The Billionaire

Chapter 13: One step Too Close

I wake up restless.

I tell myself it’s the storm. The way the rain started sometime after midnight, steady and soft at first, then heavier, louder—like a heartbeat I couldn’t escape. Lightning flashed behind my eyelids in streaks of silver. Thunder rolled slow and deep, shaking something loose in my chest.

But I know better.

It wasn’t the storm that kept me up.

It was him.

That moment on the terrace—too close, too quiet, too much. His voice in my ear like a dare, his scent crawling over my skin like smoke. The way he looked at me—really looked.

I should’ve told him to leave.

Instead, I froze. Hesitated.

And now it lingers. That moment. That feeling. Like electricity still hanging in the air after a lightning strike.

By the time I make it down to the kitchen, I’m in a mood—tight-jawed and simmering, irritated at everything. At myself, mostly. At my body for reacting the way it did. At the fact that no matter how many times I tell myself it was nothing, I can’t stop thinking about Damien f*****g Callaway.

The kitchen is quiet. Warm. Calm. The smell of fresh coffee wraps around me like a lie I almost believe.

Then—

“Morning, sunshine.”

My shoulders go stiff.

Of course he’s here.

I glance over, and there he is—leaning against the counter like it’s a throne. Coffee in one hand, smirk on his mouth, hair a little messy, like he just rolled out of someone’s bed.

And of course my brain decides to imagine what that would look like. Feel like.

Heat flares in my chest. I shove it down hard.

“You’re still here,” I mutter, brushing past him to grab a mug from the cabinet.

He watches me over the rim of his cup, eyes unreadable. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I grit my teeth. “Because you weren’t invited to stay in the first place.”

He hums, slow and smug, taking a sip. “Didn’t seem like a problem last night.”

My fingers tighten around the mug.

I say nothing. I refuse to let him get under my skin. I refuse to think about the way I stood there last night, silent, heart racing, unable to make myself say the one thing that would’ve ended it.

So instead, I shoot him a glare. “If you’re going to be here, at least make yourself useful.”

His brow lifts. “I think I’m plenty useful.”

God, he’s insufferable.

“The stove,” I say, deadpan. “It’s acting up. Fix it.”

To my surprise, he actually pushes off the counter.

I blink as he walks over to the stove, rolls up his sleeves, and crouches down like he does this kind of thing every day.

He doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t flirt. Just… helps.

And for some reason, that throws me more than anything else would’ve.

I take a long sip of coffee, watching him from the corner of my eye.

He’s too comfortable. Like he belongs here.

Like I wouldn’t mind if he did.

That thought is dangerous.

I clear my throat. “So what did you do before becoming the most obnoxiously rich playboy on Earth?”

He doesn’t look up. Just smirks, fiddling with a burner. “You mean besides spending stupid amounts of money and breaking hearts?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Besides that.”

He exhales through his nose. Still focused on the stove. “I was supposed to take over my father’s company.”

Something shifts in his voice. Just slightly. But I catch it.

Supposed to.

Not did.

I set my mug down carefully. “And?”

He lets out a laugh, but it’s hollow. Empty.

“And I didn’t.”

Silence stretches. Long enough to make the air feel heavier.

I almost leave it there. Almost let the moment pass.

But then he says, too casually, too flat—

“My parents died when I was seventeen.”

The words hit me like a slap.

Not because of what he said, but how he said it—like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another line in a script he’s told a thousand times. Polished. Detached.

Like he trained himself not to feel it.

I don’t know what to say. My brain scrambles for something, anything—but before I can even open my mouth, he stands, wiping his hands on a dishtowel like we’re talking about the weather.

“Well, sweetheart,” he says, brushing past me—and I swear, he does it on purpose, letting his shoulder graze mine, “your stove’s officially useless.”

I barely register the words.

Because all I can think about is the flicker behind his eyes before he shut the door again. The truth he let slip—and how fast he shoved it back inside.

A crack in the armor.

Just for a second.

And then it was gone.

I stand there, staring at the mug in my hands, trying to breathe around the tightness in my chest.

He’s a storm, that man.

And I don’t know if I’m standing in the calm…

Or about to be swallowed whole.