Taming My Sugar Mommy-Chapter 20: One week,One room

The Florida heat wrapped around Liam the second he stepped off the private jet. He wasn't used to this—flying first class was one thing, but this? This was obscene. A sleek convoy of black SUVs waited on the tarmac, drivers standing by like they were about to escort royalty.

Christina was already scanning the surroundings, her hand resting near her concealed weapon. Marcus was the same, his usual smirk replaced with a professional frown.

Liam shifted his bag over his shoulder and glanced at Isabella, who was stepping down from the jet like she owned the damn sky. Black sunglasses, expensive heels clicking against the pavement. She barely looked like the same woman who had sat across from him at that ridiculous dining table weeks ago, testing him like a scientist prodding a lab rat.

'When did I start noticing these little things about her?' he wondered.

Christina fell into step beside him as they walked toward the SUVs, her eyes still scanning their surroundings. "Your tie's crooked," she whispered.

"You know," Liam muttered back, adjusting it, "for someone who once fell into the fountain during surveillance training, you're awfully judgmental about my wardrobe mishaps."

She shot him a warning look, but he caught the slight blush on her cheeks. "I thought we agreed never to mention that again."

"Consider it payback for telling Marcus about the coffee machine incident."

Ahead of them, Isabella's heels clicked against the pavement with precise, measured steps. If she heard their exchange, she gave no indication, but Liam noticed how her shoulders tensed ever so slightly.

They reached the hotel—one of those massive luxury resorts with marble floors and a lobby the size of a football pitch. Isabella's staff were already inside handling check-ins when the hotel manager approached.

"Good afternoon, Lady Ashworth," the manager said, offering a practiced smile. "I'm Thomas Henderson, General Manager. Welcome to The Peninsula." His expression tightened slightly. "If I might have a moment of your time regarding the accommodations?"

Isabella studied him over the rim of her sunglasses. "Go on."

The hotel manager cleared his throat, discomfort radiating from every pore. "Unfortunately, Lady Ashworth, with the summit in town, we're entirely booked. The only available suite large enough to accommodate your requirements is the penthouse."

Liam's eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean a penthouse?"

"No, sir. The penthouse." Henderson's words hung in the air. "One suite. One bedroom."

The silence that followed felt like a physical weight, pressing down on everyone in the marble-floored lobby. Liam could practically feel the tension rolling off Christina and Marcus in waves.

Isabella's expression didn't change, but her voice carried that particular chill that made smart people nervous. "You're telling me that with my reservation, this is the best you can do?"

Henderson's fingers twitched toward his tie. "If you'd prefer, we can arrange alternate accommodations at another property—" His voice faltered under her steady gaze. "—though it wouldn't meet your usual standards."

Liam studied the manager for a moment, pieces clicking into place. "You're running on a dynamic booking system." It wasn't a question. He continued, watching realization dawn on Henderson's face. "The software prioritizes VIP status, but when the reservation error happened, the algorithm pushed us into a consolidation zone to avoid a full override."

The manager blinked rapidly. "Er... that's correct, sir."

"So if we try to force a split now," Liam leaned against the marble reception desk, "the system will push someone else out—probably another high-priority guest. Which means more complaints, more compensation, and a logistical nightmare for your staff."

Henderson's relief at someone understanding was almost palpable. "Yes. That's why we're hoping—"

"—that we'll take the penthouse and save you the trouble." Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Brilliant."

He turned to Isabella, expecting the sharp command that would solve this mess. Instead, he found her watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read—something between curiosity and calculation.

Then, after a beat too long, she sighed. "Send our luggage up. We'll manage."

Liam's eyebrow arched at the 'we.'

Christina let out a quiet cough that did nothing to hide her amusement. Marcus didn't even try to disguise his smirk.

'This,' Liam thought, exhaling through his nose, 'is going to be a very long week.'

And just like that, she walked off toward the elevators, leaving him standing there with the very real realization that he'd just been granted a one-week stay in a penthouse. With her.

By the second day, Liam had proven himself invaluable. When a shipment of high-end decor got delayed, he found a local solution in an hour. When a security camera in the VIP lounge malfunctioned, he fixed it before the clients even noticed. Isabella had stopped questioning his choices. She just expected him to handle things.

And she noticed. More than once, he caught her watching him, studying him like she had that first night at dinner. Like she was trying to figure out why he was so damn useful to her.

By the third night, the exhaustion hit. Liam walked into the penthouse, loosened his tie, and collapsed onto the massive sofa.

Isabella was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of something expensive in her hand.

"You're late," she said without turning.

"Yeah, well, the stage lighting nearly fried itself, and I had to stop some billionaire twat from walking into the wrong meeting." He stretched. "Tell me again why you don't have more staff handling this?"

She turned, one eyebrow raised. "Because I have you."

It took him a second to register that. She wasn't joking.

For the first time since this whole ridiculous arrangement started, he felt irreplaceable. Not just another employee, not just some guy who happened to be good at his job.

The tension in Isabella's shoulders hadn't escaped Liam's notice. He'd seen it building throughout the day—the way she held herself just a fraction more rigid than usual, how her fingers kept drifting to her neck when she thought no one was watching.

"You know," he said carefully, rising from the sofa, "I noticed the hotel has a 24-hour spa service. Five-star rated, apparently."

Isabella took another sip of her drink, but he caught the slight wince as she turned her head. "I don't have time for that."

"Right, because standing here torturing your trapezius muscles is a much better use of your time." The words were out before he could stop them. That happened sometimes around her—his filter slipping, showing glimpses of the man who wasn't intimidated by her status.

She turned to face him fully, surprise flickering across her features. "My what?"

"Here." He stepped closer, gesturing to the spot where her neck met her shoulder. "The muscle group that's currently trying to strangle your spine. You've been favoring your right side all day."

"Playing doctor now, are we?" But there was less bite in her tone than usual.

"More like someone who spent two years working physical therapy to pay for college." He paused, then added quietly, "I could help. If you'd let me."

The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken things. Isabella studied him, that calculating look he knew so well crossing her face. Finally, she set down her glass.

"Five minutes," she said, making it sound like she was granting him a royal audience. "And if you make it worse—"

"You'll have me thrown from the penthouse window?" He smiled, gesturing to one of the plush chairs. "Sit."

She complied with surprising grace, and as his fingers found the knots of tension in her shoulders, he felt her initially stiffen before gradually relaxing. Neither of them spoke—the only sound the distant hum of Miami traffic below and the occasional sharp intake of breath when he found a particularly stubborn knot.

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"Better?" he asked after a few minutes, stepping back before he could do something stupid like notice how soft her skin felt or how her perfume made his head swim.

She rolled her shoulders experimentally, and for a moment, her usual mask slipped. The surprise in her eyes was genuine. "Where did you really learn to do that?"

"I told you—physical therapy work through college." He shrugged. "Not all of us were born into penthouses, Lady Ashworth."

Something flickered across her face—almost like guilt, but surely that wasn't possible. Isabella Ashworth didn't do guilt. Before he could analyze it further, She stood smoothly, adjusting her dress, but for a second—just a fraction of a second—her fingers hesitated at the strap of her gown, like she'd forgotten herself.

"Well," she said, her voice carefully neutral, "I suppose you have your uses after all, Liam."

But as she walked away, he noticed her steps were lighter, her posture more relaxed. And maybe—just maybe—there was the ghost of a real smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She walked over, stopping just short of where he sat. "You didn't belong in my world when I met you," she murmured. "But now? You're starting to prove me wrong."

It should have been a compliment. It should have made him feel like he was moving up in life.

Instead, it felt like a warning.

"Go to bed, Liam," she said before he could respond. "Tomorrow's another long day."

And just like that, she left him sitting there, the Miami skyline glittering beyond the windows like a thousand watching eyes.