Bittersweet Billionaire

Four

Three years Later

I watched the land through the small plane window as it crept steadily closer. The early morning sun had just begun to rise, casting long golden rays over the fields below. Pockets of fog clung to the valleys and treetops, untouched by the light, like shadows refusing to be chased away.

I checked my phone—no missed calls, just a single message from my best friend. I smiled faintly at her excitement; she’d be waiting for me at the airport. Her joy eased the knot in my stomach, if only slightly. Three years since I left, and not a word from my family in all that time.

So much had changed since that day.

When I left, I was broken—beaten down and discarded. My entire world had collapsed in a single moment. I’d sworn never to return. And I wouldn’t have, if not for the package that arrived three months ago.

Its contents shattered me all over again.

Inside was the truth—dark, tangled, and unforgiving. Secrets and lies buried for years, now laid bare like bones in the dirt. Everything I thought I knew had been built on a foundation of rot.

I clenched my jaw. I’d spent weeks preparing for this return. I found out through whispers and a forwarded message that my sister and ex-husband were finally getting married. I wasn’t surprised that neither I nor Grandma received an invitation. I could already imagine the words she’d have had for them—sharp, unfiltered, and probably the reason she was conveniently left out.

The past three years had been hell.

I’d been comatose in all but name for the first few months. When I finally surfaced from that dark, numb place, it hurt to be alive in a world where my son no longer existed.

But Grandma… Grandma never left my side.

She helped me through the grief, patiently stitching my pieces together, one quiet, steady moment at a time. One day, when I was strong enough to hear it, she told me about my family’s past. I had two uncles once—both older than my father, both gone too soon. One died in a horrific accident, the other was shot after a lawsuit turned violent. She understood the pain of losing a child better than anyone.

Slowly, painfully, I found parts of myself again. Never whole, never the same—but enough.

For my birthday, Grandma gave me a small wing-shaped locket, delicate and silver. Inside, it held a tiny portion of my son’s ashes. A part of him I could carry with me always, close to my heart. I’d never received anything so meaningful in my life.

I may have been the eldest, but Cheyanne had always been the favorite. She was the one who inherited all the heirlooms, the one who liked to parade them in front of me as children—little crowns and jewels that said, you don’t belong here.

But this locket—this one was mine.

The fasten seatbelt sign chimed overhead as the plane began its slow descent. A subtle jolt passed through the cabin, drawing a few murmurs and clicks as passengers adjusted their trays and belongings. I barely moved. I had debated taking the private jet, but the last thing I needed was publicity—and nothing summoned the paparazzi faster than a mysterious, wealthy woman returning to town after three years of silence.

When we landed, I remained seated, waiting until the aisle had cleared. I had purchased the entire row, not for luxury, but for space. For distance. I couldn’t risk the brush of a stranger’s skin against mine. Whether it was the trauma of losing my son or the accident itself, I didn’t know—but since that night, touch felt like fire. My body flinched instinctively at the idea of contact.

Slowly, I rose and collected my bag from the overhead compartment, each movement deliberate and rehearsed. My stomach twisted into uneasy knots as I stepped into the jet bridge, anxiety growing heavier with each step.

The terminal buzzed with the familiar hum of airport chaos—families reuniting, announcements echoing, the low drone of wheels rolling across tile. My Gucci heels clicked against the polished floor as I scanned the crowd. I had wanted to wear something inconspicuous, something that wouldn’t scream money or draw attention—but a last-minute emergency meeting with the corporate board had left no time to change. So here I was, in heels and a tailored coat, standing out whether I liked it or not.

Then I heard my name.

A grin tugged at my lips as I turned toward the voice, just in time to see her trip over her own feet and sprawl forward in her usual clumsy grace. Some things never changed. A soft giggle escaped me, the tension in my chest easing for the first time in hours. She pushed herself up, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans.

“Damn, girl! If it wasn’t for the video calls and the photos, I wouldn’t have recognized you.” Her hazel eyes sparkled as they traveled the length of me. “Is that an ass I see? What the hell have you been doing—squatting lawyers?”

I laughed, the sound warm and real. “Self-defense classes,” I replied.

Sort of true. The truth was uglier. I’d lost a terrifying amount of weight during the comatose state, and even more to the relentless anxiety afterward. For months, I had been a ghost, drifting through life with brittle bones and sunken eyes. Only recently had I started to reclaim myself—through yoga, training, and a quiet fury I had no words for. My body was lean now, lithe and toned, stronger than it had ever been, but still… never quite whole.

“Where’s Jackson?” I asked, glancing behind her.

Her smile dimmed a little, though her tone remained light. “I wasn’t sure how you’d be feeling after being crammed in a plane full of strangers.” She reached for my arm, then thought better of it and let her hand fall. “Still don’t get why you didn’t take the jet.”

We turned toward baggage claim together.

“The last thing I need is for the Welsh and Talcotts to know I’m in the city.”

Emeline gave me a sidelong glance. “Don’t you go by your grandmother’s maiden name now?”

I nodded, pulling my coat tighter around me. I’d legally changed my name not long after I began to recover. My grandmother, Isadora Ludovic, came from old money—very old money. Her lineage traced back generations, rooted deep in the foundations of high society and political influence. For years, my father painted her as nothing more than a senile eccentric, but I’d come to learn that the woman he dismissed so cruelly was, in fact, one of the sharpest minds I’d ever known. There were secrets she had entrusted to me—heavy, tangled truths hidden behind careful smiles and silk gloves.

Emeline smirked. “If there’s one thing both those families can sniff out faster than scandal, it’s wealth. Coming in on the private jet would’ve been like waving fresh meat under their noses.”

I let out a quiet laugh as my suitcase rolled into view on the carousel. “Exactly. Let’s keep it that way for as long as possible.”

“You’re basically unrecognizable now, babes. The girl they last saw?” She gave a dramatic wave of her hand. “Doesn’t exist anymore.”

I caught my suitcase and tugged it free, the wheels clacking softly against the airport tiles.

“Did you manage to get invited to the wedding?” I asked as we made our way toward the pickup area, where her chauffeur waited beside a sleek black car.

Emeline’s grin turned wicked. “Of course I did. My parents and siblings too. From what I can tell, they’ve invited every rich family within a hundred miles. Probably hoping for flashy gifts and a splashy headline.”

I passed my luggage to the driver and slid into the backseat beside her, trying to push down the prickling anxiety that always hit me the moment a car door shut. Breathe. I popped a single headphone into my ear and hit play—ambient forest sounds. A distraction from the wheels beneath me.

“I bet Cheyanne is spending a fortune,” I mused tightly, staring out the tinted window. “Everything has to be perfect. Everything exactly how she wants it.”

Emeline softened when she noticed the headphone, her voice quieter now. “Still no progress on the trauma?” I didn’t answer right away. My jaw clenched reflexively before I gave a small shake of my head.

“The medication helps. But long trips? Still not happening.”

She reached over and patted my hand gently, then turned her attention to the driver. “Henry, let’s go.”

Turning back to me, she smiled. “I’ve set up the guest house for you. Mum and Dad are thrilled you’re coming to stay, I had to talk them out of throwing a welcome home party. Oh, and they’ve hired additional security—just for you. No one’s getting close while you’re with me, Reenie.”

Warmth spread through my chest at the nickname. Emeline always knew how to make me feel safe, even in places that no longer felt like home. Emeline and I had been inseparable since preschool, bound together by years of chaotic adventures and quiet understanding. Her boundless energy and perpetually clumsy feet had always landed her in trouble—trouble I was usually the one pulling her out of. But not once did it dim her radiant smile or that irrepressible optimism she carried like armor.

For a time, we must have looked like an odd pair—Emeline, with her effortlessly perfect figure, glossy brown hair, and striking features, beside me, still grappling with the weight I carried both on my body and in my heart. But that version of me was long gone. These days, we could have passed for sisters. My hair now fell in a sleek black sheet to my waist, my eyes a sharp emerald green, and my olive skin smooth and unblemished. Emeline’s style had softened with age too—her brown hair cropped to her shoulders, her green-blue eyes often framed by laughter lines. Strangely, she and I now resembled each other more than my own sister and I ever had.

She was the only daughter of the Carter family—titans in the global oil industry—and despite their immense wealth, her parents had always treated me like one of their own. They knew how I’d been raised, how the people who should have loved me most had failed me. Emeline had stood by me through it all—through the isolation, the whispered judgments, even the wreckage of my marriage to Sammual. She was the sole reason I had found the strength to return, piecing myself back together with her unwavering support.

“This car and driver are yours while you're here,” she continued. “His name is Henry, but if you’d prefer a woman—”

“No, it’s okay, Emie.” I cut her off gently. “Fletcher should be arriving tomorrow morning. I’d rather he drive me.”

Fletcher was the son of my grandmother’s personal bodyguard—a man who had served the Ludovics with quiet, fierce loyalty for decades. His family had protected ours for generations. With Fletcher, I could breathe.

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “Use any of the cars in the garage too, whenever you need.”

I exhaled, just slightly. My fingers brushed the pendant at my throat, grounding myself in the familiar touch as her voice drifted through the space between us, comforting and effortless as she began to fill me in on the latest gossip and plans. The hum of her words wrapped around me like a blanket, just enough to keep the panic at bay.