MY MOTHER'S BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND

AVA'S POV My mother was getting married again. I knew it before she said the words. There was something about the way she said my name over the phone that immediately put me on guard. “Ava.” I stopped highlighting the sentence in my economics textbook. “Yes?” “I need you to come home this weekend.” I stared at the library window. Outside, students hurried across campus beneath a gray afternoon sky, most of them carrying backpacks and coffee cups, completely unaware that my mother had just interrupted the only peaceful hour I'd had all week. “Why?” “Because I have something important to tell you.” I closed my eyes. That sentence had never once been followed by good news. “Are you sick?” “No.” “Did something happen?” “No.” “Then why do I have to come home?” She sighed. “I’m getting married.” I slowly lowered my highlighter. For a moment, I wondered if I'd heard her correctly. “Sorry?” “I said I'm getting married.” I looked around the library, suddenly convinced everyone could hear this conversation. “You're joking.” “I don't joke about marriage.” “You've been married four times.” “I know.” “And divorced four times.” Another pause. “Ava.” “What?” “I've met someone.” I laughed. Actually laughed. A few students turned toward me. I lowered my voice. “Mum, you’re forty-eight.” “So?” “So you've been married four times.” “And?” “And you met this man when? Tuesday?” “Don't be ridiculous.” “Monday?” She sighed. “You've always been dramatic.” “No, you've always been married.” She ignored that. “His name is Damian Cross.” I waited. The name meant nothing to me. “Okay.” “He owns Cross Enterprises.” I sat straighter. That name I knew. Everyone knew it. Cross Enterprises was the kind of company that appeared in newspapers whenever someone was discussing billionaires, luxury developments, private aviation, technology investments, or companies that seemed to own half the city. “Wait.” I lowered my voice even further. “Damian Cross?” “Yes.” “As in Damian Cross?” “There is only one.” I stared at my textbook. My mother's taste in men had always been questionable, but apparently she'd decided to skip questionable and go straight to billionaire. “How old is he?” “Forty-one.” I blinked. That was younger than I expected. “You're marrying a forty-one-year-old billionaire?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I love him.” The answer silenced me. Not because I believed her. Because I knew my mother. She had been married four times. Every time, she had used the same words. Love. Destiny. Second chances. Forever. Forever had apparently lasted anywhere between eight months and three years. I rubbed my forehead. “When?” “Next month.” I nearly choked. “Next month?” “Yes.” “You've known this man for—” “Eight months.” I stopped. Eight months. That was practically a lifetime by my mother's standards. “I want you to meet him.” “Why?” “Because he wants to meet my children before the wedding.” I frowned. “Children?” “My children, Ava.” “I know what children means.” “Then don't be difficult.” I glanced at my bank app. The balance was painful. My tuition payment was overdue. My landlord had already sent me two messages. My mother knew all of this. She also knew I hadn't asked her for money in months because I had finally accepted that asking her for help usually came with a lecture about responsibility. Yet here she was, asking me to travel home because she wanted me to meet husband number five. “I have classes.” “It's Friday.” “I have assignments.” “Do them later.” “I have work.” “You can take a day off.” I laughed. “Must be nice.” “What does that mean?” “Nothing.” Silence. Then her voice softened. “Please, Ava.” That surprised me. My mother rarely said please. I looked down at my notes. “When?” “Saturday evening.” “Fine.” “Good.” She sounded relieved. “There's one more thing.” I immediately regretted agreeing. “What?” “He's hosting dinner.” “Of course he is.” “Seven o'clock.” “I'll be there.” “And Ava?” “Yes?” “Please try to be pleasant.” I smiled bitterly. “I'm always pleasant.” “You have your father's attitude.” There it was. The inevitable insult. I hung up before she could say anything else. For several seconds, I simply stared at my phone. Then my roommate dropped into the chair opposite me. “You look like someone just told you your dog died.” I looked at her. “My mother is getting married.” She waited. “Again?” “Again.” She winced. “Who is it this time?” “Damian Cross.” Her expression changed. “Wait. The Damian Cross?” I nodded. She leaned closer. “The billionaire?” “Yes.” “The billionaire who owns half the city?” “I don't think he owns half the city.” “That's not the point.” She lowered her voice. “Girl, your mother won.” I laughed. “Apparently.” I packed my books. But for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about him. I had seen Damian Cross before. Not personally. In magazines. News articles. Business interviews. Photographs of him stepping out of black cars surrounded by people who looked like they belonged to another world. He was always impeccably dressed. Always composed. Always surrounded by wealth. I'd never paid much attention. He was just another rich man whose life had nothing to do with mine. Until now. Apparently, he was about to become my stepfather. The thought was strange. Almost absurd. But I pushed it aside. I had more important problems. Like tuition. Rent. Debt. And surviving another semester without dropping out. My mother's fifth husband could wait. At least, that's what I thought. Saturday evening came too quickly. I stood outside my mother's house in a simple black dress, staring at the massive estate beyond the gates. She had moved here after her third marriage. Or perhaps her fourth. I honestly couldn't remember anymore. My mother had always loved beautiful things. Beautiful houses. Beautiful clothes. Beautiful men. I rang the bell. A maid opened the door. “Miss Bennett.” “Hi.” “Your mother is waiting in the drawing room.” I stepped inside. The house smelled like roses and expensive perfume. “Mum?” She appeared from the hallway wearing a champagne-colored dress. She hugged me. I stiffened before reluctantly returning it. “You came.” “You asked me to.” “You look beautiful.” “Thank you.” She looked me over. “Your dress is a little plain.” I smiled. “Nice to see you too.” She sighed. “Come. He's here.” My stomach tightened. “He's already here?” “Yes.” She took my arm. “Remember what I said.” “Be pleasant.” “Exactly.” We walked toward the drawing room. I heard a man's voice before I saw him. Deep. Calm. Controlled. “I understand.” My mother opened the door. “Damian.” The man turned. And everything inside me went completely still. He wasn't what I'd expected. Not even close. I had seen photographs of Damian Cross, but photographs hadn't prepared me for him in person. He was tall. Very tall. Broad-shouldered without looking bulky, dressed in a perfectly fitted charcoal suit. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his face was sharp and striking in a way that made it difficult to look away. But it wasn't his appearance that caught me. It was his eyes. Dark. Steady. Unusually observant. They settled on me. And for one humiliating second, I forgot how to breathe. “Ava,” my mother said. I forced myself to look away. “This is my daughter.” Damian extended his hand. “Ava Bennett.” His voice was even deeper up close. I placed my hand in his. “Mr. Cross.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Damian.” I withdrew my hand. “Damian.” My mother smiled between us. “I'll leave you two to talk.” I immediately looked at her. “What?” “You should get to know each other.” Before I could object, she disappeared. I stared after her. Then turned back. Damian was watching me. “You're not happy about this.” It wasn't a question. I folded my arms. “You mean my mother getting married?” “Yes.” “I'm thrilled.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don't look thrilled.” “My face isn't very cooperative.” A small smile appeared. “Apparently not.” I didn't know what annoyed me more. His confidence. His calmness. Or the fact that I found him attractive. Very attractive. And that was a problem. Because this wasn't some stranger I'd met at a bar. This was my mother's fiancé. The man sitting across from me was going to become my stepfather. I forced myself to remember that. He was forty-one. I was twenty-two. He was wealthy enough to buy the building where I lived without noticing the expense. And I was one overdue tuition payment away from having a serious conversation with the university administration. We belonged to completely different worlds. So why did my heart keep beating like it had forgotten that? Damian gestured toward the chair. “Sit.” I sat. He remained standing for a moment before taking the chair opposite me. “I wanted to meet you before the wedding.” “Why?” “Because you're important to your mother.” I almost laughed. “You don't know my mother very well.” His expression changed slightly. “I know her better than you think.” That caught my attention. “How long have you known her?” “Eight months.” “And you're marrying her.” “Yes.” “You're confident.” “I am.” I studied him. “Do you love her?” He didn't answer immediately. That bothered me. Finally, he said, “I care about her very much.” Not love. Interesting. Before I could ask anything else, my mother returned. “Everything going well?” I looked at Damian. He looked at me. “Yes,” he said. My mother smiled. “Good.” I smiled too. But something had changed. Because when I had walked into that room, Damian Cross had been nothing more than my mother's fifth husband. Now he was something far more dangerous. A man I couldn't stop noticing. And as I sat there listening to my mother talk excitedly about wedding plans, I made myself one promise. Whatever happened, I would remember exactly who he was. My mother's fiancé. My future stepfather. A man completely off-limits. So why, when his eyes met mine again across the table, did I have the terrible feeling that he was wondering the exact same thing?