The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 AM.
Eunice stared at it, her stomach growling loudly enough to wake the dead. The pregnancy cravings had hit her with the force of a freight train. She didn't just want salt; she needed it. Specifically, she needed potato chips, or pickles, or instant noodles—none of which were likely in a five-star hotel penthouse.
She tossed and turned for another ten minutes before giving up.
"Okay, babies, you win," she whispered, sliding out of the silken sheets. "Let's go find food."
She wrapped her robe tightly around her silk pajamas and tiptoed to the door. She cracked it open, listening for Hart.
Silence.
The pacing had stopped. Maybe he had finally gone to bed.
Eunice slipped out into the massive living room. The penthouse was bathed in blue moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was beautiful, haunting, and…
"You're awake."
Eunice jumped, nearly knocking over a vase.
Hart Matthew was sitting on the white leather sofa, facing the window. He hadn't gone to bed. He had abandoned his suit jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In his hand was a glass of whiskey that looked untouched.
He didn't look at her; he just stared out at the Dubai skyline.
"I… I couldn't sleep," Eunice stammered, her hand instinctively going to her stomach to hide the tiny bump, even though the robe covered it. "I was just looking for… water."
"The kitchen is to your left," Hart said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Help yourself."
Eunice hurried to the kitchen. She found a bag of salted pretzels in the pantry—close enough. She ate two quickly to settle her stomach, drank a glass of water, and then hesitated.
She should go back to her room. That was the safe choice.
But something about the way Hart was sitting—slumped forward, head in his hands—looked devastatingly lonely.
She walked slowly back into the living room. "Sir? Are you alright?"
Hart let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Do I look alright, Miss Vance?"
He finally turned to look at her. In the moonlight, the dark circles under his eyes were bruised and deep. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked like a man who hadn't known peace in years.
"You have insomnia," Eunice said softly.
"Chronic," Hart admitted, rubbing his temples. "I haven't slept more than two hours a night for three years. My brain… it doesn't shut off. It's always calculating. Always defending."
He looked at the empty seat beside him. "Sit."
It wasn't a command this time. It was a plea.
Eunice hesitated, then walked over and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectful distance between them.
"Does the whiskey help?" she asked.
"No. Nothing helps. Pills, meditation, white noise… nothing." He sighed, leaning his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes. "I'm just waiting for the sun to come up so I can go back to being a machine."
Eunice watched him. She felt a strange pang of sympathy. He was the most powerful man in the city, yet he couldn't buy the one thing he needed most: rest.
"My mother used to say that we can't sleep because our souls are too loud," Eunice said quietly.
Hart opened one eye, looking at her sideways. "And how do you quiet a soul, Eunice?"
It was the first time he had used her first name without the 'Miss Vance' or a sarcastic tone.
"You don't," Eunice said. "You just need someone to sit with you in the noise until it gets quiet."
Hart stared at her. The moonlight caught the curve of her cheek, the softness of her eyes. She smelled like vanilla and sleep.
For some reason, the chaotic noise in his head—the stock prices, the merger details, the paranoia—suddenly slowed down. The presence of her, just sitting there, felt like a cool balm on a burn.
"Talk to me," Hart murmured, his eyelids drooping. "About anything. Just… keep talking."
"About what?"
"Anything. Tell me about… the stars. Or your favorite color. It doesn't matter."
So Eunice talked. She spoke softly about the constellations she could see through the window. She talked about growing up in a small house, about how much she loved the smell of old books.
She talked for ten minutes.
"And then, I realized that I actually really liked—"
She stopped.
Hart's breathing had evened out. His head had lulled to the side, resting on the back of the sofa. The tension had left his jaw.
He was asleep.
For the first time in three years, Hart Matthew was sleeping deeply.
Eunice sat frozen, afraid to move and wake him. She looked at his sleeping face. Without the scowl, he looked younger. Handsome. Almost… gentle.
She carefully stood up, grabbed a cashmere throw blanket from the armchair, and draped it over him.
"Goodnight, Hart," she whispered.
She turned to leave, but as she stepped away, Hart's hand shot out in his sleep, grabbing her wrist. He didn't wake up, but his grip was firm, as if his subconscious was terrified she would leave.
He pulled her hand against his chest, hugging it like a lifeline, and settled deeper into sleep.
Eunice's heart hammered against her ribs. She was trapped. Standing by the sofa, her hand held tight against the chest of the billionaire father of her twins.
She looked at him, then at their joined hands.
I guess I'm sleeping here tonight, she thought.
She slowly sat back down on the floor beside the sofa, resting her head on the cushion near his arm, and let the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.