Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

I was still trying to decide if I should eat my cookies out of spite or save them for stress-eating later when footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

A man appeared—tall, silver-haired, dressed in a perfectly cut suit that screamed old money service staff. His posture was so straight he could've balanced a wine bottle on his head without it tipping.

"Welcome home, Young Master," he said, bowing with crisp precision. His eyes flicked to me, curiosity sharp but polite. "And this young lady is...?"

Before I could blurt no one, just the grocery store stray you accidentally brought home, Travis's voice cut through.

"The girl I will marry."

The words landed like thunder in my chest.

I choked on my own spit. "Excuse me?!"

The butler didn't even blink, just bowed deeper. "Understood, Young Master." And with that, he melted back into the house like the walls had swallowed him whole.

I rounded on Travis, cookies clutched like a weapon. "Are you insane?! You cannot just—announce that! You didn't even propose!"

"I did," he said simply.

My jaw dropped. "When?!"

"International television."

And then it hit me.

The press conference. The one where he'd declared he'd only marry the one who saw his tattoo.

My stomach dropped. "Oh my God. You meant that."

"Yes."

"That does not count!" I shouted. "That was not a proposal. That was—some weird billionaire publicity stunt! You can't just claim me like I'm one of your—your Monets!"

"You saw it."

"I barely know you!"

"You know enough."

I threw my hands up. "Oh, brilliant logic, Young Master. I know your tattoo glows in the moonlight and you hoard Monets in your foyer—clearly, that's marriage material!"

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just said, "You don't want me."

"Exactly!" I snapped, relief flooding my chest. "Finally, you get it. I don't want you. Because you're bad news, Javierres. My career's already hanging by a thread because of you. My family—"

I broke off, pacing the marble like a caged animal.

"My family will explode if this gets out," I said finally. "Not that I agree with anything they do—the corruption, the power games—but this? You and me? It's a nuclear bomb. My father's presidency, my mother's perfect handbag collection, my brother's spotless image? Gone. Ashes. And I'll be the matchstick they blame."

Silence.

Then, calmly: "So don't need them."

I whipped around. "Excuse me?"

His eyes held mine, steady, unyielding. "Work for you. Not them. Not brands. Not petty investors who scatter when it's loud. I fund you."

I stared. "You—what?"

"You have projects," he said. "Stories. Roles. Art. I back them. My terms. Your work. No middlemen."

I blinked, stunned. "You're—offering to bankroll me?"

"Yes."

"Like I'm some... some startup?!"

"You're bigger than startups."