Loving The Billionaire’s Cold Heart

CHAPTER THIRTY

Nora's POV

Marcus arrived Saturday morning, unannounced, with pastries and the energy of a man who had been patient for a very long time and was done pretending he wasn't dying to see something for himself.

I let him in. He walked through the apartment with open assessment, taking in the space the way he took in everything — quickly, thoroughly, cataloguing.

Then he turned and looked at my face and his expression did the thing it did when he had already gotten his answer before asking the question.

"You're different," he said.

"Good morning to you too."

"Different good. Lighter." He set the pastries on the counter. "Where is he?"

"Running. He goes early on weekends."

Marcus sat at the counter and looked at me with eleven years of friendship behind his eyes. "Tell me."

So I told him the version I hadn't fully told him on the phone — not the legal facts; those he knew — but the other things. The library. The kitchen. The car, home from the hospital, and what I had decided quietly on that drive. The way Ethan had said the direct version and meant every word of it.

Marcus listened without interrupting, which he only did when something was landing in the place that mattered.

When I finished he was quiet for a moment. Then — "The butter," he said.

"What?"

"He taught you about butter temperature at five thirty in the morning and that's when you knew." He shook his head. "Nora. That's the most you think I've ever heard."

"The reason behind the step matters —"

"I know why it matters to you. I'm not laughing at it." He looked at me carefully. "I'm saying that a man who explains the reason instead of just giving the instruction was always going to get you. He figured that out fast."

"I don't think he figured it out. I think it's just how he thinks."

"Even better." Marcus picked up a pastry. "I want to meet him properly."

"He said the same thing about you."

"Of course he did. He's been hearing about me for months and I have opinions about him and he's smart enough to know that getting me on side matters to you." He paused. "He's right about that."

"I know."

"Are you happy?" He asked it directly, the way only Marcus could.

I thought about it honestly because he deserved that.

"Yes," I said. "I'm genuinely happy. That still feels strange to say."

"Get used to it."

Ethan came back at nine.

He came through the door with the particular energy of someone who had been moving for an hour — focused, present, slightly flushed from the cold. He stopped when he saw Marcus at the counter and the two of them looked at each other with the mutual assessment of people who had heard a great deal about each other and were now doing the real calculation.

"Marcus," Ethan said.

"Blackwood," Marcus said.

I stayed where I was and let it happen.

Ethan came in and poured water and Marcus tracked him with the focused attention he applied to things that mattered to me. Ethan was aware of being assessed and didn't perform anything in response. He just moved through his own kitchen with the ease of someone who had nothing to manage.

That, I knew, was exactly what Marcus was looking for.

"The journalist piece," Marcus said. "You didn't try to control the angle."

"It wasn't mine to control," Ethan said. "Nora and Camille were the sources. The story was theirs."

"Most men in your position would have had lawyers involved."

"Most men in my position would have. Yes." He looked at Marcus directly. "I was more interested in it being accurate than managed."

Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at me with an expression I recognised — the one that meant the evidence had shifted past the threshold.

He looked back at Ethan. "She doesn't ask for things. You probably know that."

"I'm learning the shape of it."

"It's not shyness. It's architecture. She built herself so she didn't need anything from anyone because needing things was a liability." Marcus held his gaze. "Which means if she's told you what she wants it will cost her something to say."

"I know," Ethan said quietly. "I don't take it lightly."

The kitchen was very still.

Then Marcus picked up his pastry and said, "There's a restaurant she loves on the east side. Small place, terrible lighting, extraordinary food. She'll never suggest it because it's not the kind of place she thinks she's allowed to want. Take her there."

Ethan looked at me. I looked at Marcus.

"I'm right here," I said.

"I know." Marcus was entirely unrepentant. "I'm talking to him."

Ethan looked back at Marcus. "I'll find it."

"Good." Marcus stood. "I'm going to use your bathroom and when I come back we're going to talk about something else entirely and I'm going to pretend I didn't just do all of that."

He disappeared down the hallway.

I looked at Ethan.

"He interrogated you," I said.

"Yes."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Like someone who cares about you made sure I understood the stakes." He crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me and pushed my hair back from my face. "I appreciate it."

"He'll deny that's what he was doing."

"I know." His hand stayed on my jaw. "The restaurant he mentioned."

"You don't have to —"

"The terrible lighting one."

I looked at him. "How did you know that's the one I —"

"Because he said you'd never suggest it. Which means it's exactly what you'd choose if someone asked you without conditions." His thumb traced my cheekbone once. "I'm asking you without conditions. Tonight."

I felt that warmth move through me entirely regardless of everything.

"Yes," I said.

Marcus reappeared. Looked between us. I looked at the ceiling.

"Unbelievable," he said. "I was gone for four minutes."

Ethan stepped back and I pressed my lips together and Marcus sat back down and picked up his coffee and said with great dignity, "So. The legal meeting is next week."