Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 39

Chapter 39

VENUS

“Eavesdropping is rude, Venus.”

His voice wrapped around my name like silk over steel-soft, controlled, but sharp enough to draw blood. He stepped over the shattered vase like it was nothing more than confetti, not fine porcelain probably worth more than my entire rent for the

year.

I blinked up at him from where I’d landed, palm still stinging from the fall.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I slipped.”

One brow lifted. That classic Aaron Sinclair brand of disbelief. Deadpan, arrogant, and thoroughly unimpressed.

“I believe you,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching-mockery in motion.

Like he was talking to a child insisting Santa was real.

Liar.

I glanced at the wreckage, then back at him. “I’m sorry. For breaking your vase,” I added, after a beat. “… And for eavesdropping.”

There. Happy now?

But he wasn’t listening to my apology. Not really.

His gaze dropped, subtle, slow, deliberate. Like a touch without touching. He traced the curve of my body with his eyes, and it didn’t feel polite. No, this was Aaron Sinclair in his element-unsettling me under the guise of practical observation.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low, dipped in something softer. Not quite concern, but close enough to make my stomach twist in knots.

I shook my head, suddenly too aware of the robe clinging to my body. The tie had loosened during the fall.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His gaze lingered a second too long before sliding back to my face.

“Dress up and come down for dinner,” he said, that softness gone, the edge sliding back into place like a blade sheathed. That’s when it hit mo

I was still in my damn robe.

Mortified, I yanked it tighter around me and scrambled to my feet, fleeing the hallway like the floor was on fire beneath me.

“Okay,” I muttered, the word breathless, trailing behind me like a confession I didn’t mean to make.

At the top of the stairs, I turned. Something pulled me.

He was still there. Standing among the broken pieces, watching me.

Not angry. Not amused.

Just… unreadable.

Like he was waiting.

Or deciding.

A random dress and a messy updo later, I padded down the grand staircase, still dazed from the emotional whiplash that man could deliver with nothing more than a look. My hair refused to cooperate, but I convinced myself it looked ” effortlessly chic.” The robe was gone.

His stare? Not so much.

The dining room looked straight out of a luxury magazine-long polished oak table, crystal chandeliers, and golden

candlelight flickering like secrets whispered in the dark. It wasn’t warm. It was grand. The kind of grand that made you feel like an imposter.

The table was lined with every Italian dish I’d ever heard of and some I hadn’t. My stomach growled audibly, embarrassed to be left out after a day of chaos, missed mea’s, and unpioned vasarashing.

Successfully unlocked!

Aaron was already seated. Wine glass in hand Eyes on to

He motioned to the chair across from him like a king granting me audience.

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Chapter 39

“Let me guess,” I said as I slid into the chair. “You’ve got a private chef on standby.”

He didn’t blink. “Yes. I hope you’re hungry.”

Of course he did.

As if on cue, a maid I hadn’t noticed glided in like a shadow and began serving. She placed a plate in front of me that looked like it belonged in a five-star tasting menu. Fresh basil, truffle, garlic, buttery pasta… It smelled like seduction.

“And a glass of wine for the lady,” she added, setting the glass beside me.

I offered a polite smile. “Water, please. And thank you.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she nodded and disappeared again, like she’d never been there at all.

I recognized some dishes-lasagna, ravioli, bruschetta. Others were too fancy to even attempt pronouncing. So I did what I did best.

I poked. I prodded. I asked Aaron Sinclair a thousand questions.

And surprisingly, he answered.

Patiently.

He explained the dishes, the ingredients, even how they were meant to be eaten. There was something disarming about it, Watching this cold, calculated CEO soften over linguine. Like he was letting me peek behind the curtain. Just enough to keep me guessing.

Once I was full-dangerously close to food coma territory-I pushed my plate away and sighed.

“So…” I began, stabbing half-heartedly at a leftover ravioli. “How long are we here for?”

I know. That’s not the question you expected. But come on. I’m an eavesdropper, not an idiot.

“A week,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.

A week. In Rome.

More than enough time to get lost in the city. Maybe find myself. Maybe pretend-for a little while-that this wasn’t just a transaction. That I wasn’t just a pawn. That his eyes didn’t undo me every time they landed on my skin.

I was in freaking Rome.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of soft jazz, low candlelight, and a silence that felt deliberate but not uncomfortable. Eventually, I excused myself, thanked the maid, and climbed the stairs on autopilot.

By the time I reached the bedroom, I was running on fumes. I stripped off the dress, pulled on something soft and oversized, and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh that carried every bit of weight I’d picked up today.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Like comfort I didn’t earn.

I should’ve been tired enough to pass out.

But my brain wouldn’t shut off.

I was in Rome.

In Aaron Sinclair’s condo.

Eating dinner cooked by his chef.

Eavesdropping on conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear.

And tomorrow…

I was getting married.

The thought didn’t creep in-it slammed.

Tomorrow.

The reality curled around

ne like:

Wave

This wasn’t a game anymore.

It wasn’t just a job.

It wasn’t just a fix.

It wasn’t even just for Mom.

This was real.

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Chapter 39

A marriage. A contract. A commitment… to a man who looked at me like I was a puzzle he was dying to solve-but never

trust.

I pulled the blanket over my head like it could shield me from what came next.

But the truth was there.

I was marrying Aaron Sinclair tomorrow.

And somehow, in the pit of my stomach, curled next to the fear, was something else.

Not quite terror.

Not quite thrill.

Something in between.

Something that felt dangerously like hope.

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