Billionaire's Secret Baby

MICHAEL 6 YEARS AGO “D ad’s gone.” I struggle to take my next breath as the earth-shattering words are delivered to me. “What?” I ask, m y gaze pinned on my little brother’s green eyes. His teary green eyes. What the hell is Matt talking about? “You heard me. Don’t make me repeat it,” he says, shaking his head. I get to my feet and walk from one end of the office to another, in disbelief. Pacing always helps to clear my head. Returning to the desk, I lean down in front of Matthew, whose head is in his hands. His body is shaking, and I’m filled with terror. “Matthew, look at me,” I prompt. He raises his head and stares into my eyes. “Explain. What happened? What do you mean, Dad’s gone?” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Mellissa called; she said he collapsed. They think it’s a stroke. Mom’s hysterical,” he says in a rush. I move away from him. My back hits the wall with a thud. In a daze, I slide down to the floor and my eyes latch onto the red loafers on the floor near where I was sitting. My heart drops when I remember my dad bought them for me a few years ago as a birthday present. “You’re a firstborn Crane, Michael. Sometimes, it may feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. But always remember that I’ll be right beside you, trying to ease some of that weight. Loving you always.” He said that to me the day I graduated college, when I was set to assume a managerial position at the company. It had felt like a lot, but I’d felt like I could do it all because I had my dad. But now, in a split second, everything’s changed. I don’t have him anymore. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. “Are you okay?” someone asks me. I look up to see the prettiest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. Too bad they belong to someone I would rather not talk to right now. In fact, I would rather not talk to anyone. I would have thought it was obvious since I’m standing here, in the dark, while everyone else mingles with the crowd and conversations are going on around me. I buried my dad two days ago. The well-wishers still haven’t stopped pouring in. “What are you doing here?” I address the woman who’s still standing in front of me. She frowns. “Good to see you too, jerk.” I take a sip of the drink in my hand before speaking. “Why are you in my house?” “Mike, your dad died,” she says in confusion. “Yes. But that doesn’t answer my question,” I retort. She rolls her eyes. “What is your problem with me?” “You broke my little brother’s heart. And now you’re standing here like you did nothing wrong.” She blinks twice in succession. “I talk to Matt all the time. We’re cool now, so why exactly is this an issue with you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, causing her ample cleavage to lift even higher out of her black dress. It takes a lot of willpower not to look down. The girl’s gorgeous, but she’s also my brother’s ex-girlfriend. “Because I don’t like you.” “Well, right now, I don’t like you very much either, dickhead,” she says with a snarl. There’s a fire in her eyes now. It’s never far away. Her eyes are passionate, ready to light up at a moment’s notice. It’s always fascinating, eliciting reactions from her. Those eyes are a window to her soul. “Leave, Christine,” I tell her, handing my cup to a waiter and walking away. But, of course, she follows. I pretend not to hear the clicking of her heels behind me as I climb the stairs. She’s silent, and I can almost feel the anger reverberating from her. Christine’s a loose cannon. I’m sure the only reason she’s not yelling at me right now is because of the number of people in the house. “What’s your real problem with me?” she asks just before I enter my bedroom. I groan softly, letting go of the knob and turning to face her. “Anyone ever tell you you’re annoyingly stubborn?” “Lots of times,” she agrees with a nod. “It’s good that you know, then. Goodbye,” I tell her before closing the door. “Asshole!” she yells. For a lawyer, she’s not very quick on her toes with the comebacks. I actually feel bad for her future clients. I’m about to step away from the door when a piece of paper is slid under it, and I raise an eyebrow as I pick it up. There’s something written on it. It’s okay to cry and scream, Michael. You’re human, too. Christine.