Bittersweet Billionaire

Five

I stood on the balcony of a grand, sun-kissed manor, the kind that whispered old money and generations of quiet power. Below, the gardens stretched out in perfect symmetry, the hedges pruned to military precision, the flowerbeds bursting with curated color. The early morning sun had just begun to rise above the trees, casting the world in a palette of warm golds, rich ambers, and soft ochres. Steam curled gently from the coffee mug cradled in my hands, the scent grounding me as my mind raced with the information Fletcher had delivered upon his arrival.

Sleep had eluded me, chased off by nightmares I thought I’d buried four years ago. But last night, they’d clawed their way back to the surface, vivid and suffocating—as if it had all just happened. My nerves had been on edge, trembling with the weight of memory. Unable to calm myself enough to drift back to sleep, I’d retreated to the one place that always gave me clarity: my sketchpad. By the time the sky paled to lavender, I’d completed an entire runway collection. I doubted my co-partner was even remotely surprised when the sketches landed in his inbox before sunrise.

Fletcher had pulled a few strings and managed to obtain both Sammual and Cheyanne’s schedules for the day. I needed to slip onto their radar without drawing too much attention—just enough for them to start asking questions. I’d crafted a convincing, if fabricated, backstory to explain my presence, but the internal tug-of-war raged on: remain anonymous or confront them outright?

Still, I couldn’t help but imagine their faces when they realized who I truly was. The shock. The horror. The guilt. That moment alone might be worth everything.

From inside, I heard the soft clink of porcelain and the low hum of the coffee machine—Fletcher in the kitchen, moving like he owned the place.

“Miss Cheyanne just left for a dress fitting,” he called out casually, voice carrying into the morning. “Gucci after that, then Dior—bag, shoes, probably a splash of retail therapy.” A pause. “Though for the life of me, I can’t figure out what stress that woman endures to justify that kind of spending.”

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I stepped back inside, crossing to the breakfast bar and sliding onto a stool, fingers curling tighter around the warmth of my mug.

“I love a bit of retail therapy,” I admitted, raising a brow in mock innocence.

“You’ve earned your therapy sessions, Ms. Ludovic,” he replied with a smirk. “That one, though—Barbie would probably have a full breakdown over a broken nail.”

He glanced at me, suddenly sheepish. “No offense, ma’am.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Relax, Fletcher. My grandma’s not here to whack you with her cane.”

I took a sip, letting the warmth of the coffee ease the tightness in my chest. “Though I’m perfectly willing to do the honors if it makes you feel more at home.”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpanned, taking a long drink from his own cup. “Don’t tempt me—I still have enough blackmail on you to last a lifetime.”

I grinned. Fletcher and I had come a long way since our first meeting. He was only a few years older than me—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, symmetrical features and almond-shaped blue eyes that missed nothing. He kept his hair cropped short and always styled with care, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. We’d clashed hard at first. After Grandma charged him with my protection, I’d made a game of slipping away from him just to test his skills—and his patience.

But over time, he’d become one of the very few people I trusted. Practically a brother—if brothers came with a paycheck and could be bossed around without tattling.

Well. Almost.

“You know,” I said after a pause, “you can call me by my name while we’re here. ‘Ms. Ludovic’ makes me feel like I’m eighty.”

He raised a suspicious brow. “This isn’t one of your tricks, is it? Something you’ll use against me later?”

I barked a laugh. “No tricks this time. I just need a touch of normalcy while I’m here. Things are about to get... intense. And I can’t do this alone. I need those I trust close to me. Otherwise—” I exhaled slowly, the truth catching in my throat, “—I don’t think I have the strength.”

He looked at me with uncharacteristic softness.

“Sairina,” he began, carefully using my name, “you are one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. And I’ve met your grandmother. Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

I held his gaze for a moment, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

“Look out,” I said lightly, “we’ve got ourselves an inspirational quote generator.”

He gave me a look, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

After breakfast, I retreated upstairs to get dressed. It was time.

Time for Sairina Tulcott to come home.

~*~

I watched from the car as Cheyanne strutted into the Gucci store like she owned the place—head held high, golden curls bouncing with every confident step. Her butler trailed behind, arms already overflowing with luxury-brand shopping bags. She didn’t so much as glance at the front-door attendant, breezing past as if staff were beneath her. Typical Cheyanne—entitled, poised, and absolutely addicted to spending.

My stomach twisted, nerves clawing upward like something alive. I drew in a steadying breath, reminding myself why I was here. Why I had to do this. This wasn’t just revenge—it was reclamation. For everything the family had taken from me. For everything they'd destroyed.

With a small nod, Fletcher opened the car door. I stepped out with deliberate grace, heels tapping lightly against the sidewalk. A few heads turned. Let them look. Word would spread soon enough about the mysterious new heiress in town, and image mattered—every detail had to be perfect.

Fletcher followed as I made my way to the store entrance. I offered a dazzling smile to the clerk holding the door and thanked her as I passed inside. The boutique was pristine, cold and exclusive, its stark lighting catching on crystal cases and polished glass. I spotted Cheyanne near the jewelry display, her manicured fingers gliding along the counter’s edge as she examined the diamonds with bored disinterest.

I wandered between display cabinets, making casual conversation with the staff, purchasing a few pieces to support my cover. All the while, I kept her in the corner of my eye. At one point, I felt her gaze sweep over me, sizing me up from head to toe—those sharp navy eyes assessing my figure, my posture, my worth. Her lips curled with that familiar snooty disdain before she turned away.

Fletcher gave a subtle, strategic cough. Cheyanne’s back was to us—perfect timing.

I drifted closer. Not too close to draw suspicion, just enough. Her shrill voice rose behind the glass counter as she berated the saleswoman for not having the style she wanted in stock.

“Unacceptable,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

I rolled my eyes as she launched into full Karen mode, threatening to have the staff fired if they didn’t “rectify the situation.” It was embarrassingly predictable. When the tantrum reached its crescendo, she turned sharply to storm out.

That was my cue.

I stepped into her path, perfectly timed, and brushed against her shoulder with just enough force to throw her off balance. She stumbled, heels skidding slightly on the polished floor. I glanced back over my shoulder with a look of feigned concern.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you,” I said quickly.

Her face twisted into a scowl. “Are you blind?” she hissed. “Do you even know who I am?”

I bit back a laugh. God, she made it too easy.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said again, this time with a touch more charm. “I just moved here from New York. I’m unfamiliar with anyone in the area, so please forgive me for not recognizing your status.”

Cheyanne narrowed her eyes, studying my face for a long moment. I watched her expression shift, recognition failing to dawn. She didn’t know me. Not even a flicker of familiarity.

Good.

Before she could respond, a sleek woman approached, tablet in hand. She was the one you booked through for private viewings—especially when a new release dropped. If you held enough status, you could preview collections before they hit the public floor. Purchasing early, though? Nearly impossible—unless, of course, you had the right connections. Fortunately, I had both.

Cheyanne’s expression lit up like the Vegas strip, her scowl evaporating into a dazzling smile as the woman neared.

“Oh, Eloise, you have an opening?” she cooed. I had to force myself not to dry retch from the sound. Fletcher stepped in behind me, his broad-shouldered frame loomed like a shadow, commanding instant respect from anyone who didn’t know him. I caught Cheyanne’s eyes dragging slowly up and down his form in the same critical way she'd scanned me earlier—but the tight purse of her lips suggested a different opinion about my bodyguard entirely.

Eloise—corporate manager and part-owner of the Gucci flagship in this city—glanced at Cheyanne with a flicker of polite confusion, clearly unsure who she was.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ll need your name if you’d like to be placed on the waitlist,” Eloise said, professional as ever.

I nearly bit my lip to stifle a laugh. Cheyanne flushed crimson.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, voice shrill. “Why would you approach me with such a ridiculous statement?”

Again, Eloise blinked, then offered a faint, apologetic smile. “My apologies, ma’am. I wasn’t addressing you. My attention was on Ms. Ludovic.”

Her emerald eyes turned to mine, and for the briefest moment I caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth as she fought a smile.

“The viewing room is ready, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you seated accordingly.”

I returned the grin, radiant, and stole a backward glance just in time to watch Cheyanne deepen into a livid, scarlet hue—somewhere between embarrassment and pure rage.

As we walked off, I heard the telltale hiss of frustration behind us, followed by the loud clack of a designer heel stamping against polished marble like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Typical.

Fletcher and I stepped into the elevator. Only when the doors slid shut and we began our ascent did we finally allow the laughter to break free.

“Well,” I breathed, wiping at the corner of my eye, “this is going better than expected. Let’s hope the rest of the day follows suit.”

Eloise chuckled softly beside me.

“I appreciate you coming in on your day off,” I added, glancing her way.

“Ms. Ludovic,” she said, still amused, “watching that conceited, arrogant, condescending egotist get knocked down a peg was well worth it. She’s been nothing but trouble since her fiancé announced the engagement.”

I rolled my eyes. No surprise there. Frankly, I was shocked they waited this long. But deep down, I knew it was for optics. Getting engaged so soon after your child dies—and divorcing your wife shortly after—didn’t exactly play well in the court of public opinion.

Fletcher leaned in, his voice low by my ear.

“Sammual has a two o’clock lunch with the CEO. We need to move if we’re to stay on schedule.”

I sighed. “Of course we do.”

I turned to Eloise reluctantly. “As much as I’m dying to see the new design, I’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

“If you’d like, I could have it delivered personally to your residence?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Trying to upsell something I haven’t seen yet, Eloise?”

She laughed. “You and I both know you’ve already seen snippets of the collection.”

I smiled despite myself. “I knew this job would suit you perfectly.”

She dipped her head in a graceful nod. “Without your recommendation, I’d still be clawing my way up the ladder. I’m indebted to you, Sairina.”

The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open without a sound. I gave Eloise a brief hug before stepping out and striding through the store. My pulse quickened, stomach flipping at the thought of seeing my ex-husband again—after three long years.

As I made my way toward the car, I caught sight of Cheyanne on the sidewalk, shrieking into her phone with the fury of a woman unaccustomed to being made to wait. Her driver, it seemed, had yet to collect her from the storefront. I kept my expression smooth, impassive, and didn’t so much as flick my gaze in her direction as I strode past—each step a deliberate dismissal. Fletcher, ever composed, opened the rear door of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class with a practiced hand, allowing me to slide into the backseat with effortless grace.

From the shelter of the dark-tinted window, I watched her tantrum unfold. That scowl—vivid, venomous, and burning beneath her makeup—was fixed directly on me, though I doubt she could actually see my face through the blackened glass. Fletcher placed my purchases in the trunk before slipping into the driver’s seat, silent and efficient.

Together, we watched Cheyanne unravel. Her golden curls, usually styled within an inch of perfection, had begun to fray and tumble loose in the breeze. The longer she stood there shouting, the more disheveled she became, her image cracking like porcelain under pressure. Finally, she hung up with a dramatic grunt of frustration, her heels clacking furiously against the pavement as she stormed up the street. Her poor butler stumbled after her, arms laden with bags and boxes, his steps frantic as he tried to keep pace without dropping a single item.

“Let’s get on with it, Fletcher,” I murmured, pressing a hand to my chest as if to steady the rhythm of my heart.

He nodded, and the car eased smoothly into traffic, gliding away from the chaos I left behind.