Page 55 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle and reassuring. “Trust me,” he says softly. “We’ll figure this out together. Whatever it takes.”

Those words again.

They bring back a flood of memories, of managing being pregnant, morning sickness alongside building an empire. My brother’s endless help, Shana always being there for me.

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes for a moment. The sound of the waves lapping at the boat and the warmth of his hand on my skin create a sense of calm that I desperately need. “Okay,” I whisper. “Together.”

He smiles, and all is right in the world. “Together,” he says, the conviction in his voice almost making me believe. Almost.

We stand there for a while longer, just holding each other, letting the moment sink in.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I can’t help but smile. He’s always so concerned that I’m not eating enough or drinking enough water. I think about the beautiful vase of jasmine flowers on my desk at work. I think about long nights working and days alike that he brings me food and makes sure I’m okay.

“A little,” I say.

“Then let’s go,” he says, taking my hand and leading me down to the kitchen. This time, we’re not alone on the boat; he’s brought along a captain, a chef, a waiter, and a woman whose purpose I don’t know.

We sit in the dining area and I watch as the chef, a blur in whites, flips something in a pan, and my mouth waters at the smell of cooking food. Lark's yacht, his domain, feels like another world—one where every wish is granted before it even forms on your lips.

“That smells incredible,” I say, my voice hardly carrying over the gentle hum of the yacht and the sea.

“Wait until you taste it.” Lark's voice is smooth, but there’s a rough edge to it that makes me want to drag him back to the cabin to make him finish what he’s started.

Instead, I smile, taking in the scene—the endless blue waves, his face illuminated by the warm glow of the sun, the comfort of knowing he’s right here and all is right in our world.

“You’re always so extravagant,” I tease, leaning forward and putting my arms on the table, folding them before me.

“Life's too short for mediocrity,” he says, and again, I’m thrilled at his ability to enjoy the finer things in life. The man should teach a masterclass in making money and enjoying it, too.

He's right, though; he has a taste for the finer things, and he's generous. A generosity that I’ve experienced with the things we’ve done and the memories we’ve made.

“True.” I glance back at the chef, who nods in our direction, a silent signal that dinner will soon be ready. “You spoil me.”

“You deserve it,” he says, his gaze holding mine, intense and unwavering. “You carried and protected my baby. You deserve the world because that’s what you’ve given me.”

His words unexpectedly tug something deep inside me that only makes those sleepless nights and endless struggles even more worth it.

The chef plates our meal with an artist's touch, and soon, the table is graced with dishes that look like they've been pulled from the pages of a gourmet magazine.

I take a moment to admire the beautifully plated dishes, each one a work of art. The aroma wafts up, making my mouth water. “This looks incredible,” I say, glancing at Lark. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

The chef clears his throat, then speaks. “Tuna, a mango salsa.” He gestures to the beautifully seared tuna steak, perfectly pink in the center, and the vibrant mango salsa. “Lobster ravioli, drizzled with a rich saffron cream sauce.”

I’m excited and thrilled as he continues explaining. “For sides, a fresh arugula salad with shaved Parmesan and toasted pine nuts, and a bowl of roasted baby potatoes. Further, enjoy the artisanal breads and olive oil for dipping.”

“Thanks, chef,” Lark says, and I echo the words, stunned by the spread before us.

With a nod that’s more like a bow, the chef walks away.

As we dig in, the flavors are even more incredible than they look. Each bite leaves me weak and ready for more. “This is amazing,” I say, savoring a forkful of the lobster ravioli.

Lark smiles, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you like it. I wanted today to be special.”

“It is,” I say, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Thank you for everything.”

He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. “You deserve it all, and more.”

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