The Billionaire Forgot He Hated Me

Chapter 12. The Billionaire's Soft Side

Victor

The first thing I registered was her scent.

Soft. Clean. A little like warm vanilla mixed with something that was just her. It filled my lungs before I even opened my eyes. My arms were already locked around her, one under her neck, the other draped across her waist, palm flat against her back like my body had decided during the night that letting go was not an option.

She was pressed against me from chest to knee. Small. Warm. Her hair spilled across my shoulder and tickled my jaw every time I breathed. I could feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing against my ribs. My heart did this heavy thing in my chest. I didn’t move. Not even a little. If I shifted, she might wake up. If she woke up, she might pull away. And right now, with the early light just starting to filter through the curtains, I wanted this more than I wanted air.

I stayed still and just… felt her.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Then she stirred. A soft sound left her throat. Her body tensed the second she realized where she was. She started to ease back, careful, like she was trying not to wake me.

My arms tightened on instinct. Not hard. Just enough to keep her there a few seconds longer. I let my face drop into her hair and breathed her in one more time.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked, voice still rough from sleep.

She went completely still. When she answered, it was barely a whisper. “Yes… I slept well.”

We were so close our noses almost brushed. I could see every little detail of her face—the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the faint pink on her skin, how she kept her eyes lowered like looking at me was dangerous. The quiet between us felt thick. Charged. I didn’t understand why my own girlfriend was so shy with me? Why does it feel like she was one second away from leaving.

“Why do you look like you’re about to run?” I asked softly.

She cleared her throat, still not meeting my eyes. “How… how did you sleep?”

I smiled against her hair before I could stop myself. “Best sleep I’ve had since I woke up in that hospital. Because you were right here. Next to me. In my arms. Everything else can stay blank as long as this stays the same.”

Her eyes finally flicked up to mine. Just for a second. Something raw and complicated passed through them. Then she looked away again.

“What?” I murmured.

“Nothing.”

The word was small. Careful. I felt that distance again, the same quiet wall she kept putting between us, even while lying in my bed.

“Claire.” I kept my voice gentle. “Why do I keep getting this feeling that you’re far away? Like part of you is always looking for the exit? Like you're distant."

She didn’t answer right away. My chest tightened.

“Did I… do something?” I asked. “Before I lost my memories. Something you’re still holding against me? Were we… not okay?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t mind me. I’m just… trying to adjust to this version of you. The one who doesn’t remember.”

I let that sink in. Maybe she was right. Maybe the old me had been colder. Harder. Maybe I had given her reasons to keep her distance. The thought sat heavy and ugly in my stomach.

“What’s the difference?” I asked. “Between me now and me then?”

She looked at me for a long moment, really looked, like the answer was right there on her tongue. Then she suddenly pulled away, sliding out of my arms and off the bed. The loss of her warmth hit me harder than it should have.

“I’m sorry. I have to go to the shop.”

I sat up slowly. “What shop?”

She was already gathering her things, shoulders tight. “My father and I run a chicken shop. He’s not well. I need to open early. That’s how we pay our bills… how we take care of his medical bills too.”

The words landed like a punch. The way she said it made it sound like she had been struggling for a long time. Something in my chest tightened. I stared at her. My girlfriend woke up every morning to open a chicken shop because her father was sick and they needed the money. Something cold and sharp twisted under my ribs.

I stood and walked closer. “Claire. I don’t understand.” My voice came out quieter than I expected. “Didn’t I give you money? Didn’t I take care of the bills? Why do I have all of this—” I gestured around the room, the house, everything “—and you’re still running a chicken shop just to keep your father okay?”

“No, no, it’s not like that,” she said quickly, trying to soften it.

“Claire.” I kept my tone steady, final. “Did I give you money or not? Did I take care of you or not?”

She looked down. The silence stretched. Then she gave the smallest shake of her head.

“Not even once?”

Another shake.

My hand found her shoulder. Careful. Grounding. “I live in this house. I run a company that makes more money than most people will see in a lifetime. I have staff. Drivers. Chefs. And my girlfriend never received a single thing from me?” Frustration burned under my skin, directed at the version of me I couldn’t even remember. “Why?”

She bit her lip. “I was the problem. You offered. So many times. You tried to help. I just… rejected it. Every time. I don’t like depending on people. I like handling things myself. You shouldn’t blame yourself. I was difficult.”

Relief loosened something tight in my chest. I hadn’t been that kind of man. I had been scared I was the kind of man who left his woman to struggle alone. But she had just been stubborn. Independent. Still, the image of her struggling while I had everything made my throat ache.

I cupped her face with both hands so she had no choice but to look at me.

“Things are different now,” I said, slow and clear, so every word sank in. “From this second forward, I handle everything. Your father’s bills. The shop if you want it closed or kept open—your choice. Whatever you need. I don’t care how independent you are. You’re mine. That means your worries are mine too. I’m going to make sure you and your dad are comfortable. Safe. Taken care of. No more struggling. Not while I’m breathing. Do you understand me?”

Her eyes shone. She nodded once. “Okay.”

“Good.” I brushed my thumbs across her cheeks, soft. “Then we should get going.”

She blinked. “Go where?”

I smiled, still holding her face. “To the chicken shop, of course.”

Her mouth parted in pure shock. “You… Victor Cavendish… want to come with me to our chicken shop?”

I tilted my head, genuine curiosity mixing with the warmth still flooding my chest. “I’ve never been there before?”