The Ultimate Billionaire Romance Bundle

The office hums around me—phones, keyboards, too much light. My pulse keeps time with the printer, quick and uneven.

My boss doesn’t even look up when he says it.

“If you leave now, don’t even think about coming back.”

The words land like a door closing inside me. I can feel the heat crawl up my neck, the tremor in my hands. 

I want to answer, to defend myself, but my voice has vanished somewhere behind my ribs.

I grab my bag, nearly knock my coffee over, and walk out before he can see the shine in my eyes.

The elevator smells of paper and toner. My reflection is ghost-pale in the metal wall. I press my lips together, hard, trying not to cry. 

The doors open and the world feels too bright, too loud, too fast.

Outside, traffic seethes. The air tastes of asphalt and exhaust. I call the school. Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing.

Ten minutes. Nine. Eight.

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, willing the cars to move. My throat burns. She’ll be waiting, backpack on, scanning the curb for a car that isn’t there.

My phone is slick in my hand. His name sits there like a dare. One date. One perfect, disorienting night. He’d listened. Really listened. And now I’m about to ask for something I have no right to ask.

I type the message: Can you pick her up? Please.

The reply comes before the guilt can swallow me. I’ll be there in 5.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Then I hear it—the distant thrum that starts as vibration in my chest and grows into a roar that swallows the city noise.

Heads tilt skyward. A helicopter, silver against the blue, the sun flashing off its blades. His name in black lettering, unmistakable. The sound alone makes my eyes sting.

By the time I reach the field, the blades are slowing, scattering dust and laughter. The air smells of fuel and cut grass, sharp and sweet.

She’s there—my daughter—laughing, chocolate streaking her cheek, her small body trembling with excitement.

And him. Kneeling, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, a smudge of chocolate on his nose where she must have touched him.

Something inside me folds.

She spots me and runs, legs pumping, ice cream melting over her wrist. I drop to my knees to catch her, the impact of her joy knocking the breath from my chest.

“Mom, he brought me toys,” she says, words tumbling through giggles.

I press my face into her hair, breathing her in, the scent of sugar and sunshine and safety.

When I look up, he’s watching. Not smiling exactly—just looking, like he’s seeing more than he should. The breeze lifts his hair, tugs at his shirt. There’s a stillness around him that feels dangerous, or maybe safe—I can’t tell which.

He crosses the grass, slow, deliberate. Each step winds something tighter inside me. He stops close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the faint smell of jet fuel and cedar.

His gaze dips to my mouth, then back to my eyes, as he growls,

“Next time, you call me first.”