The Billionaire's Stolen Identity

ra'

d have

Ordinary women didn't step onto private jets with billionaires after only one conversation. Sensible wome

a dream, white and sleek, with the Cross Enterprises in

to a reflective sheen, champagne chilling in crystal buckets, and subtle lighting that made the cab

tered when her eyes flicked to Damien. Not fear exactly, but difference laced with caution. I felt it again wh

, steady, almost possessive. The contact should have unsettled me, but instead it ancho

champagne flute the attendant pressed into my hand

in my throat. "And you take

us and knowing. "Only the

king lights and rivers of headlights. I tried to act casual, but inside, adrenaline surged. I had never even flown business class befo

d on me, studying me in a way that was both thrilling and unnerving. He asked questions men rarely asked: about my work, my family, my a

rcle, the pressure of being one of the few women of color at my law firm, t

t belong, Meera. You shine," his voice carried such certainty

working late. His tastes were eclectic, sharp edges softened by surprising warmth. One m

fore a drop spilled, his hand brushing mine, lingering just long enough to leave

and conversation. Paris glowed beneath us, golden

beast in restraint. The driver opened the door with silent p

r past, lamplit boulevards, shuttered bakeries, balconies drape

en asked, his gaze catching

ted, suddenly

low. "Then let me ruin y

when Damien stepped out, staff appeared as though conjured by his presence. We were

ind, strings of golden lights casting everything in a glow that seemed pulled from a mo

as empty. Res

rich enough to make me dizzy, wine that tasted of earth and velvet. The waiters moved

battle tactics. His metaphors were sharp, violent, yet his tone was calm, almost playful. And then, in the

most afraid of?" he asked sud

down. "Failing," I admitted quietly. "

he nodded, eyes unreadable. "Fear is useful.

darkness, as though he carried his own failures l

ed and the candles had burned low

beneath us, end

when I

f the charm he'd worn like armor all evening. And the language, not English. Not French. Somethi

t that didn't belong to Damien Cross, billionaire darling

to catch the words. They tumbled too fast, but fragments lodged

lover or closing a busines

k to the skyline, feigning fascination with t

ol

my shoulders before I could answer. His cologne wrapped

dn't ha

ticed, the perfect billionaire mask. Bu

uld have steadied me. Inst

said, leaning close, h

ing darker stirred. Attraction tangl

had met Damien Cross, I wondered if