The Arrogant Billionaire's Redemption

Goosebumps

August 2023

Tina's POV

The sound of the pitter-patter of little feet filled my ears, light and rhythmic like a melody I never grew tired of hearing. Immediately, my heart lifted and a smile spread across my face before I had even opened my eyes.

My son, Ajax, bounded onto my bed with the kind of energy only a six-year-old could muster. He tugged at my arm, his small hands surprisingly strong for someone so little.

“Mum, Mum, get up, it’s morning already!” he declared, shaking me with all his might.

I rolled over and caught him in my arms, hugging him fiercely. My chest ached with the familiar swell of love. Ajax was my pride, my joy, my miracle. He was the only good thing to come from my marriage to Simon, the single bright light I had managed to carry out of months of darkness.

I held him tighter, unwilling to let go, because I couldn’t stop thinking about how close I had come to never meeting him at all. He had been just a “false negative” away from being erased before his life even began. That thought still made my blood run cold, and so I clutched him as if I could shield him from everything—even the memory of that possibility.

“Mum, you’re squashing me!” he complained with a laugh, squirming and wiggling his way out of my grip.

I laughed too, though mine was heavy with relief, and watched him resume his relentless tugging at my arm.

“It’s a Monday morning and you’re still in bed, at this time!” he shouted, stretching out the last words like a town crier announcing my shame to the entire village.

I blinked one eye open, squinting at the golden sunlight streaming stubbornly through the c***k in the curtains. The day had indeed begun without me, bright and full, and I sighed before springing up with a playful flourish, scooping Ajax into my arms once again. He shrieked with joy, but quickly wriggled free and bolted out of the room like a whirlwind.

Alone again, I pulled the curtains wide and inhaled a deep breath of crisp morning air. The weight of reality pressed back against me almost immediately. Today was important. I had three interviews lined up—three chances at clawing my way back into something resembling stability. And in the afternoon, I had to dash off to my part-time job at the restaurant.

I whispered to myself, as though voicing the thought would make it come true: One of them has to hire me.

It had been years since my divorce from Simon, years of drifting from one part-time job to another, never able to hold down anything permanent. Each time I tried, the past came crawling back with flashing cameras and vicious headlines. The memory was so sharp it felt like it was happening again: my face plastered across television screens with the word “Gold Digger” sprawled beneath it in bold letters. The blinding bursts of camera flashes had left afterimages in my vision, as if even my eyes refused to let me forget.

My breath grew shallow and quick, panic clawing its way up my chest. I gripped the windowsill for balance, knuckles whitening as I tried to ground myself. I had lost track of how many times I had packed up and moved to another state just to escape the whispers, the stares, the relentless press.

Then I felt it. A small, warm palm slipped into mine. Ajax. He had crept back into the room silently, as he always did at the exact moment I needed him most. His hand was tiny, but the comfort it carried was immense, anchoring me to the present.

I dropped to my knees and wrapped him in my arms, burying my face in his hair. He let me hold him without squirming this time, patient in a way far beyond his years. That was one of the things I loved most about my son—he always seemed to know when I truly needed him, when laughter wasn’t enough, when silence and presence were the greatest gifts he could offer.

By the time I let go, my chest had steadied, and my smile had returned. Not the hollow mask I wore for the world, but a genuine, grateful curve of the lips, born from love.

We moved quickly after that. I dressed Ajax for kindergarten while he recited his weekend adventures with stuffed animals, then brushed my hair, applied light makeup, and slipped into a neat shirt and trousers. My hair went up in a bun, practical and professional, and I reached for my bag.

Just as I opened the door, Ajax tugged at my arm. “You forgot something,” he reminded, eyes wide with seriousness.

I laughed softly. He was right. I turned back, picked up my sunglasses and facemask, and slid them into place. It had become our ritual—our armor.

Hand in hand, we walked to kindergarten, but I did not take off my disguise until I had waved him goodbye and boarded the bus alone. I hated it—hated having to hide my face from the world when I was with my son, hated that he had to grow up with a mother who treated the simple act of dropping him off at school like a covert mission. But it was the only way I could protect him.

I had kept him hidden from the public eye all these years, and I was determined it would stay that way. I couldn’t risk Simon using the courts or the media to try to take Ajax from me.

The thought made my stomach knot.

The interviews came and went in a blur. At each company, I spoke clearly, answered confidently, and clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this time they wouldn’t dig too deeply into my past. But I knew better. Employers saw my résumé, then my divorce, and suddenly my competence was drowned beneath Simon’s shadow.

By the third interview, exhaustion tugged at me. Still, I whispered hope to myself. They might overlook it. Someone has to.

I rushed through lunch and picked Ajax up from kindergarten. He barreled into me, arms thrown wide, his chatter spilling out before I could even greet him. Every word about his day tugged me further from my worries, until I found myself laughing aloud despite the heaviness that lingered in my chest.

But reality pressed back soon enough. We hurried to my part-time job at the restaurant, slipping in through the back door. Ajax settled into the little corner the chef had set aside for him, a kindness I would never forget. The chef never asked questions. She didn’t pry into why a woman with my qualifications waited tables or why I shielded my child from sight. She simply let me work. That was her gift to me, and I cherished it.

I tied on my apron, plastered my signature smile across my face—the one that masked fear and exhaustion—and stepped out to greet the world.

“Hey, Tina, how’s it going?” Bella, my favorite coworker, called out with her usual cheer.

I smiled genuinely this time. Bella was a balm in human form, short and bubbly, a fellow single mother who understood without asking. We shared small talk about Ajax and her daughter, Lisa, before plunging into the bustle of work.

The bell above the door jingled, light and innocent. But the instant I looked up and saw who entered, the world shifted. The air turned icy, prickling across my skin. Goosebumps spread over my arms, and my breath caught.

My smile froze in place, brittle as glass.

Because standing there—like specters from a life I had tried desperately to leave behind—was the last person I ever wanted to see.