Page 31 of His Little Secret in Discretion
I forked up a bite of pasta, and the moment it hit my tongue I nearly groaned. “Dammit, Sunshine…”
“Pretty good, hmm?” she teased, lips quirking.
I didn’t answer right away, just chewed, swallowed, then leaned back. “I already asked you to marry me once, didn’t I?”
Her giggle rang out like music, sweet and innocent, while I basked in the thought of it not being a joke.
Killian’s words from earlier echoed in my head—galas, dinners, endless events lined up across the globe. Japan, the UK, France. Normally, I’d trail after him like a dutiful lost puppy, crashing in his guest rooms, pretending I wasn’t bored out of my fucking mind.
But now?
Now I was a sugar daddy. With obligations. With… Sunshine. My sugar baby that sat across from me, twirling pasta on her fork and chewing happily, completely oblivious to how she was unraveling me.
And I couldn’t stop picturing it: her beside me on my jet, wrapped in silk while sipping champagne. Us checking into a luxury suite in Tokyo, London, Paris, anywhere but here, anywhere away from Killian’s constant shadow.
The fantasy burned hotter the longer I watched her eat, sauce on her lips, shoulders bare under lace.
Every instinct in me screamed to drag her off that chair, bend her over the damn table, and fuck her as a punishment for cooking dinner, for being so fucking adorable until she couldn’t remember her own name, until the only word left on her lips was mine. The same lips I wanted to lick clean right now.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t civilized. It was raw, primal, a hunger I didn’t even recognize in myself until her.
Because this messy, sexy, innocent goddess of a woman?
She was mine. Fucking mine.
Chapter twelve
Maia
As the days passed, I slipped into a rhythm I almost didn’t recognize. Mornings at the dance studio, nights tangled up with Mr. Porter. Blaine made everything feel easy—effortless. We fed off each other’s energy, teasing and laughing until it turned to heat that left me shaking, and we were actually getting to know one another despite our rather interesting relationship dynamic.
But fairytales don’t last forever.
And as much as I loved drowning in mine with my arrogant, ridiculously sexy Romeo, Juliet had some more pressing matters to take care of.
The familiar sterile scent of disinfectant hit me as I stepped into the rehab center of the hospital, my bag clutched tight against me like armor. The front desk attendant looked up, her expression softening the second she saw me.
“Maia, honey, how are you?” she asked warmly.
I gave a little shrug, forcing a smile. “I’ve been doing all right these days. How’s Uncle Wes?”
Her eyes lit with relief. “He’s doing quite well. Ever since his relapse last year, we’ve seen real improvement in his mental health.”
I nodded, though the words tugged something deep inside me.
My uncle was, for lack of better words, the source of my problems. His relapses hadn’t just beenhis,they’d been mine too.
He raised me as my parents were in much worse shape than he ever was when I attended grade school, and he's been my guardian ever since.
But he was an addict. Gambling was his drug of choice, the kind that didn’t just strip a man of his money but of his dignity. Ever since I was young, he’s been borrowing money with the idea that he’d win it back one day. One day has yet to come.
Three years ago, when he finally admitted the extent of his gambling debt and the shame that came with it, I made a deal with him. I’d help, but only if he helped himself. Rehab, therapy, real accountability. His insurance barely covered a fraction of it, so most of the cost fell on me. But he’d raised me when no one else would, and I wanted to do right by him.
Unfortunately, the more I paid to his lender, the worse it seemed to get. Instead of watching the balance shrink, the interest climbed higher, piling on until the payments were unbearable. Every time I thought I was making progress, another notice came through, reminding me I was running in circles.
One night, desperate and angry, I tracked the so-called “lender” down at a bar. I wanted answers, maybe even mercy—but what I got was Felix Drummond: self-centered, smug, and already well aware of the grip he had on us.
That night was the beginning of a two-year relationship that was never really about love. It was about survival. About paying off a debt that somehow kept growing even as I bled myself dryto cover it. And when he was finished with me, when he’d wrung out every ounce of usefulness, he tossed me aside and still had the audacity to threaten my uncle and me for more.
