THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET HEIR

Five years back, the rain was going absolutely nuts on the windows of this sketchy little bar by the sea—like, it sounded like the whole world was pissed off. Lena’s sitting there with a mug of suspiciously hot wine, trying to convince herself this medical conference in Argento Heights is the fresh start she desperately needs. Honestly, she just wanted to breathe for a minute, get away from her suffocating, paint-by-numbers life. Instead, she ends up more alone than ever, staring into her drink like it might give her answers.

Then this guy materializes out of nowhere—seriously, straight-up shadows-to-human transformation. Massive dude, but moves like a cat, which is weird for someone who looks like he could bench-press a truck. He’s got these eyes, glacier blue, cold and sharp, scanning the room like he’s bored and starving at the same time. And his suit? Probably cost more than Lena’s car.

He orders her a drink—tequila, the kind that feels like swallowing a dare—which, of course, she downs without a second thought. They talk. Well, not about normal stuff, like jobs or dreams, or hell, even their names. Nope. They dive straight into the deep end: philosophy, existential dread, how nice it must be to just disappear. It’s weirdly freeing and, honestly, kind of electric.

The air’s thick with this unspoken something, like gravity just got a little stronger between them. They both know where this is heading, and neither one tries to hit the brakes. Later, they’re in a hotel room, the sea still raging outside—rain going full percussion solo on the glass. Words stop. There’s just heat, hands, teeth, that wild rush that makes you forget who you are.

No promises, no sugar-coated lies. Just pure, raw need—two people hiding in the dark, grabbing at a little bit of oblivion together. Lena lets herself drown in him: the look in his eyes, the solid warmth of him, that dizzy smell of his skin.

By morning, the sky’s smeared with bruised colors, and, surprise surprise, he’s gone. Not a note, not even a damn text. Just the lingering scent of his cologne and the memory of his hands. She checks out, guilt gnawing at her gut, telling herself it was a one-off mistake—a secret she’ll bury so deep even she’ll forget it happened. She boards her flight, determined to leave ice-blue-eyes and their dangerous kiss in the past.

She almost pulls it off.

Right up until six weeks later, when two little pink lines flip her world inside out.

(Present Day)

Lena’s POV

My life? Oh, it's a circus—no, scratch that, it's a three-ring disaster with me playing every act at once. Double shifts, daycare dashes, bills that multiply like rabbits—honestly, I’m just waiting for the universe to send me a pie in the face for comedic effect. Today though? Extra spicy, thanks.

First, Mrs. Abernathy’s pampered poodle decided my new shoes were its chew toy. Great start. Then, the daycare rings—Noah’s “redecorating” the nap room with finger paint. Picasso, but make it chaos. And now? I’m sweating bullets, twenty minutes late to Noah’s Argento Heights Academy scholarship interview. My nerves? Yeah, they’re holding on by a thread thinner than the strap on my ancient purse.

I burst into the auditorium, gasping, half a granola bar clinging to my palm like that’s going to save me. The place is full of parents who look like they stepped out of a country club ad, their kids practically glowing with good behavior. Argento Heights—the kind of place that breeds future Fortune 500 CEOs and influencers’ kids. Noah, bless him, sticks out like a ketchup stain on a white sofa.

I scope the room and spot Mrs. Davies—the headmistress—her hair so perfectly coiffed it could probably deflect bullets. She waves me over with a smile that’s more Botox than warmth.

“Ms. Cruz, we’re just delighted you could make it,” she chirps, her voice dripping with that fake-sweet tone that makes my skin crawl. “We were just talking about Noah’s exceptional promise with Mr. Locke, our benefactor.”

Cue internal sirens. Locke. That name? Yeah, it’s basically branded into my brain from the hours I spent stalking old photos online, hoping I’d never see that face in real life again.

Mrs. Davies points, and I follow her gaze—bam. There he is, right by the stage. Damien Locke. Older now, all sharp lines and expensive tailoring, eyes like glaciers. If success had a poster boy, it’d be him. And I’m standing here, hoping the floor’ll swallow me.

My stomach does that Olympic-level somersault. Five years. No way. He wouldn’t—would he? God, please don’t let him remember me.

He doesn’t. Relief hits, but then, weirdly, disappointment nips at me. What’s wrong with me? Doesn’t matter. Focus. Danger is spelled D-A-M-I-E-N and he’s standing way too close to my son—the one he doesn’t even know exists.

I force a smile, trying to look like I didn’t just run through a wind tunnel. “Mr. Locke,” I say, somehow sounding like a functioning adult. “Thanks for supporting Noah. He can’t wait to start at Argento.”

He glances at me, coolly, like he’s checking out a chair he never noticed before. Zero recognition. I could be the janitor for all he knows.

“Ms. Cruz,” he replies—voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. Makes me shiver, not gonna lie. “It’s a pleasure to meet the mother of such a promising young student.”

Promising? Please. Noah’s not just promising, he’s a full-blown prodigy. Like I’m about to hand out compliments to this guy.

He turns back to Mrs. Davies. I let out a breath I’ve been holding since forever. Maybe, just maybe, I can dodge this whole mess. Maybe I can keep Noah safe from the storm that is Damien Locke.

But, obviously, the universe loves drama.

Mrs. Davies clears her throat. “Mr. Locke was just saying how impressed he is with Noah’s math abilities,” she says, practically sweating as her eyes dart between me and Damien. “He was particularly amazed by Noah’s solution to the Riemann Hypothesis.”

My jaw nearly hits the floor. Four years old and already blowing mathematicians’ minds? I knew my kid was special, but—damn.

Damien raises an eyebrow, almost smirking. “Quite extraordinary.”

He excuses himself and heads toward Noah, who’s currently annihilating a floral display on stage. Great. Panic claws at me—gotta intercept, but he’s faster. Damien kneels, eye-level with Noah, expression unreadable. There’s curiosity there, sure, but also something deeper, something that makes my heart trip over itself.

He asks, soft and almost gentle, “What’s your name, child?”

Noah beams at him, totally unfazed. Kid could charm a snake, honestly. And that smile—oh god, it’s Damien’s smile. I feel sick.

“Noah Cruz,” he says, clear as day. “My mom

says I’m a genius. Like my dad, even though I don’t know him.”