him to do something impossible, and he left me because it was impossible for him to do.

The memories had me sighing, like it always did. Lately, I was sighing so much it was a wonder I hadn’t run out of oxygen. I should totally be choking on carbon dioxide by now. Even in my sleep, I had a feeling I still didn’t stop sighing at what had been and what could have been between Constantijin and me.

George was so wrong. What happened in Vegas didn’t stay there. It haunted me, stalked me, and killed me every time my gaze would find Constantijin, and I would see him laughing like nothing was wrong in his world.

It was Friday today – just a few minutes past six. I should be out by now, having fun with the rest of the world but instead I was stuck at the office. Charli had asked me to stay behind for some last-minute paperwork her own secretary had overlooked. Of course I said ‘yes’. When you were single, heartbroken, and unable to masturbate because one) you couldn’t get pass the embarrassment of it and two) you had an (almost) affair with a billionaire whose cock put every exaggeratedly designed vibrator to shame – work was the best painkiller you could ask for.

The fantastic overtime pay for staying behind at the office was another plus. I sort of – okay, I totally blew off my savings in the last two days I had been in Vegas. That was how fucked-up Constantijin had left me. Yes, it was pathetic of me. No, you didn’t have to say it again and again. I knew it. George knew it. But knowing didn’t stop me from feeling lost – like I once had the sun in my grasp and now I was in, like, total darkness.

I shuddered, hating how poetic and childish I sounded at the same time. Heartbreak so didn’t suit me. If you hadn't noticed by now, I had this, like, really awful tendency to go Alicia Silverstone's Clueless mode when I felt super bad.

George also had overtime work, but he was already done and in a hurry to leave. He had a date with a guy from 25/F, never mind if both of them were already committed to someone else. They had a very elastic understanding of the word ‘fidelity’. Sometimes, I wished I felt the same. Life would have been less complicated and more orgasmic if I did.

"Toodle-loo, Yanna," he told me with an air-kiss on the cheek while resettling his dorky glasses on his nose. For once, his checkered shirts were nowhere in sight, replaced by a smart-looking blazer and a silky blue shirt.

"Toodle-loo," I returned, laughing. This was another thing I loved about George. He was so unashamedly gay. At first glance, you’d think he was the poster boy for Microsoft’s Best Looking. Then he’d open his mouth, and you knew from the moment he called you dah-ling that he liked girls the way Paris Hilton like poodles.

It was around eight in the evening when I stretched for the last time, having typed the final period in my report. Being a perfectionist, I had to triple-check it before leaving.

After locking the door to our office, I took my time walking – what was the point of rushing out when both George and Alyx were out tonight? It wasn’t as if the latest Pendergast novel from Preston & Child was going to complain if I came home a little late.

Upon reaching the room containing Constantijin’s office, I found myself slowing down to a stop, gazing at my reflection on its tinted glass walls. Why did I do it? I had no idea. I just wanted---

I just wanted another connection with Constantijin, even something this flimsy.

Placing my tote bag on the floor, I straightened, staring at my reflection again. I looked no different from any mid-twenties office girl, with my dark hair lying straight and fine against my shoulders, black and utterly boring workplace outfit, and my even more boring pair of sensible flats.

Did I look like a woman who could attract someone as hot as Constantijin Kastein?

No. I so did not.

I decided to fluff my hair out, shaking my head like a rockstar until it was one huge mess.

“There,” I muttered, dealing my reflection another critical look.

Did I now look bimbo-ish enough for Constantijin’s tastes, perhaps someone with a mix of classy and hussy like the woman who had called him in Vegas? Her name was Selena Bartholomew and I was so not ashamed I had Google-stalked her, using all my Internet research skills in order to gain access to her locked tweets and private Facebook page.

Top Books