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Not my money.

Not my name.

Not what I can give her.

Me.

Something about that gets under my skin. There's no calculation in her eyes. No judgment either. And maybe that's what does it.

She's seeing me.

Me.

And fuck if I don't want to keep her looking.

I kiss her again. Not like before. No desperation. Just my mouth against hers because apparently I can do that now.

Because she said yes. Because she's here. Because for tonight, at least, Layla Hawthorne chose me.

And that knowledge produces a satisfaction so deep it borders on possessive.

When I finally lift my mouth from hers, she stays close.

So do I.

I could put her down.

I don't.

She could ask me to.

She doesn't.

And somehow that tiny thing feels enormous.

I want the rest of tonight. I want the morning, too.

I want to wake up and find her long hair spread across my pillow. I want her perfume on my sheets and her shampoo in my shower. I want to show her my world. And I want to know hers.

Not improve it. Not buy it. Not fucking fix it.

Just know it. Because it's hers. Because suddenly every piece of Layla Hawthorne feels important to me.

This is fucking absurd. I don’t fall in love overnight.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t want every fucking piece of herself she'll willingly give me.

And that's the problem. Because I'm a man who gets what he wants.

Once I decide I want something, I don't stop. I don't relent. I don't walk away because acquiring it becomes difficult.

It's how I turned millions into billions.

How I built Knight Global.

How I got the Rovers.

But Layla isn't a company.