THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET BABY

Amara Cole had rehearsed this interview for three days. She had rehearsed how to smile, how to sit, how to say "I am a fast learner, I work very hard" without stammering. She had not rehearsed how to face Adrian Blackwood again. Three years. Three whole years she had tried to forget that night. The night that ruined her and saved her at the same time. Three years ago, she was twenty-one. A Newadult girl with no connections, working as a waitress at the Blackwood Hotel to pay her mother's hospital bills. Her uniform was too tight, her shoes had holes, but she smiled because she had to. That night, the hotel was hosting the annual Blackwood Group gala — the biggest event for the Wealthy Family that owned half of this Urban city. Every billionaire, every CEO, every socialite was there. Amara was not supposed to be there. She was just supposed to carry champagne. Until she spilled it. She spilled an entire tray of champagne on a rude guest who was shouting at her. The guest screamed. The manager screamed. Amara ran, humiliated, into the empty service corridor and cried behind the ice machine. That's where he found her. Adrian Blackwood. She had seen him only on magazines. Thirty years old. Hot. Handsome. The cold, arrogant CEO of Blackwood Group, the heir everyone whispered about. A man who never smiled. But that night, he wasn't cold. "Are you okay?" he had asked, kneeling beside her in his black tuxedo, offering her his handkerchief. She had stared at him. "I ruined everything." "You didn't. He was rude," he said. His voice was low, calm. "Breathe for me." No one had ever told her to breathe for them. He asked her name. Amara. He said it like he was testing it. He asked her to take a break. He brought her water. He listened while she talked about her sick mother, about school fees, about how she wanted to be a writer but ended up being a worker. One hour turned into two. He laughed — a short, real laugh — and she realized no one ever made him laugh. Then he said, "Do you want to get out of here for a while? My suite is quiet." She should have said no. She knew his reputation. Cold. Possessive. A man who never dated the same woman twice. But she was twenty-one, innocent, and for the first time that night, someone looked at her like she was pretty, like she mattered. She said yes. One night. In his penthouse suite overlooking the city. He was gentle at first, then possessive, whispering her name like it was a secret. She had never felt like that. She fell asleep on his chest, thinking maybe this was fated. She woke up at 5 a.m. to his voice on the phone, cold again. "Last night? It was nothing. Just a girl from the event." Just a girl. Her heart broke. She didn't cry. She put on her clothes, took the lipstick from his bathroom, and wrote on his mirror: _Don't look for me._ Then she ran. She never planned to see him again. Two months later, the test showed two lines. Pregnant. She tried to call the hotel. They said Mr. Blackwood had left for London. She tried to email. No reply. In the end, she kept the baby. Leo. Now Leo was two years and eight months old. A cute baby with too much attitude. With grey eyes that were too cold for his small face. With black hair and a frown that was exactly like his father's when he was angry. And now, with her mother in the hospital again and rent due in three days, Amara had no choice. Her best friend Zara had gotten her an interview at Blackwood Publishing, a small subsidiary of Blackwood Group. "Don't worry," Zara promised while bouncing Leo in the lobby of their small apartment. "Adrian Blackwood never goes to the publishing building. He only stays in the main tower. You will never see him. Just get the job, take the salary, and we will pay for Mama's drugs." Amara needed that job. Junior Editorial Assistant. $2000 a month. It would save them. So today, she wore her only good white shirt, packed Leo's bag, and took two buses to the publishing tower. She left Leo with Zara in the small lobby downstairs. "One hour, my love. Mama will be back fast, okay?" Leo clung to her leg. "Mama don't leave." "I won't," she whispered, kissing his soft hair. "Never." Her hands were shaking as she entered the elevator to the 32nd floor. The office was beautiful — urban, modern, quiet. A family-owned company poster was on the wall: _Blackwood: Where Stories Become Family._ "Amara Cole?" The receptionist smiled. "They are ready for you. Mr. Blackwood will interview you personally today." Amara's stomach dropped. "Mr. Blackwood? I thought Mrs. Linda—" "Mrs. Linda is on leave. The CEO insisted on doing all final interviews today. You're lucky, he's very handsome!" The doors to the glass boardroom opened. And there he was. Adrian Blackwood hadn't aged. He had become worse. More cold. More billionaire. More arrogant. More hot. A black suit that fit his tall, broad body perfectly. His hair was slightly longer, his jaw sharper. He was signing papers, his grey eyes focused, his expression that of a man who owned the world and was bored of it. He didn't look up. "You're late," he said, his voice low and commanding. Two other managers sat beside him, looking nervous. Amara couldn't breathe. Her legs turned to water. "I'm— I'm sorry— traffic—" Then he looked up. And everything stopped. His grey eyes — those cold grey eyes she saw every day in her son — locked on her face. For a second, there was nothing. Then confusion. Then shock. Then something dark and intense that made her skin burn. "You," he said quietly. The pen in his hand snapped. He stood up slowly. He was taller than she remembered. He walked around the long table, his eyes never leaving her. The room felt too small. "The waitress," he said, his voice so low only she could hear. "The girl who ran from my suite and left lipstick on my mirror." Amara's eyes filled with tears. "Mr. Blackwood..." "You think you can just disappear?" He was inches away now. She could smell his expensive, cold cologne — the same scent that haunted her dreams. "You spend one night in my bed, leave a stupid note, and vanish for three years?" "I had to," she whispered. He stared at her — at her pretty face that was thinner now, at her worker hands that were rough, at the innocent look she still had despite being an adult mother. He looked like he wanted to be angry, but his eyes kept searching her face. Then her phone buzzed in her hand. A loud, silly ringtone — _Baby Shark_ — Leo's favorite. The screen lit up. A photo Zara had just sent: Leo in the lobby, laughing, holding a toy car, his two small front teeth missing, his grey eyes shining. Adrian's gaze dropped. His entire body froze. He reached out — not asking — and grabbed her wrist gently but possessively to pull the phone closer. "Who is that?" His voice was no longer arrogant. It was steel. Dangerous. Amara panicked and snatched her phone back, holding it to her chest. "No one! My— my son!" The whole boardroom went silent. The two managers stared. "Your son," Adrian repeated slowly. He was still staring at where the phone had been. At those grey eyes. At that black hair. At that frown he saw in his own mirror every morning. "How old is he?" he asked. Amara lied, her voice shaking. "Two. He is two." Adrian's jaw clenched. That cold, billionaire mask cracked completely. "He doesn't look two, Amara," he said, and her name in his mouth made her shiver. "He looks almost three. He looks like he was born..." He did the math in his head, his eyes darkening. "...nine months after you left my bed." "No!" she whispered, tears falling. "Amara Cole," he said, louder now, so the whole room could hear the possessiveness. "In my office. Now." He turned to the other managers. "This interview is over. Everyone out. Clear my schedule." He picked up her file and walked to the door. Then he stopped and looked back at her, his grey eyes burning with fury, with shock, with something that looked almost like pain. He whispered so only she could hear: "You ran from me once. I let you. But you won't run again. Not with my son." He knew. God help her, he knew.