By His Vow: A Billionaire Arranged Marriage Romance

The sound of Kingston’s footsteps fades as he hits the bottom of the stairs, and I finally kick my heels off.

Inhaling a deep breath, I count to five before I release it again in the hope it helps ground me.

Today, I’ve gone from watching my father get lowered into the ground, to getting tipsy while pretending to grieve, to standing in the closet of my new home with my soon-to-be husband showing off his new lingerie purchases.

I’m not going to lie; it hasn’t been anything like I thought it would be.

Saying my final goodbyes to Dad was a headfuck all in itself. Watching Mom crumble and Miles mourn, hurt. It hurt more than the loss did. But even still, I couldn’t do anything. It was like I was there in body but not in spirit. Like I was watching everything play out from a distance, not experiencing it firsthand.

It was weird.

Even now having been through it, I still can’t get my head around how detached I felt from the entire thing.

It wasn’t until Kingston reached for my hand and pulled me closer that I started to really feel anything.

Sure, there was some grief in there. But mostly, it was disappointment and contempt.

All my life, Dad ensured Miles had everything. I might have had the same access to money, the same education, but that was where it ended. Standing there at that grave, that became all too real. Miles now has everything, no questions asked, but in order for me to get any kind of inheritance, I have to jump through a million hoops.

I have to marry someone. Be a wife to a man I never would have chosen for myself just to get the one thing I truly want.

It’s not about the money. I couldn’t give a crap about that.

I earn my own money, pay my own way, and I’m more than happy to continue that way.

But that cottage…I just can’t let my dream go.

I squeeze my eyes closed and immediately see two children and a dog running around the backyard that’s filled with beautiful blooms.

My heart aches for it. For the lifestyle, for the peace.

I love Chicago, but it’s full-on, and I don’t ever see that changing.

Especially not with the new merger.

With a sigh, I take a step back so I can really appreciate the beauty of this closet.

The left-hand side is his. There are rows and rows of tailored suits of every shade. The shelves of shoes are endless, and when I move closer, I find that his collection of designer watches is showcased with a glass top.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

I’m no stranger to wealth. I grew up with access to everything my heart desired. But even still, seeing it laid out so blatantly before me makes me do a double take.

I haven’t lived like this since I started college. And even before then, I spent most of my time at a boarding school.

Shaking my head, I walk back to my side and begin pulling draws open and checking out what else he’s bought me.

I find everything. Literally everything I could possibly need to live here. I wouldn’t need to move a thing in.

Maybe that’s his plan.

He might be forced to live with me, but maybe my baggage is a step too far for his fancy penthouse…

But then I think of the scatter cushions, blanket, and flowers downstairs. His confession about the bed behind me being new.

Those aren’t the actions of a man who isn’t fully in this.

With a million and one opposing thoughts spinning around my head, I try to decide what to wear.

My need to shed my depressing black dress and jacket is too much to ignore.

Especially when I pull a drawer open and find tanks and sweats staring back at me.

He literally has thought of everything.

In seconds, my outfit, and thankfully, my bra, has been discarded on the floor and I’m pulling the softest sweats I’ve ever felt up my legs as I slip the tank over my head.

I feel better immediately.

Leaving the closet behind, I go in search of the bathroom. It’s not hard. There is only one other door in this room.

“Wow,” I breathe as I step inside. It’s impressive.

Everything is white marble with black and chrome accents. The bathtub is big enough for at least six people. I shudder as I think about Kingston hosting a party in it and rip my eyes away.

The shower would easily fit the same number of people with its multiple heads and jets covering the ceiling and walls.

There are impressive double sinks with absolutely nothing on display.

It’s exactly how downstairs would have looked before the cushions appeared.

Like a show home.

I get it. This is just a place Kingston comes to get away from work. But just like my father, and now Miles, that isn’t all that often.

They don’t spend days slobbing around on the couch eating nothing but popcorn and ice cream and binging on movies. That’s just not the kind of life they live.

It’s why none of them understand my obsession with that little Cotswold cottage.

“Fuck,” I breathe when I open one of the hidden cupboards and find all my usual products. “How?” I muse. How could he possibly know what I use? He’s been in my bathroom once. There is no way he’d have memorized all my favorite brands and products. It’s impossible.

I tie my hair up in a messy bun before reaching for my cleanser. I take my time wiping my makeup from my face, washing today down the drain before putting everything away and heading out.

The moment I open the door, the scent of something hits my nose and my stomach growls.

Led by my hunger, I move toward the stairs, assuming that he’s ordered in.

It’s not until I’m halfway down that I discover that isn’t the case at all.

Over the soft music that is filling the apartment, I hear a familiar sizzle of a pan, and then Kingston’s voice as he sings along.

With my curiosity spiked, I creep down the rest of the stairs as silently as I can. I need to catch this rare species unawares.

My hand lifts to cover my mouth when I find him wiggling his ass at the stove as he stirs something in a pan and continues singing.

This is not a version of Kingston I have ever experienced before.

With one hand gripping the rail, I stand there watching him perform and attempt to keep my giggles to myself.

I can totally get on board with this side of the infamous Kingston Callahan.

I don’t know what I do, I’m pretty sure I don’t make a noise or move, but after a few more seconds, Kingston goes still, his spine straightening and his hips slowing.

Before he can turn around and discover me watching him in his natural environment, I take a step forward.

“Well, well, well, who knew the great Kingston Callahan could cook?” I tease as I move toward the kitchen island and the closest stool to me.

His gaze holds mine for a beat before it drops. I try not to react, I really do. But my body acts on instinct and my shoulders roll back, ensuring my tits stick out a little more.

His eyes widen as they trail down my body, and when he hits my toes, he works his way back up again.

My blood begins to heat and my heart races.

You hussy. All he’s done is look at you.

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth before his signature smirk appears.

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, baby.” He winks before turning back around and pouring some kind of sauce into his pan.

“It smells amazing,” I say, unable to ignore it as I hop up onto the closest stool.

Abandoning the food, he stalks to the other side of the kitchen.

He’s still shirtless—risky decision while cooking—and his muscles pull and twist as he moves. Even more so when he reaches into a cupboard for something. What that something is passes me by as I shamelessly indulge in his god-like body.

I startle when he slams a glass down in front of me and fills it with a very healthy measure of scotch.

I look up, my eyes instantly locking on his amused ones.

“See something you like, Tatum?”

“Not really. Can’t say I like scotch all that much.”

His eyes narrow, but the heat in them doesn’t lessen.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking about the scotch then, wasn’t it? Drink,” he says, sliding it closer without giving me a chance to respond.

“But I don’t⁠—”

“I said drink,” he repeats.

The need to fight burns through me, but then I look into his eyes and it melts away.

I reach for the glass and my breath catches as our fingers collide. Electricity shoots up my arm and our eye contact holds.

The air between us turns thick with sexual tension and I struggle to catch my breath.

The second he pulls his hand away, my entire body runs cold. It’s the most bizarre thing.

Without thinking, I lift the glass to my lips and swallow down the contents in one go.

The second it hits my throat, I realize my mistake.

I cough and splutter as the strong alcohol leaves a fiery trail all the way to my stomach.

Kingston watches me suffer with an amused expression on his face.

“Don’t give me that look. I told you I don’t like it,” I snap.

He chuckles before turning back to dinner.

“Trust me, it’ll help you relax.”

His insinuation irritates me. “I don’t need to re⁠—”

He turns around and glares at me.

“What?” I hiss.

“Do you argue with everything I say for fun? Is it some kind of game to you?” he asks, looking genuinely interested in my answer.

“I don’t like being told what to do.”

“I’ve noticed,” he mutters, setting two plates on the counter before placing a pile of fresh noodles in the center.

“As if you’re any better.” I scoff.

“I’m the boss. No one tells me what to do,” he says, puffing his chest out.

“Right,” I mutter as he loads colorful veggies onto the noodles before sliding the stir-fry toward me.

“You’re a bit of a health freak,” I point out.

He takes the seat beside me before picking up his fork and twisting some noodles around it.

“I’m conscious of what I put into my body. I need it at peak performance at all times.” I scoff at that. “That doesn’t make me a freak.”

He pushes his food into his mouth, his eyes holding mine as he chews.

How is it possible that he even looks hot eating?

Wrong. So freaking wrong.

“Shame you aren’t so selective about what bodies you put yourself into,” I mutter under my breath as my eyes briefly drop to his crotch.

Jesus, is he still semi-hard down there?

I look away as quickly as I looked, my cheeks heating like I’m a teenager with my first crush.

“You sound a little jealous there, baby.”

I scoff. “Hardly. I couldn’t care less who you stick your needle dick inside. I’m more concerned about how many unsuspecting women you’re infecting.”

“Needle dick? Infecting? I’ll have you know that⁠—”

“Spare me,” I say, spearing a baby corn with my fork and holding it up with a smirk. “I have no interest in discussing details.”

Sticking my tongue out, I lick the drop of sauce at the end of the piece of corn.

“Mmm, delicious,” I say before sucking it into my mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his chin drop in shock before I bite it off.

He shakes his head as he chews.

“Maybe I was wrong. The scotch was a bad idea.”

“Whoa, wait up. Did you just admit you were wrong?” I ask in astonishment.

“Maybe. I said maybe,” he argues.

“Close enough,” I mutter as I refill my fork. For all his annoyingness, he actually is a damn good cook. A hell of a lot better than Lori and me, that’s for sure.