Page 45 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

I didn’t get the chance to tell him. There was no time. Between work, school, and being pulled in a million directions, I haven’t had a moment to breathe, let alone tell him I’m the artist. And every time we’re alone, the conversation shifts, dissolving into laughter, teasing... sex.

How could I tell him? How do you fit something so big into such small moments?

I had a plan, but now… it’s too late. The truth is out for everyone to see.

My identity is exposed, my art vulnerable.

The humiliation is crushing. My mind goes back to that moment when I was seven, standing in the living room, clutching a drawing of our family—Mom, Dad, Declan, and me.

I’d spent ages on it. I was so proud of it.

My dad’s sneer, the sound of paper ripping, and my mom’s laughter echo in my ears.

I can’t stop shaking, and every breath feels like knives. I run, my tears turning streetlights into blurry streaks.

Keep going, I tell myself. Just keep going.

But the tears won’t stop. The tears keep coming, weighing me down until my legs feel heavy. I don’t stop running until my heel catches on something, and I go down hard.

My knee scrapes against the rough pavement, but I barely feel the impact over the ache in my chest. I don’t move. I hunch over, curling into myself as sobs rack my body.

I cry for every memory I’ve locked away, every hurt I’ve swallowed down, and every moment I’ve felt like I wasn’t enough.

The cold water soaks my hair, sticking it to my face. My mascara is surely running, dark streaks mixing with tears on my cheeks. I can’t bring myself to care.

I curl my arms around my knees, rocking slightly as the rain falls harder, a steady rhythm that drowns out the noise in my head but not the ache in my chest.

“Karley!”

Oliver’s voice slices through the rain, tinged with fear. My breath catches as heavy footsteps pound against the wet pavement, growing closer.

And then, arms wrap around me, strong and familiar. “I’ve got you, Petal.” He’s breathless, his words warm against my ear, filled with relief, not anger. I break apart at the sound, fresh sobs shaking my body as I bury my face in his chest.

He isn’t mad. How can he not be mad? I’ve ruined everything… Cost him his gallery and exposed us both.

But he holds me tighter, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pulling me closer, as if to shield me from the rain, the world, my own self-loathing.

“Come on,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice steady. “Let me get you home.”

Home.

The word sinks into me, filling the hollow ache in my chest. Home. A place where you feel safe. And God, I feel safe here, in his arms. With him .

I nod weakly, unable to form words. There’s no fight left in me, no resistance to give. I want to go home with him. I want to curl up in the space we’ve built together.

I want to tell him.

I want to explain everything, to apologize until he understands. Until he forgives me, if he can.

Oliver scoops me into his arms, his strength carrying me like a shield.

My body goes limp in his embrace. I let my head rest against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.

His arms tighten around me, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers, as if I might disappear.

But how could I fall? Not when I have him. Not when he’s holding me so close, with such care, like I’m the most important thing in his world.

His breath brushes against my skin as he adjusts his grip, lifting me higher, and I clutch him tighter, my hands threading around the back of his neck. I bury my face against his warmth, inhaling the scent of him. He’s here. He’s real.

The words he whispers in my ear are a gentle promise. “Petal, I’ve got you.”

It’s not just reassurance. It’s spoken with such sincerity that it makes me breathless. He says it like he would do anything to protect me, and I believe him completely. Right now, I trust him more than anything.

He doesn’t put me down. Instead, he holds me close, shifting as he opens the car door and carefully slides inside, settling us both into the back seat.

I stay wrapped in his arms, my head still resting on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath me.

“Sir, your—” The driver’s voice falters, his words dying on his tongue.

“Drive. Home. Now.” Oliver’s command is laced with an edge I’ve never heard before, not from him.

There’s a wobble in his tone, something raw and vulnerable beneath the authority. It catches me off guard, making my heartbeat spike.

The car moves slowly through the rain-soaked streets. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sound of his heartbeat. It's the only thing I can cling to. I breathe with it, each pulse settling my racing thoughts, calming the tremble in my body. I let myself surrender to the security of his embrace.

In this moment, all I need is him.

As soon as we stop, Oliver gets out of the car and is carrying me toward the house. My head rests on his shoulder, my body too heavy, too drained to resist. I want to tell him to put me down, that I can walk, but I can’t. The words won’t come and, honestly, I don’t think I could stand on my own.

He carries me inside. The familiar scent of his home wraps around me like a fragile thread of comfort. It smells like wood and safety. I don’t know where he’s taking me until the sound of running water reaches my ears.

I open my mouth to ask, but the razor blades in my throat won’t let me speak. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t say a word, just holds me close like I might slip through his fingers if he loosens his grip. Tears sting my eyes again, falling freely.

Why isn’t he angry? Why isn’t he trying to fix the disaster I caused? I’ve probably ruined everything for him. The gallery, his plans, all gone… and yet he’s here, holding me like I’m the only thing that matters.

The sound of the shower grows louder as he steps inside with me still in his arms. The water spills over us, soaking through my cocktail dress and his suit in seconds. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t hesitate.

My sobs return, shaking me as the heat of the water seeps through my skin.

His hand brushes my hair back from my face, gently tucking the wet strands behind my ears.

I squeeze my eyes shut, too ashamed to meet his gaze, too scared of what he might see in mine.

I feel like a kid again, unraveling and wild.

The soft press of his lips on my eyelid startles me. Then he mirrors the kiss on the other lid. My breath hitches, the touch so tender it makes my chest ache. He tips my chin up. His lips find mine.

It’s a whisper of a kiss at first, but it ignites something deep inside me.

I clutch his soaked jacket lapels, pulling him closer, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

The shame, the fear, the overwhelming mess of it all fades under his touch, leaving only the raw need to feel him, to be near him.

As the water cascades over us, his arms stay steady, holding me like I’m fragile but unbreakable all at once.

And for the first time, I feel it too. Little Karley, the girl who used to cry alone, convinced she wasn’t worth the care, finally has someone.

Someone who doesn’t let go. Someone who stays.

We stay like this—the water pouring over us—until my tears finally run dry.

Slowly, with the utmost care, Oliver moves.

He loosens his grip around my waist and carefully lowers me until my feet touch the shower floor.

His hands remain steady on my hips until I find my balance, water streaming down between us as I stand before him.

His hand then brushes over my shoulder, trailing down to the zipper of my dress.

I barely register the sound of it sliding down, the fabric loosening against my soaked skin. His fingers glide along my back, skimming the bare, wet surface with a touch so soft it almost breaks me all over again. When he pushes the straps from my shoulders, the dress slips down to my hips.

I tip my head back and force my eyes open, my movements sluggish but deliberate. His face comes into focus, the dark strands of his hair plastered to his forehead, water trickling down his sharp jawline. He looks like something out of a dream, but it’s his expression that roots me.

His blue eyes are wide and hold me still. They shine with a quiet kind of devotion that steals the breath I thought I’d lost entirely. I reach up with trembling fingers and brush the wet hair off his forehead. My hand lingers, as if taking every second in.

Oliver doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush. His hands return to the damp fabric clinging to my hips, pushing it away with a light touch that stings more than any of the pain I’ve been holding on to.

His unhurried care sends a shiver down my spine, not from desire, but from the overwhelming realization that this moment isn’t about passion or lust. This is something deeper, something sacred.

It’s him seeing my pain and holding it with me, letting me know I don’t have to carry it alone.

If I thought I understood my love for him before, I was wrong. This moment, here, with him, this is true love. It’s in the way he cares for me when I can’t care for myself. In the way he reminds me, without words, that I’m worth loving, worth supporting, worth being seen.

And just like that, the walls I’ve spent years building around my heart crumble. Washed away by the water streaming down the drain. I stand there, stripped of everything, my dress, my pain, my fear, but not alone. Never alone with Oliver.

He picks up the shampoo bottle, squeezing a small amount into his palm.

“Turn around,” he says softly. He gently works the shampoo through my hair.

His fingers dig into my scalp, massaging away the tension pounding in my temples.

When he rinses it out, he follows with conditioner, with the same tenderness, as if each stroke of his fingers is meant to reassure me that I’m safe.

Once my hair is rinsed clean, I turn around, and he removes his own soaked clothes, adding them to the pile of damp fabric gathering in the corner of the shower.

For all the space in his luxurious, oversized shower, we stand so close, it feels like we’re in a world of our own, where the heat of his body brushes against mine.

He washes himself in quick movements before shutting off the water.

The loss of warmth is instant; the bathroom filled with steam but not enough to hide the chill of the air.

Without a word, he grabs a plush towel, wrapping it securely around me.

He helps me step out of the shower, steadying me with firm hands as I dry off.

Leaving me for a brief moment, he disappears into his walk-in closet and returns with one of his t-shirts. It’s soft and gray, worn just enough to be comfortable. It smells faintly of him, a mix of wood and something clean I can’t quite name.

“Your clothes are upstairs,” he explains, holding out the shirt.

He’s already dressed in a pair of boxers, his skin still damp from the shower.

The small, lopsided grin he’s wearing as I pull his shirt over my head is all I need to warm me.

He likes seeing me in his clothes, and it makes the corner of my mouth twitch despite the exhaustion weighing me down.

“Come on, Petal, let’s go to bed.”

He pulls back the covers and slides beneath them, patting the empty space beside him. I climb in and snuggle close. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm in my ear. With my arm draped across his stomach, the warmth of his body eases the last bit of tension still clinging to me.

His hand moves to my back, his fingers tracing soothing patterns over the fabric of his shirt. The gentle motion, paired with the steady rise and fall of his breathing, makes my eyelids grow heavier with each passing second.

Just as I’m about to give in to the exhaustion, I think I hear him whisper, “I love you.”

The words are softly spoken, almost too quiet to catch. I can’t tell if they’re real or just a product of my wishful thinking. As sleep takes over, I let the words rest in my heart. They’re enough to help me drift off, utterly spent, but no longer alone.