Rescued by the billionaire

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Highlight

She didn’t say a word. Just walked straight up to me, she tiptoed and kiss me. Our mouth fighting for domination, she turned back turned to me breaking the kiss and my hand stray to her full breast pinching those delicate n****e, I moved my hands lower to touch her i between her leg and we made out for what felt like hours before we decided we’ve had enough of shower.

I was in the middle of a call, buried in back-to-back meetings and the usual avalanche of emails, when my secretary buzzed in through the intercom.

“There’s a woman here to see you,” she said, a smile audible in her voice. “She says her name is Isobel.”

My heart skipped—just a little.

“Let her in,” I said, already leaning back in my chair, anticipation creeping in before the door even opened.

A second later, the door burst open and there she was—Isobel, with that bright, unmistakable energy of hers. She strode in confidently, lifting a small backpack with one hand and grinning.

“I brought you lunch,” she announced like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She laid out the contents right there on the small table by the window—homemade containers neatly packed with warm, fragrant food that made the sterile scent of the office suddenly feel alive. I sat across from her, watching as she unpacked everything with care, the pride in her movements unspoken but visible in every detail.

The food? Delicious. Rich flavors, perfectly seasoned, made with love—just like Mom’s. She must’ve picked up more from my mother than I realized. I told her so, and she just shrugged with a soft smile, brushing off the compliment but clearly pleased.

After we ate, she took a napkin and wiped down the table, cleaning up like she belonged there. Then she walked over to where I sat at my desk, leaned down, and kissed me.

It started out soft, casual—but something about the moment made it linger. Her hand brushed the back of my neck, and before I knew it, we were lost in it for a few breathless seconds longer than either of us probably intended.

Then she pulled away, her lips still warm against mine, and whispered, “I should go.”

She turned and walked out the door, giving me one last glance over her shoulder.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind her, the office felt colder—emptier.

I already missed her.

Isobel had, in every way that mattered, moved into my room. There hadn’t been a conversation about it, no boxes carried in or declarations made. It just happened, slowly, seamlessly—her toothbrush next to mine, her robe on the back of my door, her scent lingering on my pillow long after she’d gotten up.

I’d stopped wondering when it began. It simply felt like she belonged.

I was on the bed , typing away at my laptop, half-focused on work that didn’t feel nearly as important as it should’ve. Then the door creaked open, and in she came—casually, like this was her space now too. She wore that little robe again, the one that had become familiar in all the wrong ways. But this time, it was black—sleek, satiny, barely clinging to her damp skin from a recent shower.

Her hair hung in loose, wet waves around her shoulders, and her bare feet padded softly across the floor as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She uncapped a bottle of lotion and began smoothing it over her legs, slow and methodical, like she had no intention of hurrying—or hiding.

And she didn’t mind me watching. If anything, I was sure she knew I was watching.

The soft sound of her hands gliding over skin filled the room, mixing with the tap-tap of keys until even that stopped. I found myself frozen, mid-sentence, mid-thought, caught between wanting to keep my eyes on the screen and being completely unable to look away from her.

She looked effortlessly beautiful—comfortable in her own skin, in my room, in this strange, undefined closeness we’d created between us. There was something deeply intimate about watching her like this: not for show, not posed, just... real. And it wrecked my ability to focus completely.