The Billionaire's Secret

Chapter 3

LUCID DREAMING

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The morning felt unexpectedly vacant, as if the vibrancy of the day had been stripped away. My son was already in Paris, enjoying time with his father and his stepmother, engaging in new adventures and experiences. Although I made a concerted effort to reassure myself that this separation was beneficial for his development, I could not shake the profound sense of emptiness that lingered throughout the house. The absence of his laughter and the daily routines we shared left a palpable silence that felt out of place.

In response to my emotional state, I called my office to inform them of my absence due to illness. I was struggling to feel like my usual self after Ray’s departure, grappling with a sense of disconnection and melancholy. As I considered the necessity of taking a day for myself, I deemed it a reasonable and responsible decision, allowing myself the space to process my feelings during this challenging time.

The day dragged on, moving at a lethargic pace that mirrored my heavy mood. I lay sprawled across my bed, the soft sheets enveloping me like a comfortable cocoon, as I absentmindedly scrolled through my phone. Each swipe through social media felt more like a chore than a distraction.

Suddenly, a notification broke the silence. It was a message from Alicia:

“Hey, do you want to join me at the gym? I need a partner today.”

I stared at the screen, the words hovering in front of me, their meaning sinking in slowly. On one hand, the idea of having company sounded appealing; the thought of laughter and light conversation promised a welcome escape from the solitude of my room.

On the other hand, I hesitated. The comfort of my familiar surroundings felt safe, and the thought of leaving that cocoon filled me with a sense of reluctance.

But deep down, I realized that remaining here would only plunge me deeper into the murky waters of my own thoughts. The weight of my internal struggles loomed larger, and I knew that immersing myself in the gym’s energy might be just what I needed to lift my spirits. With a deep breath, I took a moment to consider my options.

“Don’t laugh at me. I may not be in great shape.” I replied, trying to mask the nervous flutter in my stomach.

In response, a laughing emoji flickered across my screen, followed by a message with the gym's address. I let out a heavy sigh, mustering the will to get up from the couch. With a glance in the mirror, I tossed on some workout gear—an old tank top that hung a little loose around my waist and my trusty, albeit worn, leggings.

As I pushed through the heavy gym doors, the atmosphere hit me like a wave. The cacophony of metal clinking against metal, the pulsating beat of the music reverberating through my bones, and the rhythmic grunts of dedicated gym-goers fueled a mix of excitement and anxiety within me. I felt out of place but pushed those thoughts aside.

In the midst of the chaos, Alicia stood out like a beacon. She waved enthusiastically from her spot on the stationary bike, her ponytail swinging energetically with every pedal, her smile bright enough to cut through the din.

Seeing her there, radiating energy and enthusiasm, filled me with a surge of motivation I didn’t realize I needed. I paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and steeled myself for the challenge ahead as I made my way across the gym floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and determination, but her presence made it feel a bit warmer, more inviting.

“You came!” she beamed, her smile bright enough to cut through any lingering doubt. “We’ll start light,” she added, her tone filled with reassurance.

We began with stretches, her guidance transforming the familiar movements into something almost meditative.

The rhythmic flow of our warm-ups became a welcome distraction from my cluttered mind. For those fleeting moments, it felt like life was returning to something resembling normalcy.

Midway through a set of squats, as I focused on my form, she suddenly paused and squinted at me. “Hold on… What’s that?” Her eyes were locked onto my wrist, an unwavering gaze that sent a jolt of panic through me.

My heart raced, and everything else around us faded into a dull roar.

She stepped closer, the warmth of her presence contrasting sharply with the chill running down my spine as she gently grasped my arm. In that moment, the scars, like unwelcome memories, were laid bare.

“Did you fall?” she asked, her voice low and tinged with genuine concern.

Her brows furrowed slightly as her gaze swept over the fresh bruises decorating his arms, a vivid testament to his mishap. “This looks… recent,” she continued, her words hanging in the air like a fog, heavy with the weight of unsaid thoughts and unshared stories.

The dim light in the room cast shadows on her worried expression, accentuating the empathy that glimmered in her eyes.

Her voice, a delicate blend of softness and suspicion, echoed the tone a friend adopts when teetering on the edge of a sensitive revelation, bracing themselves to confront a truth they fear may sting.

I swallowed hard, the sudden dryness of my throat making every word feel like a careful step on shaky ground.

“I… sleepwalk,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper, a wave of shame washing over me. It had become an unsettlingly familiar habit, a haunting shadow of my nights.

Alicia's eyebrows knitted together, a clear sign of her concern. Her gaze remained fixed on the faint, jagged lines on my wrist, as if they held the secrets of an unseen struggle.

I took a deep breath, the air heavy with the weight of my confession.

“Last night, I ended up on the balcony,” I admitted, the memory flashing vividly in my mind.

“I almost fell off. I scratched my head, trying to recall how I got there.” My heart raced at the thought of the dangers lurking in my own unconsciousness.

Alicia moved closer, her demeanor softening further as she leaned in, her eyes searching mine for answers. “Is it frequent?” she asked, her voice steady yet laden with empathy.

“Most of my nights are terrifying,” I admitted, the truth spilling out like a flood. The shadows of those midnight episodes gripped me tightly as I spoke, each night a fresh battle against the phantoms of my own making.

Alicia remained silent for a moment, her expression contemplative as if she were analyzing the silences nestled between my words.

Then, unexpectedly, she offered a thought that seemed to shift the air around us. “You can control your dreams,” she said.

Her words hung in the air between us, a fragile glimmer of hope battling against the tumultuous waves of my deepest fears. I blinked, trying to make sense of her cryptic statement.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, my voice quivering with uncertainty. The notion of control felt foreign to me, almost mocking, as my dreams often felt like wild, untamed beasts, dragging me through a landscape of chaos and confusion, scarce of direction.

I hesitated, searching her expression for any sign of judgment or disapproval, yet all I found was a calm certainty that radiated from her. It was as if she held an unshakeable belief in the possibility of reclaiming my thoughts, like a lighthouse guiding a ship lost in the storm.

In that moment, I felt a strange mix of vulnerability and hope, unsure whether to embrace her conviction or retreat into my familiar shadows.

She picked up her phone and murmured almost under her breath, “It’s almost time.”

I blinked in confusion, curiosity stirring within me, but before I could voice my question, she shot me a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on, I’ll take you to my place,” she offered. I hesitated only for a moment before agreeing, intrigued by the mystery in her tone.

As we arrived, my breath caught in my throat.

It was a penthouse. Not just any penthouse, mind you—this was the kind of place you typically see gracing the pages of high-end lifestyle magazines or in glamorous films where billionaires lounge casually, overlooking the twinkling cityscape from sweeping, glass windows.

This was a level of luxury that felt almost otherworldly, the kind of home you don’t just step into—you enter with a hushed reverence.

Damn, I realized, Kelvin Wellington is not just wealthy; he is a billionaire.

As she guided me through the expansive layout, it felt less like a tour and more like an invitation into an exclusive club. The marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of exquisite chandeliers, each step echoing as if the house itself were alive with a rich history.

The ceilings soared so high they seemed to touch the heavens, adorned with intricate moldings that would have made any architect weep with envy. The art pieces scattered throughout didn’t merely adorn the walls; they commanded the room, each telling a story that tugged at my mind.

Then my gaze landed on something that made my heart skip a beat.

In the living room, prominently displayed was a large framed photograph of Alicia and Kelvin. Their smiles were pristine, their posture immaculate—every inch the perfect couple. But I couldn’t shake the memory of the tension I had glimpsed in Alicia’s eyes earlier. Something about this picture felt dissonant, as if it were a mask concealing deeper truths.

Eventually, we ventured down to the basement, where the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with an unshakeable feeling, and that’s when I saw it.

A painting on the wall, depicting a forest that was anything but serene. There was an unsettling quality to it, as if some unseen fire scorched the trees, their twisted branches reaching toward the sky in silent agony.

Nestled within that chaotic landscape was a lovely house, appearing almost idyllic beside a well, yet the ominous backdrop cast a shadow over it.

I moved closer, feeling an irresistible pull drawing me in.

“What painting is this?” I asked breathlessly, unable to look away from the haunting image before me.

The painting stared back at me, almost like it held the answers she wasn’t ready to say.

She hesitated, pausing for what felt like a breath, but it was a moment heavy with meaning. It was enough to convey that this story mattered deeply to her.

“That,” she said quietly, her eyes momentarily distant, “is where my parents lived. The house burned down during a fire outbreak, and they were trapped inside.”

Her words landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of sorrow through the air. The sadness in her voice starkly contrasted with the luxury that surrounded us—plush furnishings, shimmering views of the city skyline, and the faint scent of expensive perfume wafting from somewhere nearby. It was a raw, unpolished confession, revealing the heartache she carried under the surface.

A flood of questions swirled in my mind, threatening to overwhelm me as much as the fresh air filled my lungs.

Why had she brought me here, to this opulent place, when the memory seemed so painful?