Page 6 of Her Naughty Billionaire

I stand in the dimly lit entryway, catching a glimpse of my reflection in a bronze-accented mirror. The woman staring back at me looks confident, but there's an undeniable edge of apprehension. I smooth down the fabric of my dress, feeling its silkiness under my fingertips.

The hostess leads me to our reserved table, the ambiance more intimate here. The subtle hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses, it's the perfect backdrop. But as the minutes tick by, Victor's absence feels like a statement.

An assertion of power.

When he does walk in, the entire room seems to pivot toward him. His presence is commanding, yet he’s consumed in a world of his own, deep in conversation on his phone. The murmur of his voice is too low to decipher, but the tone, authoritative and impatient, speaks volumes. Without so much as a nod in my direction, he continues his call, even as he takes his seat.

Rude? Definitely. But also so quintessentially Victor.

When he finally hangs up, his deep-set blue eyes lock onto mine.

"Apologies for the delay, Ms. Carter," he begins, voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and genuine charm.

I lift an eyebrow, unwilling to let him have the upper hand. "Business before pleasure, Mr. Thorn?"

His smirk deepens. "Always."

Conversation is formal and sparse as we peruse the menu and make our selections. He picks a wine that I’m certain he selected solely based on the outrageous price. Regardless, when the sommelier brings it to our table for us to sample, it’s delicious, and Victor directs him to leave the bottle.

"You know, 'L'Esprit' was one of the first upscale restaurants I ever dined in," Victor says, his voice hinting at nostalgia. "Right after my first big deal. I wanted to experience what I'd been missing out on all those years."

I tilt my head, curious. "And? Did it live up to your expectations?"

He looks at me, eyes sharp and assessing. "I felt out of place but not defeated. It only fueled me to work harder, to truly earn my spot."

"That's the difference between us," I muse. "For me, places like this were a given. But sometimes, that gilded cage can be just as confining."

Victor doesn't immediately respond, just watches me like he's trying to unravel a puzzle. "I'm sure it has its challenges," he finally concedes. "But we both know the game and how to play it."

Our meal arrives, a delicate fusion of flavors and cultures on a plate, and our discussion flows, touching upon our histories, our families, and the weight of expectations.

"The Carter Family Foundation," he starts, bringing up a topic I hadn't expected, "Tell me about it."

I lean in, always eager to talk about the topic closest to my heart. "My father started it when he was my age, wanting to give back. We've done so much over the years—education, healthcare, community centers."

A shadow crosses Victor's face, barely there but noticeable. "I spent time in one of those centers you funded when I was a kid. It was a refuge when there weren't many."

I blink, surprised. "You...?"

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I always believed charity was just a tax write-off for the elite. A way to appease the masses.” His gaze flickers up, capturing mine. “But from what I know about the work of the Carter Foundation, your passion for it... it's eye-opening.”

I chuckle softly. “Charity isn’t about appeasing anyone. It’s about making a difference. Perhaps you've been hanging around the wrong elite?”

His lips twitch in amusement. “Perhaps.”

We share a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the weight of our arrangement dissipates, replaced by genuine camaraderie. I find myself captivated by his stories—tales of boardroom battles, childhood memories from rough neighborhoods, and surprising anecdotes of his failed cooking experiments. I respond with my own tales: eccentric Carter family gatherings, the struggles of running a foundation, and my disastrous water skiing attempts.

As the wine warms my insides and the barriers start to lower, I even find myself teasing him. “So, the mighty Victor Thorn can make a decent omelet?” I feign shock.

He leans back in his chair with a confident air. "Of course. Growing up, it was a skill that came in handy. Now, it's just a way to impress unsuspecting heiresses."

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. "Well, color me impressed. But don't think that gets you out of actually proving it one day."

Victor points his fork at me, a red piece of steak speared on the end. "Challenge accepted, Carter."

As the evening wears on, I find myself pleasantly surprised. Victor Thorn isn’t just a series of sharp edges and ruthless business tactics. He has layers that only reveal themselves if you pay close attention.

And I'm beginning to see them.

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