Rescued by the billionaire

CHAPTER TWELVE: Seeing her

AARON

It was getting late.

And yes, I know—tomorrow’s a Saturday. No work, no meetings, no alarms. Most people would be soaking up the last drops of champagne and making plans for afterparties that drift past midnight. But me?

All I could think about was getting home.

I couldn't explain it—not properly, anyway. Maybe it's the introvert in me, the part that taps out when the noise gets too loud and the small talk too hollow. Or maybe it was something else. Something tighter. Heavier. Maybe it was the way every man in the room kept looking at her—at Isobel.

Like she was something delicate and dangerous all at once.

Like they’d never seen a woman before.

I stood there, drink in hand, nodding through conversations I wasn't really hearing, trying to keep my eyes forward and my jaw from clenching. But each time another guy angled himself a little too close, laughed a little too loud at her soft-spoken words, I felt something curl hot and irrational in my chest.

And it didn’t help that Sky was still there—Sky Livingston.

She’s still *her* friend. Still her usual, magnetic, untouchable self. The daughter of Skylark Livingston, a name that floats easily through business circles and social events alike. Also a business associate of mine, incidentally. His company’s been trying to close a deal with one of my clients for months now. It’s polite, strategic. Controlled.

His wife, meanwhile, is my mother’s friend. I think they go to that mother-daughter cooking class together—the one my mom won’t shut up about, where they all pretend they’re bonding over hand-rolled pasta and overpriced wine, while actually using it to swap gossip with aprons on.

It’s all connected.

This room, these people, their relationships—woven together in ways that sometimes feel more like a trap than a net. Everyone smiling just a bit too widely. Everyone knowing a little too much.

And yet, here I am, in the middle of it.

Watching her.

Trying not to care how many people are watching her too.

---

All I knew in that moment was that I was *done* with this party.

The noise, the flashing lights, the endless conversations that felt more like negotiations than anything real—it all blended into a dull hum I couldn’t wait to escape from.

And then, as if summoned by the force of my thoughts, her eyes found mine from across the room.

Isobel.

Her gaze held mine with an intensity I wasn’t expecting. Something unspoken passed between us, and then—without breaking eye contact—she began to walk toward me. Slowly. Purposefully. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, like each step was choreographed with the kind of grace you couldn’t fake. Heads turned as she passed, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

When she reached me, she leaned in close—so close that I caught the soft scent of her perfume and felt the warmth of her breath against my skin.

“Can we go now?” she whispered into my ear, her voice low and velvet-smooth. “I’m exhausted… and these shoes are killing me.”

For a second, I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her, trying to read her expression. But she didn’t wait for me to overthink it.

“Sure,” I finally said. “Let’s find Mom.”

She nodded, her eyes dropping briefly, and we made our way toward the exit, weaving through the lingering crowd.

The car ride was quiet—just the low hum of the engine and the occasional streetlight flickering past the windows. Neither of us said much, but the silence wasn’t comfortable. It was *charged.* Like something had shifted, though I couldn’t quite place what.

When we got home, the night air clung to us as we walked up the steps and into the house. The space felt colder somehow, quieter than I remembered, like even the walls were holding their breath.

Something had changed.

I couldn’t explain it, but I felt it in the space between our footsteps. Felt it in the way she didn’t look at me as we moved through the house, side by side yet worlds apart.

We reached the hallway. Our hallway. The one we always joked felt too long at night.

But tonight, it felt like a canyon.

“I need to go lie down,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice sounding dull even to my own ears. “Me too.”

She paused in front of her bedroom door, her hand already on the knob. Still not looking at me.

“Goodnight,” she said.

And before I could reply, before I could ask what was wrong or say *don’t go,* she slipped inside and shut the door.

Just like that.

No lingering look. No explanation.

Just… silence.

And for the first time tonight, I realized the weight pressing down on my chest wasn’t the party or the crowd or the fake smiles.

It was *her*.

Or maybe… it was the distance growing between us.

Alone in my room, I couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I’d tried everything—two cold showers, endless scrolling through emails that didn’t matter, even forcing myself to respond to a few half-written reports. But nothing worked. My mind kept circling back to her. The way she whispered into my ear earlier. The way her dress clung to her in all the wrong—or maybe right—ways. The way she didn’t look at me when she said goodnight.

And yeah, I’ll admit it—I was restless.

Hard as hell.

The kind of ache that sat under the skin and didn’t go away no matter how many distractions I threw at it.

Now I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, breathing like I’d just run a mile. Every part of me felt too aware, too awake, like my own skin didn’t quite fit. The air was thick, the silence loud. Every second dragged.

Then—*a soft knock.*

It barely registered at first, but then I jolted upright, adrenaline spiking.

The door cracked open.

And there she was.

Isobel.

Standing there in the faint glow from the hallway, her silhouette soft but unmistakably her—bare feet, long legs, that familiar shape wrapped in something silky and impossibly thin. Her hair was a little messy now, like she’d run her fingers through it a dozen times before coming here. Vulnerable. Bare. Real.

Before I could speak, she slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind her.

“Are you awake?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

I reached for the lamp on my nightstand, flicking it on without thinking. I needed to see her. *All of her.*

Warm light poured into the room, casting soft shadows across her face and collarbones. My breath caught in my throat.

God, she was beautiful.

Not the kind of beautiful people compliment at parties or chase with empty smiles—but the kind that steals the air from your lungs. The kind that makes you forget whatever it was you were supposed to be thinking about.

And in that moment, all I could think was—

*Why is she here?*

*And what happens now?*