Page 77 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“Tonight was fun,” she said as I walked her to the stairs. I kept my arm around her. “I was so dreading it. I liked your friends.”

I wasn’t sure if she remembered telling me that earlier, but whatever. “They like you as well.”

“They like me?” She stopped on the stairs and turned to look at me, the movement nearly sending her off balance. I reached out instinctively to steady her. “Do you like me?”

“I tolerate you,” I corrected, fighting to keep the amusement from my voice.

She giggled, leaning into me as I helped her upstairs. She stumbled a couple of times, clutching at my arm. I pulled her against me and practically dragged her up the stairs. Once we reached the landing, she bent forward and kicked off her heels.

“I’m going to break my ankle,” she said with a laugh. “I probably should have taken them off before I started upstairs.”

She stood up with her heels in her hand and looked at the doors in front of her. She walked toward them, one hand outstretched toward the handle.

“What’s in here?” she asked, her fingers curling around the polished brass knob.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, my tone sharper than intended. I stepped forward, covering her hand with mine to stop her.

She giggled again, clearly unconvinced. “It’s not nothing. I can tell. Come on, tell me! I’m great at keeping secrets. I saw you in here. What is it?”

“No,” I said firmly, my hand still over hers. “This room isn’t for indulging curiosities. No one is allowed in there. Please, respect my privacy.”

She tilted her head, her playful smile fading slightly as she searched my face. For a moment, I thought she might press further, but then she nodded. “Fine,” she said, her voice softer, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s your home.”

“Good.” I let go of her hand and gestured toward the hallway. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“How come you didn’t tell me about your birthday?” she asked. “I’m your fiancée,” she said dragging out the word. “Isn’t that something I should know?”

God, she was drunk. It was kind of adorable. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I don’t celebrate.”

“What?” she gasped. “How do you not celebrate your birthday?”

“I just don’t. I haven’t since I was a kid.”

She stopped abruptly and turned to face me. “Because of what happened to your parents?” she asked softly.

I froze. Normally, a question like that would have me shutting down or lashing out. But the way she looked at me—with genuine sympathy, not pity—caught me off guard.

My throat tightened, the words stuck there. I didn’t talk about them. I didn’t want to talk about them. But she stepped closer, her hand resting gently on my chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t imagine the grief you’ve carried. I wish I could make it better.”

The sincerity in her eyes chipped away at the walls I’d so carefully built. It wasn’t just sympathy—it was understanding. She wasn’t trying to fix me or dissect my pain. She was just there.

“Thanks.”

“I probably wouldn’t want to celebrate either. I get it. I won’t push it.”

Her hand lingered on my chest, and before I could stop myself, I leaned down and kissed her. It was soft, unhurried—an unspoken thank you.

She leaned against me, on the edge of collapse. “Let’s get you tucked in.”

I guided her into her room. She dropped her shoes and began fumbling with the zipper of her dress, giggling when it got stuck.

“Here,” I said, stepping forward to help.

She let me, standing still as I unzipped the back and slid the straps off her shoulders. She stepped out of the dress clumsily and fell onto the bed, burying her face in the pillows with a contented sigh.

“You good?” I asked.