Page 107 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

So why?

Why did I let that happen?

Why did my body betray every rational thought, every self-protective instinct?

Why, when he pulled me towards him, did I melt instead of run?

I... I don’t know. He’s... he’s just intoxicating. So hot. So...

Oh that cock...

No!

Don’t go there.

Maybe it was the surprising sincerity in his eyes when I thanked him, the way he seemed almost vulnerable admitting I’d ‘earned’ his trust professionally, even while our personal lives imploded.

Maybe it was the memory of the previous night, the confirmation that the physical connection wasn’t just a one-sided, GHB-fueled hallucination on his part.

Or maybe I’m just a freakin’ idiot with terrible taste in men and zero self-control when faced with piercing green eyes and an alpha male’s domination streak.

Yeah, let’s go with that one. Feels the most likely.

He turns around then, catching me mid-self-flagellation as I finally locate my blouse. He’s retrieved his cane again and leaning on it. His expression is unreadable. Guarded.

The passionate intensity from moments ago?

Gone.

Replaced by the familiar cool mask of the billionaire Venture Capitalist.

“You all right?” he asks, his voice neutral.

Define... all right.

“Fine,” I lie, smoothing down my horribly wrinkled blouse. I need to regain control. Need to put the professional hat back on, even if it feelsridiculous after… sofa-gate. “Just… processing the, uh, revised strategy.”

Nice save, Sabrina. Real subtle.

Jesus.

A flicker of amusement crosses his face.

“Right. The strategy.” He picks up a stray file from his desk, seemingly all business again. But the air between us is still thick, charged with unspoken words and the undeniable aftermath of what just occurred. And the realization that if he bent me over that sofa again, I’d let him fuck the shit out of me all over again—

Don’t go there!

My eyes drift around his office, searching for a distraction, anything to avoid looking directly at him. The place is exactly what you’d expect. Sleek lines, expensive tech, minimalist art. Impersonal. Powerful.

Except…

On a low credenza near the window, tucked between a brutalist sculpture and a stack of financial reports, there’s something that doesn’t quite fit.

A framed photograph.

Curiosity pulls me closer, needing the anchor of something concrete in this sea of emotional confusion.

It’s an older photo, slightly faded.

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