But I am still hiding a part of me from her.
That part of me I hide from everyone.
That I amDamon Blackwell, the billionaire.
The billionaire who got Marley the job she is currently thriving in.
The billionaire who is goddamn lying to her.
Four Days Later
The night before the party, I couldn’t sleep.
Marley is curled against my side in bed, her breathing deep and even, completely trusting. I trace patterns on her shoulder, my mind racing through tomorrow’s plans.
The decorations are ready. The food is ordered. The brothers have their costumes, even though there was much complaining and reticence. Queenie confirmed she’s coming, and I’ve arranged for a car to bring her from Sunset Manor.
Everything is perfect.
Except for the knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
Because tomorrow, Marley is going to meet Queenie. The woman who raised me, who knows every secret, every scar, every broken piece of me. And I’m concerned that somehow, introducing them will make everything too real.
Too vulnerable.
What if Queenie doesn’t approve?
What if Marley realizes I’m not worth the trouble?
What if all my secrets come out?
“You’re thinking too loud,” Marley mumbles into my chest, her hand spreading over my heart as though she’s trying to quiet the thunder inside it. “I can hear your brain from here.”
I kiss the top of her head, breathing in vanilla shampoo and warm skin, the scent that’s become my new weakness.
“Sorry, Small Town,” I murmur. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Her cheek shifts on my skin. “What’s wrong?”
Even half asleep, she sees right through me.
She always has.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie softly, brushing a stray curl back from her forehead.
She pushes up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down her shoulder, leaving her bare skin glowing in the soft lamp light.
Her eyes narrow. “Nitro, you spilled coffee on yourself yesterday. You don’t spill coffee. Something’s up.” My throat tightens. “Are you nervous about me meeting Queenie?” she asks gently.
There it is.
The part of me I don’t let anyone touch.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I want you to meet her… more than anything.” I swallow hard. “I’m just… terrified.”
Her expression softens like the sunrise breaking across her face. “Why?” she whispers.
“Queenie knows me,” I say, staring at the ceiling because looking at her makes it harder to breathe. “She knows the shit I’ve done. The ways I’ve screwed up. And if she looks at me and thinks I’m not good enough for you—”
