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“Sometimes?”
“I have other homes.”
Of course he does.
“Do you hear yourself when you talk?”
“Frequently.”
The car stops. A driver opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
I step out and stare. This isn't a house. Or a mansion.
It's an estate.
Modern without looking cold. Stone, glass, dark wood, enormous windows glowing against the night.
Money. Quiet money.
The kind that doesn't need gold fountains or marble lions because everyone looking at it already knows exactly what it costs.
Mitchell comes around the car.
“Having second thoughts?”
About entering a secluded billionaire's enormous private residence after midnight?
Several.
About potentially getting the story of my career?
Not a fucking chance.
“No.”
His gaze drops briefly to my shoes, and he frowns.
“Can you walk in those?”
I glare.
“I've been walking all night.”
“Poorly.”
“I slipped once.”
“You stood on my feet.”
“Someone bumped me.”
“Of course.”
“I can leave if you’d rather.”
“You won't.”
My eyes narrow.
