Lena looked at Dorian. His jaw was carved from marble, his eyes fixed on the cameras like a predator counting prey. “Something like that,” she said.
The woman apologized.
It was not romantic. It was raining. They were arguing about something stupid—his refusal to eat breakfast, her habit of leaving wet towels on the floor—and suddenly neither of them was arguing anymore. His hands were in her hair, her back was against the cold glass of the window, and the city sparkled below them like a fallen galaxy. contract marriage with the devil billionaire
“I’m not staying because I want to,” she said, stepping into his space. His arms came around her like he’d been waiting his whole life to hold her. “I’m staying because I love you, you impossible devil.” Lena looked at Dorian
“Calling the head of cardiothoracic surgery at Mass General. He owes me a favor.” His voice was flat, efficient, but his hands—those hands that signed billion-dollar deals—were shaking slightly as he typed. “You’ll be on a private jet in twenty minutes. You’ll be there before he wakes up.” The woman apologized
“You can leave,” he said. “The jet is fueled. The funds have cleared. I’ve taken the liberty of purchasing a small house near your brother’s hospital—it’s yours, no strings.”