Page 62 of The Billionaire's Paradise

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

And I believed him.

Which made the shame sting even more.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really, truly sorry.”

“I know,” he said, leaning forward. “But this can’t happen again. No more spying. No more disguises. No more sneezing mustaches.”

I nodded solemnly. “I’ve retired from espionage. Officially.”

“Good,” he said. Then after a pause… “Although… youdidlook kind of hot in that monocle.”

And his smile finally broke through.

CHAPTER 24

Some weeks beginwith sunshine and pancakes. Ours began with a Zoom call about eggs.

Not the scrambled kind.

The frozen, carefully vetted, genetically fabulous kind.

We’d had a few more sessions with Tessa since the Great Yacht Club Incident—which we’re all pretending never happened—and somewhere in the calm, organized swirl of her spreadsheets and wisdom, we’d found our match.

She wasn’t even part of the original pool.

“This one came in late,” Tessa had said, smiling at the top of the call. “And I instantly thought of you.”

Her name was Sofia Márquez. A musician. Half -Cuban, half -Italian, with a background in both classical violin and experimental jazz. She taught music therapy to kids on the autism spectrum, and in her application had written,"I want to help create a family where love is the loudest thing in the room."

I cried.

Cal cried.

Rashida, who had absolutely no business being on that Zoom call, blinked once and said, “Well damn. That’s a yes.”

And itwasa yes. An instant, full-body, no-doubt-about-it yes.

Tessa had walked us through the final paperwork, explained what would happen next, and told us gently—beautifully, actually—“We’re not just moving forward. We’re opening the door.”

And now that door was leading us to Honolulu.

The next step was the clinic.

The transfer.

The miracle of life.

I flipped through the magazines about to go into my suitcase. “Okay, I’ve got copies ofHole Patrol, Boys & Buttplugs, Gagged & Flagged, Choke & Stroke, and the latestCumdump Quarterly. Of course, if you’d prefer to keep it classy, there’s alwaysMotel Sluts MonthlyandFather Forgive Me For I’m About To Sin.”

Cal grimaced. “Oh God, should we even be looking at those in the clinic? I mean, won’t there be posters of happy families and kids finger-painting all over the walls?” He picked a magazine at random out of my suitcase. “It just feels kinda wrong taking the July issue ofAnal Apocalypsewith us.”

“Maybe. I just don’t wanna be sent into a white room with a plastic cup and told to jerk off, just to find there’s nothing but straight porn on offer. Trust me, trying to get it up while flicking through this month’sMILF Milkshakeis not gonna happen.”

Cal flipped through the pages and winced. “Matt. This article is called ‘Eight Inches to Glory: My Journey from Choirboy to Cum Throne.’”

“And it’s beautifully written. Very moving.”