Page 40 of The Billionaire's Vow

He knew something was wrong.

She tucked her phone away and pushed a hand through her hair, forcing herself to concentrate.To do her job.To be useful instead of drowning in her own mess.

“I found something this morning,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in her voice.“I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I think if I pull this thread, I can determine who’s stealing from you.”She said it quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from her.

Dimitri didn’t look impressed.If anything, he looked more annoyed.

“Now that you’re on my personal team,” he said, his voice dipping into something rougher, more intimate, more possessive, “you’re going to have to call me Dimitri.”

She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together, resisting the urge to argue.Her instinct was to keep things professional, to keep him at arm’s length.But when had she ever won an argument with a man like him?He wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.

He exhaled sharply, his next words sending a bolt of something cold and hot down her spine.

“You’re going to move into my house, so that I can protect you properly.Until I find out who ransacked your apartment, you’ll need to stay with me.”

Her breath caught in her throat.Live with him?She barely had the capacity to process the idea, let alone argue about it.Before she could even react, he had already turned away, moving with that lethal grace that sent shivers through her.

At the door, he stopped, one hand resting on the steel frame, his eyes pinning her in place.

“Don’t leave the office without me or your new bodyguard, Giselle,” he ordered, his voice firm, final, undeniable.

And then he was gone.

Giselle sat frozen, staring at the space where he had stood, her thoughts spinning wildly.She had thought yesterday had been overwhelming.But today… today was turning out to be an entirely different kind of storm.

"Huh?"she squeaked profoundly, one hand instinctively covering the front of her white blouse.The blouse was a simple faux-silk shell, paired with sleek black slacks—one of the five pairs that had arrived at her house last night.She loved every one of them.Slipping into these perfectly tailored clothes this morning had made her feel powerful and in control, like she belonged in her new role.Unfortunately, Dimitri had completely unraveled that illusion.

He made her head spin.Not just with his demands, but with lust.So much damn lust.She let her eyes drift over his broad shoulders, the smooth expanse of muscle wrapped in that French blue dress shirt.The man should never wear blue—it was unfair.How was she supposed to focus on work when he looked like that?

Then her phone chimed again, and reality crashed down again.She glanced at the screen, already knowing what was waiting for her.Another message from her mother.Of course.

"Dear, I know you're busy but could you—"

She turned the phone face down, refusing to read the rest.Not now.She was done being her mother’s personal bank.At least for today.

Instead of spiraling into guilt, she focused on the numbers.Numbers never guilt-tripped her.They didn’t manipulate, beg, or demand explanations.Numbers made sense.

She spent the rest of the morning hunched over spreadsheets and invoices, manually cross-referencing shipments against intake logs.The process was tedious, but methodical.And that was what she needed right now—a system, logic, something predictable to focus on while the rest of her life spun out of control.

Hours passed, the data guiding her into a rhythm that soothed her frayed nerves.One discrepancy led to another, forming a thread she could follow.A pattern.Someone was skimming.Not just here and there, but with deliberate precision.

She pulled out another set of records, running a quick calculation.There.Her pulse kicked up as she saw it—small, seemingly insignificant variances across multiple shipments.Individually, they could be dismissed as clerical errors.But combined?

Giselle sat back, rubbing her temples.She was onto something.Something big.

Chapter 17

“Readyfordinner?”Dimitriasked, stepping into her office.

She looked up, blinking as her vision blurred from staring at numbers and spreadsheets for what felt like an eternity.She glanced at the time in the corner of her monitor and gasped.Ten hours.

“Good grief!”she muttered, stretching her stiff shoulders.

“You skipped lunch,” Dimitri pointed out, his gaze flicking to the half-eaten sandwich someone had brought her earlier.

“I didn’t skip lunch,” she argued, though even she could hear the defensiveness in her tone.A warmth bloomed within her chest, small but persistent at the evidence of concern.Someone had brought her lunch.Someone had noticed she hadn’t left her office or eaten anything.Someone had cared enough to make sure she had food.It was a foreign feeling—being looked after.She didn’t know how to process it.

“Correction,” he replied, tilting his head toward the abandoned meal.“You didn’tfinishyour lunch,” he countered smoothly.“Let’s go.You’re having Italian tonight.And it’s going to be the best Italian you’ve ever eaten.”