The penthouse door clicked shut, locking the world—and Madam Matthew—outside.
Hart didn't just walk in; he practically carried Eunice over the threshold. He set her down gently in the middle of the living room, looking around the space as if checking for threats.
"You stay here," Hart announced, tossing his keys onto the console table. "I'll have your things brought over from your apartment tomorrow. For tonight, you wear my shirts."
Eunice stood there, hugging her arms. The adrenaline from the confrontation with his grandmother was fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.
"Hart, I can't live here," she whispered. "People will talk. Vanessa will—"
"Let them talk," Hart cut her off, turning to face her. His eyes were dark and serious. "I don't care about Vanessa. I don't care about the Board. My grandmother threatened you. That changes everything."
He walked over to her, stopping just inches away. He reached out and tilted her chin up so she had to look at him.
"There are new rules, Eunice. Rule number one: You do not leave this penthouse without me. Rule number two: You eat three meals a day. Real meals. No more skipping lunch for reports."
"And rule number three?" Eunice asked, her breath hitching.
"Rule number three," Hart's thumb brushed her lower lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "You tell me everything. No more secrets. If you are scared, you tell me. If you are sick, you tell me."
Eunice's heart hammered against her ribs. No more secrets.
If only he knew the biggest secret of all was growing right between them.
"Okay," she lied breathlessly. "No secrets."
Three nights later, the "No Secrets" rule was put to the test.
At 3:14 AM, Eunice was in the kitchen.
The craving was specific and violent. It wasn't just hunger; it was a biological imperative. She needed salt, and she needed sweet, and she needed them now.
She sat on the marble counter, a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a jar of spicy dill pickles in the other. She dipped a pickle into the peanut butter, closed her eyes, and took a bite.
Heaven.
"What," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway, "in God's name are you doing?"
Eunice froze, the pickle halfway to her mouth.
Hart was leaning against the doorframe. He was shirtless.
Eunice choked on her peanut butter. She had seen him in a suit, and she had seen him with his shirt unbuttoned, but she had never seen him shirtless.
His chest was sculpted, broad, and dusted with dark hair that trailed down his stomach to the waistband of his low-slung grey sweatpants. He looked like a Greek god who had just rolled out of bed.
"I… uh…" Eunice stammered, trying to hide the jar behind her back. "I was hungry."
Hart walked into the kitchen. He didn't look sleepy. He looked fascinated. He stopped in front of her, eyeing the jar in her hand.
"Pickles," Hart noted. "And peanut butter."
"It's a… a viral food trend," Eunice lied quickly. "Everyone is doing it. It's supposed to be… electrolytes."
Hart raised an eyebrow. "Electrolytes."
"Yes."
He reached out and took the jar of pickles from her. He plucked one out, dipped it into the peanut butter jar she was still clutching, and held it up.
"Open up," he ordered.
Eunice blinked. "What?"
"If it's a trend, let me try," Hart said, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Open."
Eunice opened her mouth automatically. Hart fed her the bite. His fingers brushed her lips, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her toes.
He watched her chew, his gaze intense. Then, without breaking eye contact, he dipped another pickle and put it in his own mouth.
He chewed. He paused. His face contorted in absolute horror.
"That," Hart choked, reaching for a glass of water, "is the most vile thing I have ever tasted. You are banned from the kitchen after midnight."
Eunice giggled. She couldn't help it. Seeing the stoic billionaire recoil from a pickle was the funniest thing she had seen all week.
"It grows on you!" she defended.
Hart wiped his mouth, looking at her. The disgust faded from his face, replaced by a soft, thoughtful expression. He stepped closer, stepping between her knees as she sat on the counter.
"You look happy," he murmured. "You haven't smiled like that in days."
Eunice's smile faltered. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thick and charged. He was too close. His bare chest was inches from her knees.
"I feel safe here," she admitted softly.
Hart reached out, placing his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm not letting you go anywhere."
His gaze dropped to her stomach. Eunice stopped breathing. Her silk pajama top was loose, but sitting like this…
Hart frowned slightly. He reached out a hand.
"You've changed," he said quietly. "You're… softer. Glowing."
His hand moved toward her waist. If he touched her, he would feel the slight firmness of the bump. He would know.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The silence was shattered by the penthouse intercom buzzing loudly.
Hart pulled back, cursing under his breath. He turned to the wall monitor.
"Who is it at this hour?" he growled.
The screen lit up, revealing a face Eunice knew well.
It was Liam. The kind doctor from the clinic. Her OB-GYN.
"Mr. Matthew?" Liam's voice crackled through the speaker. "Sorry to disturb you. I have urgent test results for Miss Vance. She wasn't answering her phone."
Hart froze. He looked at the screen, then back at Eunice.
"Why is a doctor hand-delivering test results at 3 AM?" Hart asked slowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill.
Eunice gripped the edge of the counter.
The game was up.