Page 89 of Billion Dollar Vow

“I just need a minute with you.” Then, without any warning, he closes the space between us, silencing my thoughts with a kiss.

I hang up from the New York State Office of Children and Family Services as we pull up in front of the house. My dream of creating a family visitation center is slowly becoming real.

Climbing out of the car, I turn to him, my heart pounding. This moment feels monumental, and yet I’m terrified of sharing too much. In only a few weeks, it’s mine.

We stand side by side on the sidewalk. I peer up at him, trying to read his face. His expression thoughtful, eyebrows slightly drawn together as he takes in the property.

“Well?” I ask, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”

He studies the house, his eyes looking over every detail before his lips curl into a teasing smirk. “It's charming,” he finally says. “And big.”

Nudging him playfully, I roll my eyes. “You’re the one to talk about big houses.”

He chuckles. “Fair point. But it’s been nice sharing mine lately.”

“Sharing it with who?” I tease.

His arms slip around my waist from behind, pulling me close. “You. Only you,” he whispers, his lips brushing the curve of my neck.

Warmth blooms in my chest as I place my hands over his, chasing away my earlier nerves.

“Tell me your plans for this place.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. “What do you want to change?”

I hesitate, the weight of my plans suddenly feeling heavier. But with his arms around me, I find the courage to share. “This house isn’t for me,” I begin. “It’s for foster kids. A place where they can spend time with their biological families, somewhere safe.”

He stays silent, encouraging me to continue.

“Growing up, not being able to see Declan often was… hard. Harder on him, though.”

“I think he’s just more vocal about it.” His words hit me with force. I’m surprised that he saw what I’ve spent years denying, but also relieved that someone finally understands. Declan always wore his hurt on the outside, the anger and frustration visible. I buried mine, to seem like I was coping. But Oliver sees through that.

Oliver turns me to face him, his gaze searching mine. I’m unable to hide now, and I’m sure it’s written on, not only my face, but in my eyes how much that rings true. “You don’t have to be tough with me,” he says. “You can trust me.”

“Trust doesn’t come easily for me,” I admit quietly.

“How can I earn it?” The sincerity in his eyes makes words fall from my lips.

“Share something real with me,” I say. “Something that makes me feel like I’m not the only one letting my guard down.”

He exhales slowly, staring at his hands. “Everyone sees this successful guy who has it all figured out. The truth is... I still feel like that kid who was given the galleries from his mom. Every meeting, every deal, there's this voice in my head, saying they'll figure out I don't belong. That I'm not good enough. So I keep people at arm's length… It's easier than letting someone close enough to confirm what I'm afraid of.”

“But my brother said—” I begin, my eyebrows lifting in surprise at the contradiction between the Oliver I thought I knew and the one being revealed to me now.

He cuts me off with a sad smile. “The playboy thing? It's a convenient mask. Keep it light, keep it casual, never stay long enough for anyone to see past the façade.”

This sounds too good to be true. I ignore the way my heart swells and wait for clarification. I’m not special. Just your average girl wanting security and, lately, because of him… love and affection.

“Why haven’t you been in a serious relationship?”

“Because who'd want the real me when the fake version is so much more impressive?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Plus, in my experience, money attracts the wrong kind of attention.”

His words land like a stone in my chest, and I feel a sudden chill. “But this arrangement was for a business deal.”

He shakes his head. “A house that you’ll use for struggling kids isn't the same. You’re not asking for fancy dinners, shopping sprees…”

I peer down at my rings, knowing they are the only lavish gifts I own. “I’d rather paint or be at home.”

His hand lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re different. What you’re doing here, with this house, proves that.”