Page 83 of Playboy Billionaire's Fake Marriage

The first thing that strikes me is how stunning she looks against the backdrop of the Seattle cityscape visible through the glass wall on the far side of the room.

“What are you doing in here, Stella?”

“I—” Guilt colors her face. “Ryan…you’re back home! I thought you’d be— that is, I was to meet you...”

I close the distance between us. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Um—” She fidgets, picking at her fingernails. “I was just looking for, um...”

“What were you looking for?” I growl.

“I thought...” She glances around, her gestures now more frantic. “I mean, the door was open, and...”

I feel my patience fraying. “If you want something, you ask. You don’t just snoop around like—” My hands clench as I struggle to maintain control.

“I’m sorry—” And unbelievably, her gaze returns to the painting as if drawn by an invisible magnet. “It’s... the painting—”

“Get out!” I bark, louder than intended. She flinches, skirts around me, and then darts out, her quick steps silent on the warm marble. I instantly regret my harshness. Yet, the anxiety over the fact that she’s invaded this space overwhelms me.

After she leaves, I look around my room. My safe place. Where I am under no compulsion to make everywhere clean and spotless.

Now I’d never be able to not picture her in here, touching my things, probing. I look down at the unmade bed and the scattered knickknacks on the shelving. The adjoining study is overflowing with personal designs for yachts and the model of the one I just built from scratch. For her.

She didn’t break in; you left the door open.

I silence that voice of reason with a burning question.

Isn’t it enough that she dissects me with her eyes, her words. Her touch. Her need for me? What did she want to know so bad that she couldn’t just ask?

The one thing you haven’t given her: You.

The thought terrifies me yet fills me with hope. But hope is a feeling I don’t have the luxury to indulge in.

I go to the foot of the bed where Stella stood just now and stare at the painting that embodies my grief and pain. Beyond showcasing exceptional talent, I never thought it meant more. But, the raw emotion on Stella’s face just now tells me I may have been wrong all along.

Suddenly, I’m seized by an overwhelming urge to pull her back, to ask her what was going through her mind at the moment she was looking at it.

To wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s okay. To feel her body respond to my touch. It’s been way too long since I held her.

Before I fully grasp my own intentions, I find myself heading towards her room. I’m about to knock when a soft sound halts me—sniffling.

Damn. She’s crying.

I’m an absolute jerk.

Retreating, I spend the next half-hour in my office, wrestling with my thoughts. By the time I muster the courage to return, it feels too late to reconsider our departure plans. New York is five hours away, and three hours ahead of Seattle. If we wait any longer, we’ll be late for our meeting with Anita Brodkin.

I approach her door again and knock.

“Yes?” comes her steady reply, stronger than I anticipate.

“We should head to the airport soon.”

“I know. I’ll meet you there. Fred will take me.”

She’s opting for a separate ride instead of joining me, a choice I would typically challenge. This time, however, I decide to respect her wish for space.

Chapter Twenty-Five

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