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Not insecurity exactly.

Awareness.

And maybe that's worse.

Because I suddenly understand what she's asking. Not whether I know she isn't a billionaire. Whether it matters.

I stare at her. Layla Hawthorne and I come from two completely different worlds.

That's an objective fact.

I was born with millions waiting for me. She built her career one interview at a time.

I turned inherited wealth into billions. She rents an apartment she's already described as crappy.

I fly private because commercial airports irritate me. She probably checks airfare before deciding whether she can justify a trip.

I spent eighty-five thousand dollars tonight for a fucking plate of food I don't even remember eating.

I know damn well what that number would mean in her world.

Our lives aren't simply different.

They're absurdly fucking different.

And until this exact moment? I haven't given it a single thought.

“I definitely haven't.”

She searches my face.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Mitchell, you spent more on dinner tonight than some people make in a year.”

“Technically, I donated more on dinner tonight than some people make in a year. The food wasn't worth eighty-five thousand dollars.”

Her mouth drops open.

“That's your takeaway?”

“I don't remember the food.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“So you've mentioned.”

“Repeatedly.”

“And yet you're still naked in my arms.”

Her cheeks go pink. I fucking love that I can make her blush after everything we just did.

“Don't use nudity to win an argument.”

“Why not?”