Page 3 of The Darkest Knight

A man who has no idea what I am going through.

Who lives in his billionaire bubble.

"I suppose I could go and collect the watch myself."

"Do you think you could?" It sounds cockier than I intended. I should let it go, but something snaps. “Why don’t you pick up a cookie-cutter set while you’re at it? Christmas-themed. Brooke needs them for her school project, and I’m guessing you don’t have anything like that at home.” I overheard him on the phone to his little girl a few days ago. She needs him to come home early so that they can make cookies for her to take to school.

His brows knit in confusion, and for a second, I almost feel sorry for him. This man can close multimillion-dollar deals in his sleep, but he’s clueless about the simple things.

Without waiting for a response, I dive into work, typing furiously to claw back time. I’ll finish this, see Mom, and eventually get a minute to breathe.

An hour later, Jett strides back in, phone pressed to his ear. He drops a brown bag on my desk.

“Lunch,” he mouths.

I peek inside—a sandwich from my favorite deli. I open the brown paper wrap, and my heart leaps. He got me my favorite sandwich. Turkey and avocado on toasted sourdough, loaded with lettuce and tomato and a smear of garlic aioli. I slump back. There’s even a slice of pepper jack cheese. How does he know about this? Maybe he overheard me placing an order on the phone. I stare at his closed door, my chest tightening with gratitude and frustration. He doesn’t make it easy to hate him.

He’s a billionaire, a pain in the ass, and a complete enigma. But every so often, he shows he has a heart. And that’s what makes it so damn hard to walk away.

Chapter 2

JETT

“Daddy! I love you!” Brooke squeals, throwing her arms around me the moment she spots the cookie cutter set. Her tiny hands clutch the pack like it’s treasure, and her face lights up in pure joy.

“I love you too, sprout.” Scooping her up, I pepper kisses all over her face. Her ensuing giggles—high-pitched and full of wonder—make my chest ache. Such a simple thing, a pack of cookie cutters, and yet it transforms her whole world.

Sometimes, I envy her. Childlike wonder and innocence are such delicate things. Ephemeral. She can find happiness in the little things, but I can’t remember the last time I felt joy like that. I find that life, with money, power, deals, and endless expectations, grinds me down. But seeing Brooke like this reminds me of what matters.

I came home early, thanks to Cari’s not-so-subtle reminder that I’d promised to bake cookies with Brooke. Apparently, I mentioned this to her weeks ago, though I have no memory of it.

Cari’s good at that—knowing what I need before I realize it myself. I don’t say it enough, but I’m lucky to have her. Dex and Zach would kill to have someone half as competent in their corner.

Brooke wiggles out of my arms and dives into the cookie cutters. “Can I do the stars first?”

“Stars? Absolutely,” I say, watching as she lines them up like a tiny professional.

We’re baking cookies for her school’s Friday activity. Christmas-themed, nut-free, allergy-safe—the whole nine yards.Thank God Anna got me a mix, because I wouldn’t know where to start otherwise. Somehow, we’ve already added the chocolate chips and rolled out the dough. Brooke watches every move I make like it’s magic.

This is so much fun. I cherish the time I spend with my little girl, but I don’t do this enough—reallybewith her. She’s four now, but every day I see her growing older, slipping through my fingers. Sometimes, when I look at her dark blue eyes and that riot of dark curls, I see Sophia. My wife.

Sophia was stunning—inside and out. The kind of beauty that made people stop and stare, but her heart was even bigger. When we lost her a few years ago, it broke something in me.

“Can I cut them out now?” Brooke’s voice breaks my thoughts.

“Yes, sprout. Go for it.”

She grabs a star-shaped cutter and presses it into the dough with fierce concentration. Her tiny tongue sticks out, her whole face a mask of determination.

“Great job, sprout. You’re a natural. Do you think I could try one?” I tease, holding up a Christmas tree cutter.

“No, Daddy. You just watch. Let me do it.”

I chuckle. She sounds so much older than four sometimes.

One by one, she works through the shapes—stars, snowmen, candy canes, bells. “Eden’s mommy and daddy are having a Christmas party at the toy shop. Do you remember? We went last year,” I say, suddenly recalling the invitation.

Her head snaps up, and she has flour streaks across her cheek. “The one with the big Christmas tree?”

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