Chapter 9: The Vulnerable Billionaire

The address led me to a building that didn't look like a building at all. It looked like a monument—all glass and steel and impossible angles, rising into the night sky like a challenge to God himself. A doorman in a uniform that cost more than my monthly rent took one look at me and started to speak, but I was already moving, already flashing the code Xander had texted, already stepping into an elevator that required a key just to breathe its air.

The ride was endless. Floors ticked past—10, 20, 30, 40—and with each one, my heart climbed higher into my throat. What was I doing? Why had I come? He was drunk and emotional and probably wouldn't even remember this in the morning.

But his voice echoed in my head. *I need someone to see me. The real me. And you're the only person who ever has.*

The elevator doors opened directly into his apartment.

I stepped out and forgot how to breathe.

The penthouse was ridiculous. Obscenely so. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like a living painting, the city lights spread out below in a glittering carpet. A fireplace large enough to stand in crackled softly against one wall. Furniture that looked both impossibly expensive and somehow unused—like a showroom, like no one actually lived here.

And in the middle of it all, on a leather couch that probably cost more than my entire future, sat Xander Black.

He looked nothing like the man from the restaurant.

His jacket was gone, his shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, his hair a disaster—those perfectly styled locks now falling every which way, making him look younger. Vulnerable. His head was in his hands, a half-empty glass of something amber on the table before him, and when he heard the elevator, he looked up.

His eyes were red-rimmed. His cheeks were flushed. And in that moment, with all the ice melted away, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Ella." My name on his lips sounded like a prayer. "You came."

I crossed the room slowly, taking in the chaos—scattered papers, more empty glasses, a jacket thrown carelessly across a chair. This wasn't the controlled, composed man who'd walked out on me. This was someone else entirely.

"Of course I came." I sat beside him on the couch, close enough to touch but not touching. "You called."

He laughed—a broken, bitter sound. "I called. Like a pathetic teenager. Like a man who's lost his mind." He gestured at the glass. "I don't even drink. Not usually. But tonight—"

"Tonight what?"

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Tonight I couldn't stop thinking about you. About the way you looked at me in that restaurant. Like I was just a man. Like I was someone worth seeing." He finally met my eyes. "And it terrified me. So I ran. Like I always run."

My heart clenched. "Xander—"

"Let me finish." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. "I need you to understand. So you know why I am the way I am. So you know why I can't—why I don't—"

He stopped. Swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was raw.

"Her name was Isabella."

I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just listened.

"We met six years ago. She was beautiful. Brilliant. Charming. Everything I thought I wanted." His hands clenched into fists. "I loved her. God, I loved her. I gave her everything—my time, my trust, my heart. I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. I thought I'd found my future."

The fire crackled. The city glittered. Xander's voice grew darker.

"What I actually found was a predator. She wasn't interested in me—she was interested in my money. My status. My connections. And while I was planning our future, she was planning her exit. With my business partner."

I sucked in a breath.

"Yeah." He laughed again, that same broken sound. "I walked in on them. In our home. In our bed. She didn't even try to deny it. Just looked at me with those cold eyes and said, 'What did you expect, Xander? You think anyone could actually love you?'"

The words hung in the air between us, toxic and sharp.

"That was five years ago." His voice dropped even lower. "Five years, and I still hear her voice every time someone gets close. Every time I start to feel something. That voice telling me I'm unlovable. That no one could ever want me for me."

Before I knew what I was doing, my hand was on his.

"Xander."

He looked up. Those green eyes—usually so cold, so controlled—were naked. Raw. Full of pain and fear and something that looked terrifyingly like hope.

"She was wrong."

"Ella—"

"She was wrong." I squeezed his hand, willing him to believe me. "You are not unlovable. You are not—"

"Don't." He pulled his hand away, stood abruptly, walked to the window. His back was to me, his shoulders tense. "Don't say things you don't mean. Don't give me hope when you'll leave like everyone else."

I stood too. Walked toward him. Stopped close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"I'm not everyone else."

He turned slowly. We were inches apart now—close enough that I could see the individual lashes framing those impossible eyes, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin.

"No," he whispered. "You're not."

Something shifted in the air between us. A current. A pull. Like gravity had suddenly decided we were meant to be closer.

"Ella." My name on his lips was different now. Softer. More intimate.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to do something I might regret." His voice was barely audible. "Tell me to stop."

I didn't.

His hands came up slowly, giving me every chance to move away. They framed my face with a tenderness that made my heart ache—thumbs brushing my cheekbones, fingers tangling gently in my hair. His eyes searched mine, looking for permission, looking for rejection, looking for something I wasn't sure I knew how to give.

I gave it anyway.

"Xander." I leaned into his touch. "I'm still here."

Something broke in his expression. The last of the ice, maybe. The last wall between who he showed the world and who he really was.

And then he leaned down.

His lips were inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of them, could taste the whiskey on his breath, could see the want and fear and hope warring in his beautiful eyes.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Let me be the judge of that."

Time stopped.

The city glittered beyond the windows. The fire crackled softly. And Xander Black, the Ice King, the man who never let anyone close, was about to kiss me.