Seven Years, Still You

I tore up his love letter and told him I don't date broke guys. Seven years later, he owns this city—and I'm serving champagne at his gala. He looks right at me and tells every billionaire in the room he hopes he never sees me again. Then he drags me into a private elevator, pins me against the wall, and kisses me like he's trying to destroy me. "I hate you," I whisper. "Good," he breathes. "Hate is the only thing that keeps you mine."