A Billionaire's Prize

ChapterOne

Five years is a long time to bury a secret.

Long enough to pretend the past never happened. Long enough to rebuild a life from the ground up, piece by piece, until the woman in the mirror no longer resembles the broken girl who walked away from the only man she ever truly loved.

But not long enough to forget.

The memory of Noah Carter clings to me like a phantom limb—something I can’t see but still feel in the ache of my bones when the night gets too quiet. He’s in the curve of a stranger’s jawline, the sound of a laugh in a crowded subway station, the ghosts that visit me when I least expect them.

He’s everywhere and nowhere.

Just like the child we lost.

I shift my gaze to the blueprints spread across the conference table, trying to concentrate. The West 49th project is supposed to be my crown jewel—the luxury residential redesign that finally cements Montgomery & Lane Interiors as one of the top firms in Manhattan. Months of negotiation, custom finishes, exclusive vendors. The kind of opportunity Cassie and I used to dream about over boxed wine and secondhand coffee tables.

But today, my fingers tremble slightly as I trace a pencil across the mockup of the penthouse living room. Something feels off. Static in the air.

“Earth to Ava,” Cassie says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “You zoning out on me again?”

I blink. “Sorry. Just tired. Long night.”

Cassie gives me that look—the one where her eyes narrow slightly and her hands find her hips. With her fiery red curls, tailored jumpsuit, and unapologetic attitude, she could pass for an off-duty runway model who moonlights as a mob boss.

“You’re not sleeping again, are you?”

I offer a noncommittal shrug. “Define ‘sleeping.’”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say melatonin and I am in a toxic relationship.”

Cassie sighs, softening. “You’ve gotta stop letting ghosts haunt you, Ava. He’s not here. You don’t owe him anything anymore.”

But that’s the thing. I do.

I owe Noah Carter the truth.

I just never dared to give it to him.

Before I can answer, the door opens and our project coordinator, Amelia, pokes her head in. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but the client for the 49th Street penthouse just approved the final contract. They want to schedule a meeting this Friday at their office to go over the design vision and timeline.”

My eyebrows rise. “This Friday? That’s fast.”

Amelia nods. “The CEO’s schedule opened up, and he wants to meet the designer personally.”

Cassie and I exchange a glance.

That’s… unusual. CEOs of multi-million-dollar firms rarely bother with interior design meetings—unless they have control issues or egos the size of the Empire State Building.

Still, I school my face into calm professionalism. “Okay. Send me the meeting details.”

As Amelia leaves, Cassie raises a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Big-shot CEO wants to micromanage his velvet armchairs? Yep.”

“Bet he’s balding with a god complex and three divorces.”

“Sounds about right,” I smirk. “I’ll charm him into submission.”

Cassie grins. “There’s my girl.”

But deep down, something twists in my gut. A premonition.

I’ve learned to listen to those.

Friday arrives in a blur of mood boards, phone calls, and triple-shot lattes. By the time I reach the towering steel-and-glass building in Midtown, I’m running on caffeine and nerves.

I check in at the reception desk, smooth down my silk blouse, and mentally rehearse my talking points. Focus on the design. Stay professional. Impress the client. Easy.

The elevator opens with a soft ding on the top floor. A woman in a sleek gray suit with perfect posture and a face carved out of frost greets me.

“You’re Ms. Montgomery?” she asks without smiling.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Elaine Carter. I’m the executive liaison for Carter Developments.”

Carter?

The name hits me like a slap I didn’t see coming. My stomach drops. My breath falters.

Elaine doesn’t flinch. If she recognizes me, she doesn’t show it. But her icy blue eyes scan me with clinical precision. “Right this way. Mr. Carter is expecting you.”

Mr. Carter.

No. It can’t be.

There are a million Carters in New York. It’s a common name.

It can’t be him.

Except my legs are already lead, my heart racing in a way it hasn’t in years. I follow her down the hallway, past glass offices and minimalist art, every step echoing louder than the last.

And then she opens the door.

And my world stops.

He’s standing behind a glass desk, back turned, sleeves rolled up, staring out at the skyline like he owns it. Which, knowing Noah Carter, he probably does.

His hair is darker now, shorter, styled in that effortlessly tousled way he used to hate. He’s taller than I remember—or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself, with quiet power and unshakable presence.

And then he turns.

Our eyes meet.

Sharp blue. Wounded. Disbelieving.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air thickens. Everything else—the room, the skyline, Elaine’s stiff posture—fades into silence.

“Ava,” he says, his voice low, unreadable.

He says my name like a weapon. Like a prayer.

And just like that, my carefully built world begins to splinter.

I don’t sit. Neither does he.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says after a beat.

“I didn’t know you were the client,” I reply, my voice tighter than I intended.

He studies me. Not just my face—but all of me. Like he’s trying to reconcile the ghost of the girl who left with the woman standing in front of him now.

“You’re an interior designer.”

“I run a firm.”

“Impressive,” he says flatly.

We’re dancing around landmines, pretending there aren’t five years of heartbreak between us. Pretending he didn’t once trace every inch of my skin like it held the answers to his future.

He gestures toward the project folder on his desk. “You’re here about the West 49th property.”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s keep this professional.”

His tone cuts through me. It’s not angry. It’s worse. It’s controlled.

I nod, forcing composure. “Of course.”

He walks around the desk and hands me the floor plans. His fingers brush mine briefly—just a second—but it’s enough to send a jolt straight through my spine. He notices it too. His jaw tightens.

“The penthouse has a good foundation,” I say, flipping through the notes. “But the interior lacks warmth. It feels cold.”

His gaze is unreadable. “Maybe that’s the point.”

I look up, startled by the bitterness in his voice. But it’s gone just as fast.

We talk business for twenty minutes. I suggest layouts, he critiques finishes. Every word feels like a battle of restraint. My pulse thrums with everything unsaid.

Finally, he closes the folder and says, “We’ll proceed with your firm. But I’ll be involved in all major decisions.”

A power play. I expected it. “Understood.”

He walks me to the door. Just as I reach for the handle, his voice stops me.

“Why did you leave, Ava?”

I freeze.

My back is to him. I can feel his eyes boring into me.

“I thought we were past that,” I manage.

“We never even started that conversation.”

I turn slowly. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—those storm-blue eyes—are on fire with barely restrained emotion.

“You disappeared,” he says. “No explanation. No goodbye. You just vanished. And now, five years later, you show up in my office like nothing happened.”

My throat tightens. “You’re right. You deserve answers.”

“Then give me one,” he demands, stepping closer. “One real reason.”

I open my mouth—but the lie catches in my throat.

Because I was pregnant.

Because I lost our baby.

Because I didn’t know how to stay without destroying you.

But all I say is, “It’s complicated.”

He exhales harshly and turns away. “Of course it is.”

I reach for the door again, and this time he doesn’t stop me.

As I walk into the hall, my phone buzzes. A new message.

Unknown number.

I swipe to open it—an

d my blood runs cold.

“Does Noah know about the baby you lost?”

The phone slips from my fingers.