Dominic’s fingers withdrew a folded piece of thick paper from the inner lining of his tailored vest. He smoothed it out against the polished dark quartz of the kitchen island.

It was Lily’s crayon drawing.

In bright, erratic strokes of yellow and purple, Lily had drawn three figures standing in front of a small red house with a giant smiling sun. There was a tall woman with long brown hair, a small girl holding a bunny, and next to them, a towering figure dressed in a black square suit. Above the man’s head, Lily had drawn a bright red heart.

"She gave this to me in the hallway yesterday," Dominic said quietly, his low, gravelly voice cutting through the silent kitchen. "She told me that you cried in the dark when you thought she was asleep, because you were afraid of going back to Pennsylvania alone."

My breath caught in my throat. I looked from the crude crayon drawing to the sharp, unreadable face of the billionaire who held half of Manhattan’s real estate in his hands.

"She’s three, Mr. Moretti," I stammered, my face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and deep, aching vulnerability. "She doesn't understand—"

"She understands enough to know her mother is carrying a burden too heavy for one person," Dominic interrupted smoothly. He reached across the island and pushed one of the warm ceramic coffee cups toward me. "And it’s Dominic. If we are going to convince your family that we’ve been quietly dating for the past six months, you need to stop addressing me like I’m about to audit your cleaning inventory."

I stared at the coffee cup, then up at him. Dominic Moretti was a man whose past was shrouded in rumors of ruthless corporate takeovers, high-stakes political maneuvering, and an ironclad privacy that kept tabloids at bay. He was intimidating, impossibly handsome, and completely out of my realm.

"Why?" I asked again, my voice trembling slightly. "You don't do favors, Mr. Moretti—Dominic. Everyone in New York knows you don't do anything without a contract or an agenda."

Dominic took a slow sip of his black coffee, his dark gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"My mother died of cancer when I was twelve, Sophia," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "She spent her last three months worrying about whether I would be safe in a world that wasn't kind to kids like me. If I can give your mother peace of mind before she passes—if I can give you a shield against a family that judges you—it costs me nothing but three days of my time."

He stood up, towering over the island, rolling his sleeves back down with practiced precision.

"My driver will have the SUV ready at six tomorrow morning," Dominic added, turning toward the hallway. "Pack for four days. And Sophia?"