The Millionaire's Redemption

She interlaced her fingers and rested her hands in her lap. ‘What was the fight about?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered, because it was true.

‘The scar?’ she asked, tapping at her lip.

He wondered what intrigued her so much about it, but only nodded. There was a beat of silence before she spoke again.

‘It must have been important if it cost you something that clearly meant so much to you.’

Maybe it had been important to him once—the chance of a family without his father. Now Jacques thought he’d been fighting over something that hadn’t been worth nearly as much as it had cost him.

‘It doesn’t matter,” he said again. ‘It’s only the effect the entire thing had on my reputation that does.’ He paused. ‘I heard recently from a few business associates that my old rugby club is going to be sold soon, and I want to be the one to buy it. Except I’ve been told that some of the club’s biggest sponsors will pull out if it’s sold to me. The only way to prevent that, it seems, is to build a more...positive reputation.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re seriously telling me that people care that much about your reputation?’

‘Apparently.’

‘And the only thing you did to get this negative reputation was have a fight?’

‘One that lost my team the championship and an opportunity.’

‘Yes, of course—but that’s it?’

He hesitated. ‘Well...’

Jacques really wasn’t interested in rehashing the details of the year when he’d spiralled into the depression that had damaged his reputation even more.

‘Well...?’ Lily repeated, a single brow arching in a way that made him forget the tension of the conversation they were having.

‘The year after I was suspended I spent a lot of time... Well, I spent some time on a self-destructive path,’ he said once he had steadied himself.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I...’ He’d hoped his explanation would be enough. ‘I told myself that I didn’t care what people thought about me, and I did exactly what I wanted to.’

And yet, ironically, it had been caring about what people thought that had made him act that way in the first place.

When she didn’t speak after a few moments, he found himself asking, ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’

‘What did that entail?’ she said in lieu of a reply.

He tried to formulate an answer, but nothing he could say would make him look good.

‘I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth, Jacques.’

‘Parties. A lot of swearing at journalists. Women.’ He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how telling her all this intimidated him more than tackling the largest of men on a rugby field. ‘What more do you want me to say?’