Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

Chapter 28

28

ROMAN

I was pleasantly surprised to see Kaira fitting in with my friend group. I really thought she’d recoil from all of them. When I first met her at the auction, she looked like she would have preferred to be anywhere else. She tried to disappear, and truthfully, she did. I saw the way people ignored her.

But here, they were talking to her and she was sharing stories about her life back in Philadelphia. We had not talked about her life before the moment we met at the auction. I realized that made me a bit of a dick. I never took the time to get to know her.

Her laughter mixed with the rest of the group’s. I found myself drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain. It was a rare feeling for me. As Kaira settled back into her chair next to me, she glanced over at me and smiled.

Dinner was served with the conversation still flowing all around us. I chimed in on occasion, ready to jump in and help Kaira out of a sticky question about our relationship and engagement. She wasn’t a natural liar. I didn’t know what it meant that I seemed to be able to lie easily about our so-called relationship.

My growing affection for her wasn’t a lie, just everything else.

I noticed Kaira’s drink was never empty. I didn’t feel like she was getting trashed and chose not to say anything about it. She was a grown woman. As the night wound down, I felt like I could call it a success. I had introduced her to my social circle and they accepted her. When the press inevitably tried to ask them about her, they would be able to talk about how amazing she was. And no one should have any doubts that we were serious.

“Ready to go?” I asked her.

She smiled, looking very relaxed and at ease. “Yep.”

“There will be photographers outside,” I warned her.

“And that’s what you expected, right?” she asked.

She didn’t say it in a snotty way. She was far more astute than I gave her credit for. I knew with the lingering dinner, other diners would send texts to TMZ and other tip lines. My friends were all stars in their own right. Having all of us together in one room was a big deal.

She pulled out a little mirror from her purse and used a finger to rub at the corner of her eye.

“You look fine,” I assured her.

“Fine isn’t the goal.”

“You don’t need to fix your makeup. It’s just as good as it was when you walked down those stairs.”

“Thank you.”

I led her through the restaurant and ignored the looks from other patrons. I was used to being stared at. The flash of cameras greeted us as we stepped out of the restaurant. Even though it was the whole point of the evening—to give the tabloids something to chew on—I still hated it. The shouting of reporters and the pops of bright lights made my jaw clench, but Kaira seemed unfazed. She turned her face toward me, linked her arm through mine, and smiled like she was born for this.

Good. It was convincing, at least.

The night had gone better than I expected. My friends loved her, and Kaira had been a hit with everyone at the table. More importantly, she seemed to have genuinely enjoyed herself. Anthony had the car waiting. She slid in and gave one last wave to the photographers.

“That was so much fun,” she said for the tenth time, her voice light and almost dreamy. “I haven’t laughed like that in… God, I don’t even know how long. Your friends are amazing.”

“They like you,” I said simply, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Good. They are really nice.”

She told me some of the stories my friends told her about me. I laughed most of it off. They were just doing what they did.

When the car pulled to a stop in front of the front door of the house, I helped her out of the car. She walked fine, but there was a lightness to her.

“Tonight was fun,” she said as I walked her to the stairs. I kept my arm around her. “I was so dreading it. I liked your friends.”

I wasn’t sure if she remembered telling me that earlier, but whatever. “They like you as well.”

“They like me?” She stopped on the stairs and turned to look at me, the movement nearly sending her off balance. I reached out instinctively to steady her. “Do you like me?”

“I tolerate you,” I corrected, fighting to keep the amusement from my voice.

She giggled, leaning into me as I helped her upstairs. She stumbled a couple of times, clutching at my arm. I pulled her against me and practically dragged her up the stairs. Once we reached the landing, she bent forward and kicked off her heels.

“I’m going to break my ankle,” she said with a laugh. “I probably should have taken them off before I started upstairs.”

She stood up with her heels in her hand and looked at the doors in front of her. She walked toward them, one hand outstretched toward the handle.

“What’s in here?” she asked, her fingers curling around the polished brass knob.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, my tone sharper than intended. I stepped forward, covering her hand with mine to stop her.

She giggled again, clearly unconvinced. “It’s not nothing. I can tell. Come on, tell me! I’m great at keeping secrets. I saw you in here. What is it?”

“No,” I said firmly, my hand still over hers. “This room isn’t for indulging curiosities. No one is allowed in there. Please, respect my privacy.”

She tilted her head, her playful smile fading slightly as she searched my face. For a moment, I thought she might press further, but then she nodded. “Fine,” she said, her voice softer, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s your home.”

“Good.” I let go of her hand and gestured toward the hallway. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“How come you didn’t tell me about your birthday?” she asked. “I’m your fiancée,” she said dragging out the word. “Isn’t that something I should know?”

God, she was drunk. It was kind of adorable. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I don’t celebrate.”

“What?” she gasped. “How do you not celebrate your birthday?”

“I just don’t. I haven’t since I was a kid.”

She stopped abruptly and turned to face me. “Because of what happened to your parents?” she asked softly.

I froze. Normally, a question like that would have me shutting down or lashing out. But the way she looked at me—with genuine sympathy, not pity—caught me off guard.

My throat tightened, the words stuck there. I didn’t talk about them. I didn’t want to talk about them. But she stepped closer, her hand resting gently on my chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t imagine the grief you’ve carried. I wish I could make it better.”

The sincerity in her eyes chipped away at the walls I’d so carefully built. It wasn’t just sympathy—it was understanding. She wasn’t trying to fix me or dissect my pain. She was just there .

“Thanks.”

“I probably wouldn’t want to celebrate either. I get it. I won’t push it.”

Her hand lingered on my chest, and before I could stop myself, I leaned down and kissed her. It was soft, unhurried—an unspoken thank you.

She leaned against me, on the edge of collapse. “Let’s get you tucked in.”

I guided her into her room. She dropped her shoes and began fumbling with the zipper of her dress, giggling when it got stuck.

“Here,” I said, stepping forward to help.

She let me, standing still as I unzipped the back and slid the straps off her shoulders. She stepped out of the dress clumsily and fell onto the bed, burying her face in the pillows with a contented sigh.

“You good?” I asked.

“Mhm,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

I pulled the blanket over her, shaking my head at the soft giggle she let out before passing out. I leaned down and brushed a kiss against her temple.

I walked out, closing her door behind me. I loosened my tie and removed my cufflinks as I walked down the hall. The house was quiet as usual.

When I reached the double doors to the room I told her to stay out of, I hesitated. The urge to keep walking was strong, but something pulled me back. I turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of oil paint and varnish, though it had been years since any work had been done here. Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window, casting fragmented patterns of color and shadow across the floor.

There was a feeling in my chest. The same feeling I always got when I stepped inside. It was a form of self-torture.

I reached over and flipped on the light. Canvases were scattered throughout the space—some finished, others abandoned midway. At the far end of the room, the largest canvas leaned against the wall.

I approached it slowly, my chest tightening as the image came into focus. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what it was, but there was always this feeling of shock, longing, and pain when I saw it. It was a family portrait, or at least it was supposed to be. The background was richly detailed, as were the clothes. But the faces were incomplete, their features left as shapeless nubs of paint.

My mother had started this painting the summer before she and my father died. She never got the chance to finish it.

I closed my eyes, and the memory washed over me like a tide.

I was eleven, running into the room with the carefree joy only a child could muster. The space was alive with color, sunlight streaming through the stained glass and painting rainbows on the walls. It was a gorgeous summer day but my mother was inside.

“Mom!” I called, skidding to a stop near her easel.

She turned, her smile so warm it could have melted glaciers. “There you are! I thought you’d gotten lost.”

She looked at me like she hadn’t seen me in ages. She bent down and kissed my forehead before leaning back, both of us turning to look at the painting.

“What do you think?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Why are the faces funny?” I asked, frowning.

She gasped, mock offended. “That’s what you look like!”

“None of us have mouths! Or eyes!”

She clamped a hand over my mouth and eyes, laughing. “There, now you match!”

I laughed so hard I could barely breathe, her giggles mixing with mine.

“Mom! I have a face.”

She released me and ruffled my hair. “Of course you do, my love. And such a handsome one at that.” She turned back to the canvas, her brush poised delicately between her fingers. “These faces will have to wait, though. They need to be perfect, and perfection needs patience.”

I watched as she dipped her brush into a swirl of colors, and with gentle strokes, she filled in more of the background.

The memory faded, leaving me standing in the silence of the studio.

I opened my eyes and stared at the unfinished painting. The laughter, the warmth, the safety—it was all gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. I always wondered what the faces would have looked like had she finished them. She said they needed to be perfect, but what was her idea of perfect? Would she have painted us smiling or maybe looking at each other.

I would never know.

Running a hand through my hair, I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me. Some spaces weren’t meant to be shared, even with someone like Kaira.