Page 7 of Her Naughty Billionaire

The atmosphere between us shifts, slightly electric. It's in the little things: the way our gazes linger, the softening of Victor's usually hard eyes, the unspoken understanding that, despite our vast differences, there’s common ground.

“You know,” I venture as we wait on dessert, “I had you pegged as just another tycoon hungry for more.”

He arches an eyebrow, clearly amused. “And now?”

“Now?” I pause, choosing my words. “I see someone who’s had to climb every rung of the ladder, making sacrifices and taking risks every step of the way. It’s admirable.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s genuine. “I never expected to be worthy of admiration from a Carter.”

I shrug lightly. “With me, you should learn to expect the unexpected.”

Just then, a shadow falls across our table. I glance up to find the austere figure of Mr. Harold Whitmore, a pillar of old money and influence in the city. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, in a bespoke suit that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

“Sophia,” Mr. Whitmore says, his tone cordial as his eyes slide briefly to Victor. “I didn’t expect to see you here, especially not with...”

“Victor Thorn,” Victor finishes smoothly, rising to shake Whitmore’s hand. “It's good to see you again, Harold.”

Whitmore's eyes narrow ever so slightly, clearly taken aback by Victor's familiarity. “Yes. Mr. Thorn. I was just here celebrating my grandson’s birthday.”

“You don’t say,” Victor says, and I see a knowing sparkle in his eyes. That’s when I realize what this dinner is really about. It isn’t a celebration or a ploy to get to know me better. It’s business.

He set this whole thing up for this moment right here.

As if to prove me right, Victor continues, “While I have you, Harold, have you considered expanding your investments into the tech sector? I've got a venture that could use someone with your experience.”

Whitmore's eyes dart between Victor and me, skepticism evident. “I'm traditionally more conservative with my investments.”

“I’m sure Sophia here will put in a good word for me,” Victor says. Then, leaning in close and dropping his voice to a whisper, he says, “You know we’re engaged? It’s still a secret, so don’t go spreading the news just yet.”

“Engaged?” Mr. Whitmore looks baffled, but I offer him my most charming smile, resigned to play my part.

“Perhaps we could discuss this further over dinner tomorrow night at our place?” I say, knowing how these men like to be wooed. “Victor has some truly innovative ideas that might align with your portfolio.”

The businessman's demeanor softens, clearly flattered. “Well, if you're vouching for him, Sophia, it can’t hurt to hear him out. Dinner sounds delightful.”

The conversation wraps up shortly after, with Whitmore giving a nod of acknowledgment and leaving us to our evening.

Once he's out of earshot, I turn to Victor, my voice low and tinged with annoyance. “I didn’t realize tonight counted as one of our weekly outings.”

Victor meets my gaze, unapologetic. “I thought you understood our arrangement."

And to think that I had started to let my guard down during dinner, even for a moment believing there was something more between us than just business. "I understand perfectly. But remember, this is a partnership, not a dictatorship. I expect to be let in on your little plans."

Victor's expression remains unreadable. "You have spirit, Sophia. I'll give you that. But you might want to remember who holds the cards here.”

I laugh sardonically, raising my wine glass in a mockery of a toast. “Oh, don’t worry. I have a feeling you won’t ever let me forget that. Not for the rest of our lives.” And I drain my glass in one gulp, liquid courage to get through the rest of the night with him.

My suite in Victor’s penthouse is larger than most apartments in Larkspur, but it feels somehow claustrophobic. I’m sitting on my bed, surrounded by boxes filled with my things, but none of it brings me comfort.

After a brief phone call with my mom, where I reassure her that I’m just fine, I decide to venture to the kitchen for a glass of water or something stronger if I can find it.

The penthouse is draped in the soft glow of ambient lights, casting a subdued illumination that makes every corner seem alluring. The lush carpet muffles my footsteps as I make my way out of my suite. To the left, I see a corridor leading toward what I assume to be the main living area and kitchen. To the right, the hallway seems to stretch further into a more private section of the penthouse.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I choose the right, wondering just how sprawling Victor’s domain is.

As I wander, I find myself drawn to a slightly ajar door emanating a soft light. My initial intention of finding the kitchen is momentarily forgotten. A closer look reveals it to be the entrance to another bedroom. I can glimpse the edge of a bed, opulent with its dark wood frame and luxurious linens. There's an air of masculinity in the décor, from the stark, minimalist furniture to the abstract art on the walls.

The more intriguing aspect, however, is Victor himself. I spot him moving about, clearly lost in thought. He’s wearing only boxer briefs, exposing his lean, muscled torso and legs. He looks like some kind of ancient god carved from marble. The sight of him fills me with a strange mix of desire and apprehension.

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