30. Helen
HELEN
It’s my day off.
I’m supposed to be choosing a new camera, something worthy of replacing my trustiest one, which is starting to lag.
But my mind is nowhere near capable. Because my body is nowhere near neutral.
In fact, I’m still in bed. My shoulders still carry the imprint of being held in place—firmly, expertly.
When I shift, my thighs protest. Every muscle feels thoroughly handled, overused in the best possible way.
I force myself out of bed.
“Oh God…” I’m not done suffering the consequences from last night, and I already want him again.
A warm shower feels like a good idea, something to ease the ache in my muscles and the other ache curling lower.
Water spills over my face, down my neck, tracing a path that only reminds me of hands.
So I chose the same man. Liam is Red Fox. My body recognized him first. My heart fell into line soon after. And somewhere between the two, there’s a part of me still pretending this is manageable and likely temporary.
But that logic collapses on inspection. If my body already answered, and my heart agreed…what’s left?
Another problem for my “day off.”
I wrap a towel around myself, moving while throbs roll through me. Yeah…I’m going to waddle for a while.
I get on with it. Out of the bedroom. Down the stairs. Feed Alaska. Feed myself. Scroll.
The first phase of the Summit Tail Pet Food campaign is live. Engagement is up, shares are multiplying. The Macarena cat and Travis Kelce pony are everywhere with comments full of heart-eyes and “Where can I buy?”
I should feel accomplished. I do feel accomplished.
“Tell me it’s not true!” Anna barrels into my space.
“What?” I reply around a mouthful of cereal.
“You broke up with Victor?”
“Try to keep up, Anna. That’s yesterday’s news.”
She stares at me. “You are unbelievable.”
“Frequently.”
“Well, yes. I do believe it. When your mother told me you cried all night over that doll she wouldn’t buy you, I said she was exaggerating.” She folds her arms. “She wasn’t. Poor Christine.”
She has no claim to that part of me—yet she reaches it every time.
“What happened between Victor and me is none of your concern.”
“We’re family, Helen, whether you approve of it or not. And relationships affect everyone.”
I wish I could tell her there’s someone else. Someone better. Then she’d probably ask what he earns.
Liam Hunt isn’t just a veterinarian. That much is obvious. Ordinary men don’t throw a Moroccan night like that for one woman. Ordinary men don’t enter a room built for power games and take the lead without asking.
What I don’t know is who he really is.
And he very conveniently asked for my discretion.
“Victor is one in a million,” Anna rambles on.
“Then marry him yourself, Anna,” I say, already turning for the stairs. Alaska crunches the last of her kibbles and trots after me.
I let my little sidekick into the room, and she heads straight for her own bed. Maybe she’s still worn out from waiting up for me last night. I drop onto the bed, giving in to a restless bounce as my thoughts drift straight to him.
It was our first time together. I can understand why he didn’t stay. We met inside a carefully constructed fantasy. Masks, rules, boundaries. I got what I came for. I just didn’t expect it to feel so real.
When he dressed in a hurry, part of me wanted him to change his mind.
To turn around and come back to me. To pull me against his chest—not with heat, not with urgency, but with something ordinary.
The ordinary of two people falling asleep tangled together.
Waking up in the same light. Looking at each other and deciding, without masks or rules, that the night before wasn’t a mistake.
My laptop sits on the desk and I reach for it lazily. Sitting on the bed, I ignore the tabs opened showing the camera options. Instead, I open a fresh search and type his name.
Liam Hunt.
There are dozens. Hundreds. Profiles. Articles. Random men with dogs. Dentists. Accountants. Athletes.
I scroll.
And then—
Hunt & Hunt. A global investment firm, overseeing private equity, international acquisitions, and seats on multiple philanthropic boards.
I click.
“Holy shit…”
The photo on the leadership page is unmistakable—the same mouth that held mine captive last night, now composed beneath studio lighting. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, with cufflinks and a business tie. Below the photo, the credentials stack up. Founder and Managing Partner.
Then my eyes land on the firm’s valuation, and my breath falters. The number isn’t just large. It’s staggering. And suddenly the man who left me in that Arabian dream expands beyond the private intensity of last night.
He’s a friggin’ billionaire?
A laugh escapes me, half disbelief.
Thinking back to the airport—the first time I saw him, sitting so quietly I assumed he was Victor’s driver—they arrived in an Aston Martin. I’d barely given it weight at the time, just assuming it was Victor’s style. It wasn’t. I’m sure it was Liam’s.
For a reckless second, I consider marching downstairs and saying Liam Hunt’s name to Anna. She’d know who that is. And if she didn’t, I’d enjoy explaining it to her. God…Anna would combust!
But I close the laptop and let myself fall back against the mattress.
So I’m that woman who discovers the man who just ruined her for anyone else is untouchably powerful. He could have anyone—models, heiresses, women who’ve never waited in line for anything. Instead, he pressed me into that padded dais and looked at me like I was the only thing worth conquering.
No wonder he asked for discretion.
Hunt & Hunt doesn’t exactly scream casual hookup. A scandal could cost millions and shake both reputation and investors.
I’ll keep my promise. I won’t run to the press, post cryptic quotes or stalk his firm’s social media like a teenager. But my need to see him again?
That isn’t scandal. We know each other from the Silver Paw Ball and Skyward Sanctuary. Billionaire or not, masked or exposed, Liam Hunt is not done with me.
And I am absolutely not done with him.
Everything that happened in the dark stays between us. But visiting him in broad daylight? That feels…harmless. Fun, even.
It takes me exactly nine minutes to decide that if I’m going to show up at Hunt & Hunt, I’m not doing it in jeans.
I open my closet and pull out a structured midi dress in deep olive with bare legs to match. The lipstick is deeper than my everyday shade, my heels just enough to change how I carry myself. I take the time to blow out my hair, letting it fall in soft waves instead of pulling it back.
Discretion doesn’t mean avoidance, and Liam Hunt will soon learn what it looks like when I’m in it.
Hunt & Hunt occupies an entire corner of glass and steel downtown. The lobby alone smells of a fragrance worthy of some distant palace. I pause for half a second to steady my expression, then approach the reception desk.
“Hi,” I say. “I was wondering if Mr. Hunt is available. Liam.”
The receptionist asks my name and types it into her screen before lifting the receiver. I watch her expression as she listens.
“It’s Helena Mercer,” she says into the phone.
She listens, nods, then ends the call. “He’s in a meeting,” she tells me politely. “But let me see what I can do.” She disappears behind frosted glass doors.
I smooth my skirt, adjusting the line of it against my hips, and fight the urge to grin like I’ve shown up uninvited to something far too important.
A few minutes later, a different figure steps out.
“Helen.”
Maximilian Hunt.
He’s in a navy suit, wearing confidence that eases my nerve a bit. “Good to see you,” he says, genuine as ever. “It’s not an owlet crisis, I hope.”
I suppress a laugh. “No. All owls are accounted for.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I just wanted to see Liam.”
One of his brows lifts. “I know. Come with me.”
The elevator doors open onto a space that feels more gallery than office—mirrored steel, smoked glass, and a paneled ceiling threaded with soft lighting. One entire wall is transparent, revealing the city below as we ascend.
Max says nothing on the way up. When the doors open again, we step onto a quiet floor lined with glass-walled conference rooms and textured stone. At the far end, a door opens.
Liam steps out mid-conversation, jacket buttoned, expression focused, someone trailing behind him with a folder.
He stops.
His gaze drops to my heels, then traces the line of my skirt. He stops at my blouse, no doubt checking out the open buttons. Then it returns to my face and stays there. Perhaps he didn’t expect me dressed like this. Or perhaps he didn’t expect me at all, even after I gave my name at reception.
Max smiles at me. “Well, I found your host.”
“Max,” Liam says, his tone sharpening. “We need to talk about the Harper deal. Now.”
“Later,” Max replies, already backing away, clearly entertained. “This looks more urgent.”
He vanishes before Liam can counter.
The corridor suddenly feels very quiet.
“What are you doing here?” Liam asks. I imagine that’s his voice when someone’s about to have a bad day.
“I thought I’d ask you to lunch.” I keep it innocent.
He rubs his chin like he’s buying himself a second.
That’s not annoyance. That’s containment mode.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”
“That’s fine. I can wait.”
“That’s not the point.”
His eyes go hard. Except…they don’t hold it.
“Please don’t come here like this again,” he says. “I thought I could trust you.”
My smile drops. “What have I done to break it? I haven’t told anyone anything.”
He exhales through his nose. “Helena,” he says. “You being here creates questions.”
“So answer them.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple.”
For a moment, he looks like he might. The grumpiness fades and something far more human shows through—something that looks close to relief.
But he reins it back in. He says, “Please. Go home.”
He isn’t angry I came.
He’s angry that he’s glad I did.