"If we get married, I need to know that you'll be open to love. If it happens."
My entire body tensed. Love. The one thing I'd explicitly said I wasn't looking for. The one thing that made people weak, vulnerable, easy to manipulate. The one thing my father had beaten out of me years ago when he caught me crying over a girl who'd left.
"Angelina—"
"I'm not saying it has to happen," she said quickly, lifting her head to look at me. "I'm not even saying it will. But I need to know that if it does, if feelings develop beyond respect and partnership and incredible sex, that you won't shut it down. That you won't close yourself off just because love wasn't part of the original deal."
Every instinct I had screamed at me to shut this down. To remind her this was business. To keep the walls firmly in place. But looking into her eyes, seeing the vulnerability there?—
"Why?" I asked instead. "Why is that so important to you?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers still tracing idle patterns on my chest.
"Because love is rare," she said finally. "Real love, the kind that's built on respect and trust and genuine affection, is so rare that when it happens, it's a gift. And I've watched too manypeople in our world throw it away because they thought power, money, or control was more important."
"Love makes you weak."
"No." Her voice was firm. "Fear makes you weak. Love, real love, makes you strong. It gives you something worth protecting. Someone worth fighting for. A reason to be better than you are."
"My parents aren’t in love with each other. Their marriage works fine."
"Does it?" She lifted herself up on one elbow, studying my face. "Or do they just exist in the same space, playing their roles, never really letting each other in? Is that what you want, Dez? To spend the rest of your life with someone you respect but never truly know?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because she was right. My parents' marriage was functional. Successful, even. But it was also cold. Distant. They worked together like business partners, raised children like it was a project, and slept in separate bedrooms because sharing space implied an intimacy neither of them wanted. I'd never questioned it before. It was just how things were in families like ours.
But now, lying here with Angelina's warmth pressed against me, her scent surrounding me, the taste of her still on my tongue… I questioned it all.
"Love is a kindness to your person," she continued softly. "It's looking at someone and seeing all their flaws, all their damage, all the broken parts they try to hide and choosing them anyway. Choosing to be gentle with those wounds instead of exploiting them. Choosing to lift them up instead of tearing them down. That's what love is, Dez. And it's so rare and so precious that if we're lucky enough to find it, even in an arrangement that started as business, we should be brave enough to let it happen."
Her words hung in the air between us, weighted with hope, fear, and a vulnerability that made my chest ache. I wanted to tell her yes. Wanted to promise that I'd be open to whatever developed between us, that I wouldn't shut her out if feelings got complicated. But the words stuck in my throat. Because what if she was wrong? What if love did make you weak? What if letting her in, past all the walls and armor, gave her the power to destroy me?
"I need to think about it," I said finally. "Can you give me that?"
Disappointment flickered across her face, but she nodded. "Okay."
She settled back against my chest, and I felt her breathing gradually slow, deepening, as exhaustion from the day caught up with her. Within minutes, she was asleep. I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, her question echoing in my mind.
Will you be open to love if it happens?
The smart answer was no. The safe answer was no. The answer that kept me protected and in control was no. But as I looked down at her, at her hair spread across my chest, at the trust evident in the way she slept so peacefully in my arms, at the marks I'd left on her skin that she wore like badges of honor… I realized I was already in trouble.
Because what I felt for this woman after less than twenty-four hours together wasn't supposed to be possible. Wasn't supposed to be this intense, this consuming, this absolutely fucking terrifying.
But it was.
And if I was going to ask her to marry me, to bind her life to mine, to trust me with her safety and her future and her body, then maybe I owed her honesty. Maybe I owed her the possibility of more.
I carefully extracted myself from beneath her, tucking a pillow under her head and covering her with the silk sheet. She murmured something in her sleep but didn't wake. I pulled on my boxer briefs and grabbed my phone, moving to the office so I wouldn't disturb her.
It was getting late. Valentine's Day was almost over. But maybe I could salvage it. I pulled up my contacts and made a call.
"Dez?" Gianna's voice was alert despite the hour. My sister never slept. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I need a favor."
"This late?"
"It's important." I ran a hand through my hair. "You know that woman I bid on last night?"
