Page 22 of Billion Dollar Vow

I choose to sit next to her, knowing it will annoy her. Our thighs touching.

“No need for personal space,” she mutters under her breath, but a small grin tugs at my lips as I lean back.

We sit in comfortable silence until I notice she’s huddling.

“Do you want a blanket?” I ask.

“Sure, that’d be nice.” I get up to grab one from the closet. “Maybe take off your shoes. You’re making me uncomfortable in that suit.”

I look at her, noticing a slight pink flush on her nose. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I ask, slipping off my shoes, loosening my tie, and pulling it off. I untuck my shirt and undo a few buttons before heading back. Her eyes drop for a moment, but she quickly darts them back to the screen.

“Is that better?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

She nods, her throat bobbing slightly. “Hurry up, I want to watch the whole episode before I shower and head to bed.”

We watch one twenty-six-minute episode in a silence that gradually shifts from awkward to relaxing. I steal glances at her when she laughs at certain scenes, noticing how different she is when her guard is down.

She turns it off and sits up. “That’s it for me tonight. I don’t know when Declan will be back, but don’t watch the show without me.”

The casual comment catches me off guard; it’s the first hint she might be okay with hanging out with me again. “Same goes for you.”

She frowns. “This is my house.”

I shake my head with new confidence. “I can come back every night until we’ve watched the whole season. I’m invested now.”

The truth is, I like the show, the easy silence between us, and just unwinding after a long day. I haven’t done this in so long, and I suddenly feel like I could do this every day.

She spins around, calling over her shoulder. “So strange, but whatever. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

I watch her walk away until I can’t see her anymore. I can hear her turn on the shower, and my mind drifts to her… specifically, her body covered in water and her hands rubbing soap…. Fuck. Oliver, no. I shake my head, realizing I’m tired. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. I need to be figuring out how to find a wife in a few weeks.

My head rests where hers was. Her scent lingers on the sofa, a mix of her perfume and soap. It’s an unusual blend of floral meets caramel.

The house is quiet, except for the faint noise of the TV, left on whatever channel she flicked it to before she left. As I lie here, I wonder if she’s already finished showering and tucked up in bed. I can’t tell because her door is closed.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my social media. It’s the same shit… family photos, my mom sharing random recipe posts, or worse, Grams uploading baby photos of us. I exit the app and switch to Instagram. This is more interesting, with a lot of art, specifically paintings that align with me. But even here, I can’t escape posts from snotty wealthy people flaunting their shopping sprees, which I’m sure are a result of maxed-out credit cards. But a post from Liam, five minutes ago, makes me sit up straight.

I run my hand through my hair as I take in the image of a candlelit dinner at Le Bernardin, one of New York’s finest restaurants, where you rub shoulders with the elite. It’s the kind of place with a year-long waitlist unless you’re an A-list celebrity. The caption reads,Date night.

He said he was single today. He must be gearing up to find a partner to show off. That bastard is trying to one-up me. But I’m one step ahead because I’ve already told Mr. Warne that I’m engaged, so the transition to ‘wife’ is more believable. I’ve started making a mental list… a small wedding ceremony, purchase quality wedding bands, and a suit. And the most important…a wife!

In the business of buying art galleries, it’s all about charm and deception to get what you want. Usually, I have charm in abundance, but lately, it seems I’m losing my touch.

I close Liam’s picture and search for the artist I’ve been trying to find. Still nothing. I get that they’re introverted, but I just want one meeting to discuss a collaboration. No one else has these paintings, so it would be exclusive to me and this up-and-coming artist. They don’t even have to show; I’ll be the face for them. But I can’t host an auction or a viewing without their collaboration. I first saw their painting at the school, but my mom has no clue where it came from; she’s never seen anyonepaint the flower where a signature should be. I’ve looked online at every possible option, and I even hired a private investigator.

I’ve talked to my brothers about this, but they don’t get why I’m so determined to find this artist. At first, I thought it was a woman, but they pointed out it could be anyone. And fuck, I have no leads. I’ve even gone to underground galleries to get a clue-in on who the artist is.

I send an email to Cora, my assistant, to see if she’s heard anything.

At my mom’s school, they have a website and shop where artists list their work for sale. I’ve managed to buy a few pieces, all of which are watercolors and flowers, but recently, there’s been nothing new. Mom even told the shop assistant, Ray, to set them aside for me and call when a new one arrives, but it’s been weeks since the last piece. Right now, I have two paintings. One in my office and one at home. Each time, I get frustrated by how undervalued they are. Another reason I need to contact the artist. These paintings could sell for hundreds of thousands, even millions, yet I’ve bought them for just fifteen thousand each. A fucking steal.

I go to exit Instagram, but there are more stories from Liam. I can’t help myself… I click on them. This time, it’s a picture of his date. She’s pretty, but not my type.

A noise from down the hall interrupts my thoughts, followed by a faint “fuck” from Karley’s room. I sit up straighter, listening. Did she fall? Is she hurt?

“Karley?” I call out, already half-rising from the sofa. “Everything okay in there?”

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