The Billionaire’s Hidden Son

Chapter4:Come back to me

My breath hitched in my throat as I unfolded the heavy parchment paper, my thumb tracing over the dark, sharp ink.

If you are reading this, do not attempt to look for me. The envelope contains enough capital to secure a quiet life under a new name. Forget that night ever happened. For your own safety, never contact Vane Enterprise.

— E.V.

The words blurred before my eyes, yet I could still read every cruel letter.

Never contact Vane Enterprise.

Desperate denial drowned out every rational thought. He couldn’t just leave a note and erase me from his life. He had a right to know. I needed to hear his voice—to tell him that this wasn't about money, that everything had changed.

My hands shook violently as I pulled up a browser on my laptop and typed his name into the search bar: Ethan Vane. Vane Enterprise headquarters.

The search results were nothing but corporate headlines, billion-dollar mergers, stock reports, and polished photographs of Ethan in tailored black suits. There wasn’t a single personal email or direct number anywhere on the screen.

Desperate, I grabbed my cheap burner phone and dialed the main corporate switchboard number listed on the Vane Enterprise public contact page.

Ring... Ring...

"Vane Enterprise corporate headquarters, how may I direct your call?" an automated, overly polished voice answered.

"I—I need to speak with Ethan Vane," I said, my voice rising in pitch. "Please, it's urgent."

"Connecting you to executive administrative services."

A second later, a sharp, cold receptionist came on the line. "Office of the CEO. Do you have a scheduled appointment or executive access code?"

"No, but please, I just need two minutes with him," I pleaded, pressing the phone tight against my ear. "Tell him it's Hennessy. Just say my name, please, he knows me—"

"Miss, Mr. Vane is currently in closed-door board meetings and does not take unscheduled personal calls," the woman interrupted smoothly. "Have a good day."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stared at the silent phone, waiting for it to ring back, as though someone might realize they had made a mistake. When nothing happened, I swallowed hard and dialed again with shaking fingers.

This time, the automated system routed the line immediately to a generic executive voicemail box that cut off after three seconds with a dull, flat tone.

I hit redial instantly. On my third attempt, a different assistant answered, her tone exhausted before I could even draw a breath. "Ma'am, if you do not have an internal extension or press clearance, I cannot patch you through. Please clear the line."

"Wait—" I started, but she hung up mid-word.

On my fourth attempt, the line didn't even reach a person. A stern security operator took the call directly. "Ma'am, this number has called executive routing four times in ten minutes. If you continue to spam this line without credentials, we will log this call as a security threat and trace the line."

My hand went limp. I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear as the line disconnected for the final time.

The truth crashed into me with crushing certainty. Ethan Vane was a ghost wrapped in layers of billionaire security, lawyers, and public relations teams. He was protected from the rest of the world—and especially from someone like me.

The frantic energy drained right out of my body, leaving only a heavy, hollow silence in its place.

I looked down at the note sitting on the desk, then toward the bathroom door where the two pink lines on the pregnancy tests were still sitting on the sink. He had warned me in black ink not to look for him. I had tried anyway, and his world had shut the door right in my face.

I shut the laptop lid and pulled the black leather envelope toward me.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out the neat stack of hundred-dollar bills Ethan had left. I counted it systematically, stack by stack, right there on the small wooden table. Ten thousand dollars.

To Ethan Vane, ten thousand dollars was pocket change—a tip dropped on a dinner table or a minor rounding error in a contract. But to me, holding it in my hands, it was survival. It was safety. It was the only thing standing between my unborn baby and the street.

My temporary lease on this studio apartment was up in three days. The rent here in the city was far too expensive, and I had no steady job, no reference letters, and an incomplete work history. Once prenatal doctor visits, ultrasound costs, basic vitamins, and baby supplies entered the picture, this cash would disappear fast if I wasn't careful.

I didn't waste time crying or being overly dramatic. I opened a search browser and typed in a clear, practical search: Low-cost housing, small towns, cheap rentals.

A small, quiet town several hours north came up with cheap month-to-month basement apartments and low living costs. It was dirt cheap compared to the city, and it meant I could stretch this ten thousand dollars far enough to keep a roof over my head until I could secure a low-key local job.

I carefully folded the money, slid it into a secure internal zipper pocket of my heavy winter coat, and zipped it tight against my chest. Every dollar was precious.

I packed my few belongings into my canvas bag, checked out of the studio, and walked straight to the long-distance bus station.

During the three-hour bus ride, I kept my notebook open on my knees. I didn't write poetry or dramatic thoughts; I wrote out a strict, aggressive weekly budget down to the exact dollar. Rent, groceries, medical savings, contingency. I was going to make this money last.

By late afternoon, the bus pulled into the quiet town stop under a grey, overcast sky. The air felt colder up here, smelling of pine and ocean salt.

I stepped off the bus onto the quiet sidewalk, gripping the strap of my bag tightly. Across the street sat a small diner, and down the road were cheap residential streets.

I took two steps toward the diner to check local rental notices, but a sharp, localized cramp suddenly seized low in my abdomen.

I froze instantly on the sidewalk, my hand slapping flat against my stomach as a cold spike of fear shot straight through me. The pain wasn't just a dull ache—it was a sharp, pulling spasm that made my knees buckle.

I grabbed the edge of an icy metal streetlight post for support, holding my breath, terrified to move another inch.