Billionaire's Secret Baby：One Night with a Hidden Tycoon

ELLA

I’m Ella Blake. The name still doesn’t sit right with me. Born into Boston’s high-society Blake family, yet I grew up in some no-name rural dump, completely off their radar. Five years ago, at sixteen, they “discovered” me—not out of some heartfelt reunion, but pure strategy.

Blake Corporation was tanking, and they needed a spare piece to play. Kate, the imposter daughter they’d doted on, kept her place, adored as ever. I was slotted in as the second Miss Blake, a label that carries zero warmth.

Nobody in this icy, over-the-top mansion gives a damn about me. Nobody, except Amy. She’s Kate’s real sister, a frail sixteen-year-old fighting leukemia, stuck in a hospital bed. Her weak smile is my only light in this family. I’m hustling for her, scraping together cash for her medical bills. In this world of power plays and fakery, keeping Amy alive is my only drive to stomach the Blakes’ contempt.

Everyone notices my scar first. Left cheek, jagged and ugly. Then comes my limp. Battle wounds from saving Ryan West—my fiancé—from an oncoming car. The man I'd stupidly loved for years, who barely acknowledged my existence.

My only true asset is my medical knowledge, learned from an old doc in that rural backwater. It’s the one thing I’ve got that’s undeniably mine.

Tonight was another charity auction. Another designer dress. Another parade of me as damaged goods for potential business marriages. I remember walking to the bathroom, then... nothing.

Disoriented now. Eyes struggling to adjust in this dim room. Expensive aromatherapy hanging in the air. Chopin playing softly. The plush carpet feels weird under my bare feet as someone pushes me forward.

"Move." Deep voice. Male. Behind me.

Heart pounding. "Who are you? What do you want?"

No answer. Just another shove toward a massive king-sized bed. Someone's lying there, barely visible in the darkness. I stumble, my bad leg giving out, falling onto the mattress.

"Please," voice shaking, "my father will pay—"

I stop mid-sentence. Would Richard Blake pay a cent for me? Yeah, right.

The figure on the bed doesn't move. Dead? Unconscious? I edge toward freedom when a hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Strong. Too strong.

"Who are you?" Pulling back. "Let go!"

His grip tightens. "You'll know soon enough."

What happens next becomes a blur of struggle, resistance, and muffled screams against the soundproof walls of the hotel's VIP suite.

"I'll take responsibility." His voice breaks through my haze.

Slumped against the headboard. Body aching everywhere. The shadowy figure sits across the room watching me.

"Responsibility?" Grabbing the bedside lamp, hurling it at him. "Get away from me, you psycho!"

Pushing off the bed. Ignoring screaming muscles. Lunging for the door. My fingers touch the handle before darkness swallows me.

Waking up feels brutal. Every muscle screaming. Harvard's football team might as well have used me for practice. Different room now. Modern. Expensive. The sound of waves crashing outside.

"Finally awake."

Turning toward the voice. A man in a custom wheelchair by the window. Perfectly tailored suit. Sharp jaw. Piercing eyes. Somehow familiar.

Quick check of my clothes—silk pajamas. Apparently intact.

"Where am I? Who are you?" My voice stronger than expected.

"Jack Sterling," he answers, wheeling closer. "Welcome to my Cape Cod estate."

Who is this Jack Sterling? I don't know, and I don't want to. But anyone with a private island is clearly no ordinary person.

"Why did you kidnap me?" Fear turning to anger as memories return.

His mouth curves upward. "Kidnap? I brought my wife home. Problem with that?"

"Wife?" A harsh laugh escapes me. "I'm not your wife. Never even met you."

"Haven't you?" Rolling closer, invading my space. "Last night must not have been memorable. Bad for my ego."

Realization hits. The man in the bed. The hotel. Him.

"You—" Words failing. "I'm calling the police."

"For what?" Infuriatingly calm. "Taking my wife home after she passed out?"

"Stop saying that! I'm not your wife!" Searching frantically for my phone.

"Looking for this?" Holding up my iPhone. "Marcus charged it for you."

"Give it back. Now." Standing up, carefully favoring my bad leg.

Jack's eyes track my movement, face unreadable. "The Blake family's infamous second daughter. Up close at last."

"Just give me my phone," fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Why the rush? Worried someone's looking for you?" His gaze intense, assessing.

"My family will be concerned," I lie. The Blakes probably haven't even noticed I'm gone.

"Doubtful. I'm sure Kate Blake has everything under control." Something cold in his voice when mentioning her.

"You know Kate?" Suspicion rising.

"Everyone in Boston knows the Blakes. But I find you much more... interesting."

"I'm leaving. Now." Moving toward what I hope is the exit. "We're done."

"We've barely started, Ella." Voice dropping lower. "The Blakes have something I want."

"Stay away from me!"

Rushing through unfamiliar hallways. Where's the exit in this massive place? The ocean views confirm I'm nowhere near Boston—at least an hour away. No taxis, no Ubers this far out on Cape Cod.

Turning a corner, I collide with a wall of muscle. Looking up into the stoic face of a tall, imposing man.

"Ms. Blake," he says formally. "I'm Marcus, Mr. Sterling's secretary."

"I need to leave. Now." Determination in my voice.

"Of course. I can arrange transportation back to Boston," he answers professionally. "Mr. Sterling instructed me to assist you whenever you decided to—"

A pained shout echoes down the hallway.

Looking back, I see Jack at the end of the corridor, face twisted in agony, fingers pressing his temples as he slumps in his wheelchair.

"Sir!" Marcus rushes past me.

"Medication," Jack grinds out. "Get Dr. Phillips."

"He's out until tomorrow," Marcus says, panic in his voice.

Medical instincts kicking in despite A. "What's wrong with him?"

"Chronic migraines. Nothing helps." Marcus catches Jack as he nearly falls.

Kneeling beside the wheelchair. "How long has he had them?"

"Years. Getting worse." Each word costs Jack effort.

Fingers on his wrist, checking pulse. "Medical kit?"

Marcus points to a nearby room. Inside, basic supplies and unexpected acupressure tools.

"Keep him steady," switching to professional mode.

Working quickly, applying pressure to specific points on his temples. Combining Eastern pressure techniques with Western neurovascular therapy. Fingers moving with practiced precision, finding the pathways needing release.

"Breathe with me," guiding him. "Slow and deep."

Minutes passing in tense silence. Gradually, his pain lines ease. Breathing steadies. His eyes open, finding mine with unexpected clarity.

"How did you do that?" Marcus asks, amazed.

"Integrative medicine." Packing away tools, avoiding Jack's intense stare. "The migraine will return without regular treatment."

Jack watching me, something new in his eyes. "Where did you learn that?"

"Around." Standing to leave. "You're better now. I'm going."

"No." His voice stopping me cold. "We're just getting started."

"What else could you possibly want?"

"You saved me. I owe you." Eyes never leaving mine. "Or perhaps I should repay you differently."

"Don't need anything from you."

"You saved my life. I should marry you for that alone." The words hang between us, absurd yet somehow serious.

"Marry you?" Choking on a laugh. "Still delirious from pain?"

"Completely serious. Marry me, Ella."