Page 69 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)
Matt’s laugh rumbled through the room as he joined me, his fingers finding their way into my hair before pressing a kiss soft enough to make my toes curl.
“The penthouse’s been staging a protest in your absence,” he murmured against my lips.
“Even my billion-dollar view seems dull without your running commentary on my expensive taste. And don’t get me started on the plants—they’ve been positively sulking without their daily dose of your drama. ”
My chest filled with warmth at his words, knowing that beneath his teasing lay the simple truth: he’d missed having me here, missed us .
“Careful now. That almost sounds like a feeling,” I said.
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Heaven forbid. What would the board of directors say if they knew their ruthless CEO had gone soft?”
The doorbell’s chime interrupted our banter, and Matt’s sigh spoke volumes.
“Let me guess,” I arched an eyebrow. “Mother hen has landed?”
“Other than Mia?” He rose. “Who else would dare breach my fortress of solitude?”
Hurricane Mia swept in, all concerned eyes and windswept dark hair. She must have sprinted up from her suite one floor down—despite having a perfectly good elevator at her disposal. Knowing Mia, she probably took the stairs just to make her dramatic entrance more authentic.
“Andy!” She descended upon me like a protective mama bear. “I wanted to pick you up myself, but someone ”—she shot a pointed glare at Matt—”apparently thinks he has exclusive rights to hospital pickups.”
Matt’s smirk was worthy of a chess grandmaster’s winning move. “I merely seized the opportunity while you were… otherwise engaged with James. Though I’m sure whatever you were doing was equally important.”
The blush that painted Mia’s cheeks could have powered the Strip’s neon for a week. I filed away this particular piece of ammunition for future sibling warfare.
“We’re having dinner together tonight,” Mia declared, desperately changing the subject. “James and I decided to stay in Vegas for another week to look after you.”
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” Matt interjected smoothly, every inch the polished businessman, “Andy has the best care money can buy right here. Including a private nurse who, unlike some people, won’t try to force-feed him chicken soup.”
“That was one time!” Mia protested.
“I was asleep,” I reminded her.
“You needed the nutrients!”
Matt’s eyes danced with amusement. “I assure you, Mia, your brother’s nutritional needs will be well taken care of. Without any force-feeding incidents.”
Mia opened her mouth to protest, but Matt’s determined gaze silenced her. There was a silent battle of wills, like two poker players in a high-stakes game.
Finally, Mia huffed in defeat. “Fine,” she conceded, “but if anything happens to him, I’m holding you personally responsible. And I mean anything , Matt Caine.”
Matt’s smile was worthy of a Vegas headliner. “I’ll sign that contract in blood if you’d like. Though I suspect James is still recovering from your… morning activities in your suite downstairs. You did at least let him have breakfast?”
The second blush that colored Mia’s cheeks was even brighter than the first. I couldn’t help but grin—watching Matt and Mia’s verbal sparring matches was better than any show on the Strip.
Matt sauntered to the door, his gait exuding confidence with every step. “Remember, Andy, no heroics,” he said with the authority of a man used to being obeyed. “You’re healing nicely, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
A part of me—the independent, stubborn part that had gotten me into this mess in the first place—wanted to leap off the couch just to prove him wrong. The more sensible, less bruised part of me won out.
“And you,” Matt turned to Mia, “try not to suffocate him with your worries.”
“That’s rich coming from Mr. I-Installed-A-Panic-Button-In-The-Shower,” Mia fired back with sugary venom. “Should I remind you who has a SWAT team on standby? Shall we compare helicopter parenting notes?”
Matt just strolled out with the confidence of a man who owned not just the building, but the very air within it. His cologne lingered behind—a scent that seemed to whisper, I own this city, and now, I might just own you, too.
The moment the door clicked shut, I pushed off the couch and made my way toward the bedroom with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mia’s voice had that sharp edge of concern only big sisters can manage. “Do you need to sleep or something?”
“Sleep?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I’ve had enough sleep to last me three lifetimes. Matt said his men salvaged my laptop from the apartment. I need to check on my app.”
Her expression softened at the mention of my work, but her stance remained firm. “Go sit down,” she commanded, not unkindly. “I’ll get it for you.”
Knowing arguing would only prolong the inevitable, I retraced my steps to the couch and pulled out my phone. First, a text to Fin: Back at the penthouse. Dinner tonight—your presence, and Ethan’s, required. No excuses accepted.
Then to Matt: Heads-up. I invited Fin and Ethan for dinner.
His reply came faster than a slot machine eating quarters. Fine by me. Tory invited himself too.
I chuckled, already imagining Ethan’s face when he saw Tory. His crush was so obvious, even the poker players downstairs could read those tells. For a moment, I debated warning Fin about Tory’s attendance—he’d definitely tell Ethan—but decided against it. Some surprises were too delicious to spoil.
Mia returned, cradling my laptop like it was the Holy Grail of tech. She handed it to me, and I hugged it close, breathing in its familiar scent of metal and possibility.
“I’ve missed you, baby,” I murmured, earning a laugh from Mia.
“You and that machine,” she teased, settling beside me. “It’s like watching Romeo with his Juliet.”
“This Juliet holds my life’s work,” I defended, powering it up. Relief flooded through me as it hummed to life—Carlos’ goons might have trashed my apartment that night, but at least they hadn’t destroyed everything.
Mia leaned over, genuine interest sparkling in her eyes. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on.”
T he mirror before me was the kind that didn’t lie—it was unforgiving in its clarity, showing me every detail of my still slightly bruised skin.
The colors were a canvas of healing—from the deep purples that had started to fade to a sickly green, to the yellowing edges of older injuries.
Moving was no longer a greatest hits collection of pain, but a reminder that I was still on the mend.
“Looks like you’ve been on the losing end of a boxing match with a paint mixer,” I muttered to my reflection, fingers trailing gingerly over a bruise on my side.
A wince escaped me—not so much from the pain but from the tender memory of how they got there.
“Memento from the boys who didn’t get the don’t hit the face memo,” I added, half-amused and half-irritated.
I stepped into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over me, washing away the residue of those nightmare days.
The water stung the more tender spots, but it was a good kind of hurt—the kind that came with healing.
I emerged feeling somewhat reborn, the droplets beading off my skin like tiny crystal balls foretelling a brighter future.
Slipping into the clothes Matt’s money had provided felt like donning a new skin.
The black pants fit like they were tailored just for me, and the white silk shirt glided over my torso, its soft fabric whispering against my still-sensitive skin.
“Nothing says I survived an abduction like dressing up for a fancy dinner.” I chuckled dryly to myself.
Next, I reached for the moisturizer—a fancy bottle with a French name.
“If I’m going to play billionaire boyfriend,” I quipped to no one in particular, “might as well have the super soft skin to match.” I massaged the cream into my skin with care normally reserved for handling ancient artifacts or newborn kittens.
I buttoned up my shirt and tucked it in meticulously. A final glance at the mirror confirmed that despite everything, Andy Donovan cleaned up pretty damn well—even with a few extra colors added to his palette.
Emerging from the bathroom, the cool air of the penthouse suite greeted me.
I took a deep breath, relishing the sharp contrast from the steamy cocoon I had just left behind.
As if summoned by the gods of impeccable timing, Matt strode into the room.
He was a tower of strength, his presence commanding even in the most mundane moments.
I watched him for a second, admiring how he filled out his clothes with a casual elegance that money couldn’t buy—it was innate, a birthright.
He closed the distance between us and pulled me into his arms, one hand settling at the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively. The scent of his cologne, a subtle yet intoxicating blend, mingled with the steam still rising off my skin.
“You smell nice,” he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated in the pit of my stomach. His thumb traced lazy circles against my spine, each movement sending tingles through my body.
I arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips, trying to ignore how his touch was making my skin buzz. “Is that your way of saying I’ve graduated from smelling like a hospital to smelling like a million bucks?”
Matt’s laugh was rich and warm, and it made something inside me flutter with delight.
“Something like that,” he replied, his stormy steel-gray eyes sparkling with mischief as his hand slid up my back in a slow caress.
“Though I’d say you smell more like a billion bucks, given the price tag on that moisturizer you just used. ”