Page 54 of The Billionaire's Paradise

“We’re not,” he said. “Thisisthe focus. These days we have right now—they matter more than anything I’ve got waiting for me back in New York.”

“You sure about that?” I asked. “Because it feels like the longer we stay, the more this trip becomes about leverage and land use and charming investors who wear linen pants on yachts.”

Cal took my hand. “Look at me.”

I did.

“This isn’t about Hal. It’s about laying the foundation. You said it yourself—Leilani is the one. If we’re serious about this, about being a family, about making this real… then we stay. Just for a while. We stay.”

I didn’t answer right away. Then—“You always know how to win the argument.”

“I don’t want to win,” he murmured. “I want us to be in this together.”

I sighed. “Fine. We stay. For Leilani. Not for Hal.”

“Agreed.”

“And if anyone at his resort mistakes you for his husband, I swear to God—”

“That won’t happen,” he said, kissing the side of my head. “It’s all business. I promise.”

We sat there for a long while, watching the tide come in, our fingers laced together.

CHAPTER 20

It’s a strange thing,waking up in paradise and still managing to feel like things aren’t quite perfect.

I guess it was the emotional equivalent of being hungover from too many feelings. Or maybe from the psychic whiplash of learning your husband wants to delay your return to New York because his ex-frat bro is building a billionaire volcano bunker with a superyacht marina for his portfolio-bragging buddies.

Beside me, Cal was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed in boxers, scrolling through his phone like a man who was either oblivious to my emotional roller coaster or refused to buy a ticket for the ride.

“You’re doing emails before breakfast?” I asked.

He looked over and smiled. “Nope. Group chat. Rashida just posted a photo of Mr. Banks serenading Makani with her ukelele.”

I sat up and reached for my glasses. “Show me.” It was one of the sweetest things I’d ever seen. “Romance becomes him. Who’d have thought under all those tales of madness and mishaps, a long-lost love story would eventually blossom.”

Cal laughed softly, then stood and stretched. “Come on.Tessa’s sending us the donor shortlist this morning. Let’s try to look like we’re not as nervous as all hell about it.”

We made coffee in the big open kitchen, then perched ourselves at the counter and fired up the laptop.

A few seconds later, Tessa appeared onscreen, impossibly polished as always, her white blazer and quiet Manhattan office a stark contrast to the wild hibiscus and swaying palms just beyond our patio.

“Aloha, gentlemen. Ready for some egg donor options?”

“As ready as two men can be without wine,” I replied.

She tapped her tablet. “I’ve selected five profiles based on your most recent preferences. These are all vetted, healthy, and within the parameters you discussed—non-smoking, emotionally stable, and no recorded history of psychotic outbursts waiting in line at Starbucks.”

“Thank God,” I murmured.

“First up,” she continued. “We have Jenna. She’s twenty-three, studying biomedical engineering, plays the cello, and volunteers at a neonatal ward.”

The profile photo filled our screen. She was pretty, poised, kind eyes.

“She seems…” I said, searching for the word. “Serene. Almost too serene.”

Cal leaned in. “She seems… nice. And she listed ‘empathy’ as a strength. That seems… nice.”