I woke to the sound of soft clinking, porcelain on a silver tray. My lashes fluttered open, and there he was. Zane Blackwood, notorious billionaire, cutthroat tycoon, and the man who could make entire boardrooms bow with a glance, was standing at my bedside wearing nothing but gray sweats and a half-smile. “Good morning, love,” he murmured, setting the tray across my lap. The smell of warm croissants, scrambled eggs, and strawberries filled the air. A single rose lay across the plate like he’d stolen the idea from some sappy romance film. “You cooked?” My voice was groggy, but amused. I loved Zane’s cooking. “I ordered,” he confessed without shame, “but I plated it myself. That counts.” I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.” “Eat.” He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with hawk-like intensity, as though the simple act of lifting a fork might exhaust me. He buttered a croissant himself, then held it to my lips. “Zane…” “Don’t argue.” He brushed crumbs from
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