The Billionaire’s Hidden Heir

The offer

Ava

It’s funny how grief doesn’t always hit like a train.

Sometimes it leaks.

Like the way my hand trembled while unlocking my apartment door that night. Or the moment I stood in front of my mirror, pressed both palms to my still-flat belly, and whispered, “I’m sorry you have him as a father.”

Then I crumbled to the floor.

Not in dramatic sobs.

Just a quiet, heaving silence.

The kind that hurts more because it sounds like nothing.

Tasha showed up the next morning, uninvited as always, armed with oat milk, croissants, and the kind of fury only a best friend can carry on your behalf.

“You should’ve slapped him,” she hissed, handing me a warm paper bag. “And then kneed him in the gold-plated balls.”

“I think they’re titanium,” I muttered, half-joking, half-dead.

She stared at me for a long second before softening. “You okay?”

“I will be,” I lied.

We both knew it.

I didn’t hear from Ethan.

Not that I expected to.

I had imagined—ridiculously—that he might have a change of heart. That he might call. Send an email. A freaking carrier pigeon.

But he didn’t.

He went on living his billionaire life, giving keynote speeches, launching new product lines, and making women swoon with that glacier-cold charm. Meanwhile, I was vomiting every morning and crying into baby name books like a hormonal soap opera character.

Lana.

It still felt right.

Even after what happened.

Especially after.

Because she had to be more than just a reminder of a night gone wrong. She had to mean something.

It wasn’t until a week later that I got the call.

Unknown number. Manhattan area code. I answered on instinct.

“This is Claire,” said the voice on the other end, crisp and efficient. “Mr. Cross would like to see you today. 4 PM. Same office.”

My heart thudded. “Why?”

“He’ll explain in person.”

Then click. Call ended.

Tasha begged me not to go. She even tried to fake labor pains just to stop me.

“He already dismissed you once,” she warned. “What makes you think this isn’t just more emotional damage waiting to happen?”

I didn’t know.

But there was something in Claire’s tone—less assistant, more executive order—that made my curiosity outweigh my pride.

So, I went.

The office looked the same. Cold. Immaculate. Intimidating.

But Ethan looked… different.

Tired, maybe. Or conflicted.

He stood when I entered this time. A gesture so out of character it made me pause in the doorway.

“Sit,” he said.

I did. Warily.

He took a deep breath and clasped his hands on the desk.

“My lawyers think it’s best if we resolve this quietly.”

My stomach dropped.

“Resolve what?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“The baby.”

I flinched.

He noticed. Of course he did. That man didn’t miss anything. Emotions were data points to him—weaknesses to be measured and calculated.

“I’m not asking for anything,” I said quickly. “I told you that. I’m not after your money.”

“That’s not the problem,” he replied.

“Then what is?”

He stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the skyline like it held answers.

“You’re not the only one with something to lose,” he said. “If the press finds out I knocked up a woman after a party and abandoned her…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

The words burned between us.

“You’re worried about your image,” I said flatly.

“Yes.”

“And your solution is…?”

He turned then. Face calm. Voice colder.

“A marriage contract.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“A legal, temporary arrangement. We marry—publicly. You move in. We keep up appearances. The baby is legitimized. My reputation is intact. And you receive full financial support for the duration of the contract.”

I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or throw the chair at him.

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke.”

“Right,” I said. “Because feelings are inconvenient for men like you.”

“This has nothing to do with feelings.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

He handed me a thick file. I didn’t take it.

“Two years,” he said. “That’s the minimum requirement for public perception. After that, we divorced quietly. You walk away with a settlement and full custody. No scandals. No courtroom fights.”

I shook my head. “And what do I tell my child? That I married her father because he didn’t want to look bad?”

“You tell her we tried.”

My eyes burned. “Did you?”

He looked at me then—just for a moment—with something that almost looked like regret.

“No,” he said. “But I’m willing to now.”

Two Hours Later – My Apartment

Tasha read through the contract like a woman possessed.

Her eyes widened at the clause about a monthly stipend. Narrowed at the NDA. Paused at the line item about “marital intimacy not required but permitted by mutual consent.”

“This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever read,” she deadpanned.

I threw a pillow at her.

“I can’t do this, Tash. It’s insane.”

She set the contract down.

“Do you want him?”

“No.”

“Do you love him?”

I blinked. “No.”

“Then it’s not a marriage. It’s a business deal. And business deals have exit strategies.”

I sat down beside her, hugging a throw pillow to my chest.

“I don’t want to be someone’s transaction.”

“You already were,” she whispered. “Now at least you get a say.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

I watched the ceiling. Rubbed my belly. Listened to the wind outside and wondered what kind of world I was about to bring my child into.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

No one dreams of being a contract wife to a billionaire who doesn’t even like you.

But no one dreams of being a single mother to a child whose father denied her existence, either.

So maybe this was survival. Maybe this was the best worst decision I could make.

I called Claire in the morning.

“I’ll sign it,” I said.

Diary Entry – The Next Day

Dear Lana,

I wish you could’ve had a better love story.

A meet-cute at a bookstore. A dad who smiled when he first felt you kick.

But instead, you have a contract.

A signature. A deal.

And maybe—just maybe—chance for something better than what we started with.

Ava