The Billionaire's Hidden Heir

CHAPTER THREE

NADIA'S POV

I watched him open the envelope.

I have imagined this moment more times than I can count. In some versions, I'm calm. In some I'm crying. In the version I always hoped for, I never had to do it at all — he never found me, the secret held, Miles grew up, and I found a way to explain it when he was old enough to understand.

None of those versions had Ezra standing in my kitchen at six in the evening looking like a man who had been holding himself together with both hands since morning.

He pulls out the papers. Three pages. I know them by heart. I typed them myself on a library computer six years ago because I couldn't afford a printer and I didn't want to use the one at his office. I remember my hands shaking over the keyboard. I remember the librarian asking if I was okay and me saying yes, because what else do you say?

He reads.

I go to the kitchen and fill up a glass of water because I need to do something with my hands. I drink it standing at the sink with my back to him and I listen to the silence and I wait.

The papers say this. Six years ago, two weeks before I disappeared, I overheard a phone call I was never supposed to hear. Ezra's father — Gerald Cole — called him from London. I was in the next room. The walls in Ezra's old apartment were not thick.

Gerald Cole did not know about me. Ezra had kept our relationship private for the eight months we were together, which I understood at the time as protection — his father was difficult, the relationship complicated, he'd tell him when the time was right. That's what Ezra said. I believed him.

What Gerald said on that call was simple. He had found out about me. Someone on his payroll had been watching. And he told Ezra — calmly, the way men like Gerald Cole say everything, like they're reading from a document, that if Ezra continued the relationship, he would pull the fifty thousand dollar loan that Ezra's entire company was built on. The loan that at that point had seventeen months left on it. He would call it in immediately, full balance, and he would make sure every door in the industry closed behind it.

He would take everything Ezra had built.

And then Gerald said one more thing. He said he'd already looked into me. He knew about my mother's debt, my sister's situation, where I worked, where I'd gone to school. He said — and I wrote this part down word for word because I needed to be sure I hadn't misheard — "She's a liability. And you've always known that. Keep it clean, or I'll keep it messy, and she won't enjoy being messy."

I didn't know what messy meant. I still don't know exactly. But I was twenty-four years old, and I had nothing and Ezra had everything to lose, and I knew — I knew — that if I stayed, whatever Gerald did next would be aimed at both of us. And I couldn't let Ezra lose his company over me. And I couldn't let whatever Gerald threatened land on someone who'd never asked to be involved.

So I left. In the middle of the night, two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant and spent fourteen days trying to figure out if there was any other way. There wasn't. Or I couldn't see one. I was twenty-four and scared and I made the only decision that felt like it protected everyone.

I have defended that decision to myself every day since.

I hear Ezra set the papers down on the counter.

The silence is different now. Heavier.

"Nadia."

I turn around. His face has done something I've never seen him do before — it's cracked, just slightly, just at the edges. He looks like a man who has just been handed the answer to a question that changes the shape of every year that comes after it.

"You heard that call," he says.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me."

"No."

"You just—" He stops. Presses his fingers into his mouth for a second. "You left. You didn't ask me what I wanted to do. You didn't give me the choice."

"I gave you your company," I say. "That was the choice available."

"That was my choice to make, not yours."

His voice isn't loud. That almost makes it worse. When Ezra gets loud, I can brace for it. This is quiet and precise, and it lands exactly where he intends it to.

"You were twenty-six," I say. "You'd spent three years building something from nothing. I wasn't going to let your father burn it down because of me."

"You were carrying my son."

"I know that."

"You made a decision about my son without—"

"I know, Ezra." My voice finally breaks on the last word. Just slightly. I pull it back. "I know what I did. I've known every day for five years. You think I don't know?"

He looks at me for a long moment.

Then he picks the papers up again and reads the last page. The one I almost didn't include. The one that took me three days to decide to put in the envelope at all.

It's a medical record. Mine. From a clinic visit two months after Miles was born. I was very sick, briefly, and very alone, and there is a section in the record where the attending doctor noted — because they were required to — that the patient had reported a period of significant emotional distress following a major life change and had declined counseling referral.

I don't know why I included it. I think I needed him to understand that leaving wasn't clean for me either.

He reads it. He sets it down slowly.

"My father," he says finally, "died eight months ago."

I didn't know that.

"The loan was paid off four years ago," he continues. "His leverage has been gone for four years, Nadia."

I don't say anything because there is nothing to say about that.

He looks up at me.

"Does Miles know anything about me?"

The question is so quiet it barely takes up space in the room. But I feel it everywhere.

"He knows he has a father," I say carefully. "He knows you weren't around. He's five — he accepts what I told him."

"And what do you tell him?"

I look at my hands. Then back at him.

"I tell him his dad is someone who would have loved him if things had been different."

Ezra is very still.

"Things can be different now," he says.

"I know."

"So what happens next is going to depend entirely on whether you trust me." He holds my gaze. "Do you?"

And I realize, standing in my small clean kitchen with the final notice still on the counter and the papers between us, that I have no idea how to answer that.

Because trusting Ezra was never the problem.

It was always Gerald.

And then he says something that makes the floor drop out from under me completely.

"My father didn't act alone, Nadia. Someone told him about you. Someone who knew us both." He pauses. "I think you need to know who it was.”