Page 58 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

I clenched my fists, struggling to keep my temper in check. “You don’t know anything about me or this house.”

“I know enough,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “I know you’re unhappy here. And I think that’s the real problem.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable. She shook her head and turned on her heel.

“I’m going to the library,” she said over her shoulder. “At least that room doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating me.”

I watched her go. Part of me wanted to call her back, to argue, to prove her wrong. But another part—the quieter, more vulnerable part—knew she wasn’t entirely wrong.

The gym wasn’t a refuge anymore. She’d ruined that.

I sat on the bench, staring at the floor, my mind racing. Kaira’s words replayed in my head.

She was right about one thing: I was unhappy here. This house, with all its grandeur and memories, was a prison of my own making. The ghosts of my parents lingered in every room, their laughter and warmth haunting me but always just out of reach. I had spent years trying to fill the void they left behind, but nothing ever seemed to fit.

Kaira had brought something new to this house—life, warmth, laughter. And I was ruining it. For her, for the staff, for myself.

I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes. What would my mother think if she saw me now? If she heard the way I spoke to Kaira, the way I let my anger and insecurities consume me? And the staff?

She would be disappointed. And that thought hurt more than anything else.

For years, I had worked to prove I was worthy of my mother’s pride, her love. But somewhere along the way, I’d lost sight of what really mattered. And now, with Kaira here, I had a chance to bring something good back into this house.

If only I didn’t keep getting in my own way.

21

KAIRA

The library was by far my favorite spot in Roman’s sprawling house. He said he liked the library, but this was the one room that felt untouched by him. It was warm, unlike the rest of the place. It was cozy and inviting. It wasn’t just the furnishings that were different. It was the whole vibe.

I closed the doors and took a moment to soak it all in. With so many options, I had no idea what I wanted to read first. If I had had the ability, I would read several books at once. Unlike a typical library, this one wasn’t organized by genre. The books weren’t alphabetical from what I had seen either.

I didn’t mind. It would give me the chance to explore all of the titles. Despite the messy organization, or perhaps because of it, I found myself drawn to a particular shelf where books were stacked haphazardly in no apparent order. I reached out and pulled out a book with a leather spine that looked as though it hadn’t been touched for years. The title was embossed in fading gold letters, “Echoes of the Heart.”

Curious, I opened the book to a random page and read a bit to see if it was something that piqued my interest. It was definitely a possibility. I put it on one of the small tables and started to scan more of the titles.

I wanted something romantic, but not quite Jane Austen. Preferably something a little more modern. Given the owner of the library, I had a feeling romance was not really his thing. He probably liked books about polo and yachts and how to properly chastise your butler.

I found something vaguely romantic and curled up on one of the cushy armchairs, my legs tucked beneath me as I held the book in my hands. I opened it and started to read.

Rather, I tried to read.

My eyes scanned the same sentence for the tenth time, but the words blurred together as my mind drifted, drawn away by a daydream I couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t unusual for me to get lost in the world of my own characters—hell, I did it all the time when I was writing—but lately, the male lead in my imagination had started to take on an infuriatingly familiar shape.

Roman.

Not cool.

I shook my head and tried to focus on the story. But the memory of his hands on me in the pool last night was impossible to ignore. The heat of his touch, the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—it had been intoxicating.

But then, there was the other side of him. The moody, sharp-tongued Roman who could suck the energy out of a room with a single comment. The man who saw the world as a battlefield and everyone in it as either an opponent or a pawn. He was a hammer looking for a nail.

Why was he like that? What made him so cold and guarded?

I wondered about his parents, the people in the pictures Carla and I had found earlier. I couldn’t imagine losing my parents, let alone so young and in such a tragic way. What kind of mark did that leave on someone?

I forced my attention back to my book, determined to shake off these thoughts. But just as I was starting to lose myself in the story, the soft creak of the library door pulled me back.