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She isn't a deal. She isn't something I can acquire.

For perhaps the first time in my life, money can't give me the thing I want. Neither can power.

I still don't give a single fuck. Because I don't want to own Layla.

I want her to choose me. There's a difference.

A fucking enormous one. And I'm only beginning to understand it.

I want her to be here when there's no contract keeping her under my roof. When she doesn't need access to Mitchell Knight anymore. When the journalist has gotten her story and has every reason in the world to walk away from the billionaire.

I want her to stay when she has absolutely no reason to. I want Layla to stay for the man.

And that might be the first thing I've ever truly wanted that all my billions can't guarantee I'll get.

And worse?

I want her to stay after she knows everything.

After she discovers why I brought her into my life in the first fucking place.

The thought lands like ice water over my overheated skin.

Because I'm lying to her.

Maybe not with words.

Maybe every look I've given her has been real. Every touch. Every kiss. Every fucking thing I just felt with her.

But there's still a truth sitting between us that she doesn't know.

I brought Layla close because I wanted to control the investigation.

I wanted to protect my grandfather.

I wanted to figure out what she knew before she could hurt the one person I loved enough to still be protecting years after his death.

And somewhere along the way, the woman I intended to control became the one variable I can't.

“Mitchell?”

My gaze snaps back to hers.

“What?”

“You disappeared.”

“I'm right here.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

Of course it isn't. Fucking journalist.

I give her a crooked smile. “Occupational hazard?”

“For which occupation? Billionaire or control freak?”

“Both.”