Billionaire secret baby, Age gap

Chapter 1

Arin

“F**K YOU, YOU CHEATING SCUMBAG!”

This isn’t one of my prouder moments. But everybody has their limits, and I’m no exception.

“Marina, calm down,” Corey says over the phone, his voice anything but soothing. “You need to give me a chance to explain.”

“Explain?” I echo, incredulous. “What’s there to explain? I caught you sleeping with our wedding planner hours before our wedding!”

People are full-on staring now, not that I can blame them. I’d stare, too, if some teary-eyed, hysterical lady was cussing her ex-fiancé up and down in the middle of the airport’s first-class lounge.

This is a nice place, complete with complimentary buffet and champagne, luxuriously spacious leather seats, and massive flatscreens everywhere to entertain you while waiting for your flight. And then there’s me, hair still up in partial curls and my mascara all runny, ruining the hours I spent in the makeup chair transforming myself into a blushing bride.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In another universe, Corey would be at my side, waiting for our first-class flight to Hawaii for our month-long honeymoon. A weaker person might go home, hide in shame and humiliation at having been told the groom was caught fucking the wedding planner on the church organ’s keys.

Except I don’t have a home to go back to. The house was given to him by his parents. The car’s in his name. Every small comfort I took for granted before was only possible because Corey paid for them. After we graduated from high school, he promised to provide. Filled my head with stupid ideas of how he’d go off to work and make all the money, that I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. He said he didn’t like the thought of me having to work. He’d take care of everything. He’d take care of me.

Stupid, I know. So fucking stupid, but hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

Screw him.

“You’re being emotional, Arin,” Corey says bitterly. “Just come home so we can work things out. You’re not going on our fucking honeymoon without me.”

“Watch me.”

“Jesus Christ, Arin. You’re overreacting.”

“Do you really think I’m going to let you gaslight me into thinking any of this is okay?”

“I can’t talk to you when you get like this.” “Get like what? Justifiably angry?”

“Look, I’m under a lot of pressure, okay? All this wedding planning shit… I’ve been so stressed out.”

“I’ve been stressed out too, Corey, but guess which one of us had enough goddamn self-control to keep their legs shut!”

“I made a mistake, alright? Would you just come home so we can figure this out?”

“Fuck no! I never want to see your face again!”

“So you’re just never coming back? You need me, Arin. How are you going to support yourself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll finally put myself through fashion school. My inheritance from Granny Ruth has been sitting there for me for years. It’s about time I use it.”

“Not again with this stupid fashion school nonsense! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. There’s no fucking way you’re going to make a living as a designer!”

I take a deep breath, so angry I can feel my pulse vibrating through my teeth. I genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, thought Corey was my one.

But this betrayal cuts too deep. My pride’s bruised black and blue, and I’m nowhere close to giving him even an ounce of forgiveness.

“Here’s an idea, Corey,” I say firmly and clearly. “Shove your hand so far up your own ass that you can give yourself a handshake, m’kay?”

I hang up, numb from head to toe. My cheeks are warm, my eyes puffy from crying. A few people in the lounge are nice enough to give me pitying looks. Some of them whisper, others shoot judgmental glances in my direction. I clearly don’t fit in here, but I’m not going anywhere. If I’m not going to enjoy a fairytale wedding, I’m sure as hell going to treat myself to the all-you-can-eat shrimp, margaritas, and palm-sized lemon cakes they’re

serving for free here.

Beside me, a low chuckle catches my attention.

The table next to mine is occupied by a man in a sharp black suit and polished leather shoes. I peek at him through my clumped lashes, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. My mouth goes dry when I manage to get a good look at him.

Hot damn, now he belongs in first class.

He’s older than me, maybe in his late thirties? Dark brown hair like a steaming cup of coffee. Deep, dark eyes that lure you to their depths, an endless abyss that I’m curious to explore. He’s got strong shoulders and a wide chest, and his arms are so big I can see the curves of his defined muscles beneath the straining fabric of his suit jacket. He looks the part of a businessman, but there’s something… gruffer underneath.

Dangerous.

I don’t know what it is. There’s an intensity to him, like he’s seen some shit and lived to tell the tale. Equal parts mesmerizing and intimidating, raw strength bundled up in an understated yet respectable package. Now I’m staring. My heart stutters when his eyes lock onto mine, an immediate and almost overwhelming heat shooting down to pool between my legs.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. I can’t. He’s just too handsome, too mysterious.

And he’s laughing at me.

“What?” I demand, hating how my voice comes out all squeaky. “You need to work on your trash talk.”

A shiver slithers down my spine, goosebumps crawling down the length of my arms. His voice. Deep and rich, so low I can feel his words vibrate in the pit of my stomach. It’s enough to leave me breathless and my brain blank. I have no clue what I’m supposed to say.

Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything because he makes the first move, reaching into his inner pocket to pull out a handkerchief. The corner is embroidered in delicate burgundy thread, the initials DC decorating the corner.

Talk about fancy. Who casually carries around handkerchiefs these days? “The wedding planner on your wedding day,” he comments once I’ve

taken the handkerchief from him. “That’s low.” I frown. “You heard that, huh?”

“Hard not to.”

Wiping my eyes, I briefly wonder if I’m one of those girls who can pull off the hot mess aesthetic. Signs point to unlikely. As if these last forty-eight hours haven’t been mortifying enough, I now find myself sitting not five feet away from one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on and I look like shit.

Hey God, it’s me. Would you mind —oh, I don’t know— giving me a break?

“You’re better off without him,” the stranger says.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I want right now are unsolicited comments about my crumbling personal life. Instead of telling him to mind his own business, I say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll be fine.”

His response is blunt, but it isn’t exactly harsh. I actually appreciate his directness. I can’t count how many people have tried to console me, coddle me, spew all sorts of Pinterest quote board BS about how love is a journey, how marriage takes work and blah blah blah. Buddy over here is the first person since my disastrous would-be wedding to give me a straight answer.

“I just don’t get it,” I mumble, scrunching up the soft silk of the handkerchief in my hands. “It was his idea to get married so soon. He clearly wasn’t ready, so why…” I shake my head. “Sorry. You probably have a flight to catch. I won’t keep you.”

He glances at his wristwatch, and I notice how big his hands are. Thick knuckles, beefy wrists. I catch a glimpse of ink gracing his skin, but it disappears beneath the crisp cuff of his sleeve. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t…” He arches a brow slightly, expectant.

“Marina,” I supply. “My friends call me Arin.”

He doesn’t smile, but I swear I catch a glimmer of something in those dark eyes of his. “Marina,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. “A pleasure.”

I snort, too exhausted to worry about sounding foolish. If I haven’t scared him off already, I doubt my dumb laugh will do the trick. “And you?” I ask. “Do you have a name, or are you trying hard to keep up your international man of mystery vibe?”

The corner of his lips tick up into the smallest of amused grins. He sticks his hand out to shake, easily enveloping my smaller one. His palms are deliciously rough. For a moment, I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around more than just my fingers. My skin tingles at the thought of his hands

gently gripping my knee, slipping beneath my shirt… “Dominic,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I smile. The name suits him. “Dominic,” I repeat. “So, where are you flying off to today?”

“Milan, and then a quick stop in Sicily.” “Business or pleasure?”

“A little of both.”

I nod slowly. “Got a girlfriend waiting for you over there?” “What gave you that impression?”

“Well, you’re not wearing a ring, so I assumed…”

Now he grins for real, the sight so unexpectedly charming I forget my train of thought. “Is this your roundabout way of asking me if I’m single, Marina?”

I clear my throat, heart pounding in my ear. What am I doing? Why is it suddenly so hot in here? You’d think a first-class lounge could afford proper air conditioning.

“Can’t a girl be curious?” I ask, arching a brow.

“I’m not attached,” is his vague answer. “And what about you?” “Oh, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m very single right now.”

He chuckles again, the sound once again making my knees tremble with burning desire. What is it about this man that makes me want to melt into a puddle? “No, I meant where are you flying off to?”

My cheeks warm, though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m embarrassed or insanely turned on. “Hawaii. I’m going on what’s supposed to be my honeymoon.”

Dominic clicks his tongue in disapproval. “What a shame.” “What is?”

He tilts his head to the side slightly and regards me, his intense dark eyes sweeping over me slowly. It’s amazing how naked I feel beneath his observant gaze. I feel like he can see right through me, can see every minute breath and small shift of muscle and maybe even read my thoughts. Nervous excitement crackles inside me; the air around us is thick and tense. When I nibble my bottom lip, his eyes dart to watch the motion with an almost hungry darkness.

“A beautiful woman,” he says, “all alone in a romantic place. Your ex is a damn fool for treating you this way.”

I’m the first to glance away, unwilling to let this man see me cry. I’ve

known him for less than ten minutes, but there’s no denying how easily he sees me. I’m an exposed nerve, yet I trust him to be nearby. Maybe it’s because we’re basically strangers and that’s why I can afford to be so open with him. Anonymity can be liberating that way. That, and I can’t stop thinking about how it might feel to just let it all go.

I want to forget all about my disastrous wedding, my cheating fiancé, my lack of direction or plans for the future. I thought I was all set for a picture- perfect life, complete with house in the suburbs, a white picket fence, and a couple of kids running around. Now that it’s all gone straight out the window, I’m suddenly aware of how free I am.

Free to make mistakes and learn from them. Free to live for myself. Free to look into the future and do whatever I want. I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman capable of making my own decisions—screw what anybody else has to say about that. And right now, what I want is to listen to my body.

My body aches for more. I crave his hands on me, his lips. My fingers itch to know what his hair feels like, if his body is as hard and muscular as it looks. I want to lean in and press my mouth to his. After almost five years of only knowing Corey’s touch, I want to erase him completely from my mind, even if only for a little while.

“Dominic?” “Hm?”

I lick my lips, hesitant. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I can tell by the way he leans forward and hangs on my every word that I’m not crazy. He feels it, too, this pull toward one another.

“When’s your flight?” I ask him before my nerves give out. “Not for a couple of hours. You?”

“Same.”

“Hm.” Dominic nods once, as if reading my mind. “Come with me. I’m going to help you forget all about that cheating fiancé of yours.”