The Billionaire's Claim
1298 Words
Chapter Three – The Billionaire’s Claim
Naomi’s hands trembled as she stood before them, her chest rising and falling with rage and betrayal. The gilded walls of the Coles’ mansion suddenly felt like prison bars closing in on her. Franklin’s voice thundered across the room like a gavel delivering judgment.
“Naomi, if you cross that door, don’t ever come back.”
His words cut deeper than any blade.
Her eyes swept over them one last time—Frederick leaning lazily in his chair with his glass of wine, Dorothy pretending to cry into her hands, and Celeste, the only one whose tears seemed genuine.
“Let her go,” Frederick muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. “We have fed and clothed her. That’s enough. She’s an unwanted child with no parents, but we gave her shelter, a life of luxury. And this is how she repays us? By refusing us this one wish?”
Naomi’s lips quivered, but she refused to break in front of him.
Dorothy rose, her face painted with a pitiful expression. “Sis, please… don’t go. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Okay—you can have Marcus. I’ll step aside, just… don’t leave. I wouldn’t be at peace with myself.”
Naomi’s throat tightened. Once upon a time, those words would have made her falter. She would have believed Dorothy’s trembling voice, her glossy eyes, her quivering lip. But not anymore.
Celeste moved toward Naomi, desperation etched across her face. “Don’t you see? Dorothy is remorseful. Don’t be rash, Naomi.”
“Remorseful?” Naomi’s voice cracked as she laughed bitterly. “I find that laughable.” She shook her head, scoffing. “You all made your choice. I’m just making mine.”
Without another word, she turned and stormed toward the door.
“Naomi!” Celeste’s voice cracked with pain. “Shouldn’t we go after her?” she cried, turning to Franklin. “Even though she isn’t our biological daughter, she’s still—”
“She’s nothing,” Franklin cut in sharply. His jaw tightened. “We’ve pampered her enough. Once she begins to taste the hardship of life, she’ll come crawling back. And when she does—” his eyes darkened—“you are not to go easy on her. She must be taught a lesson.”
The door slammed behind Naomi, silencing the mansion.
She didn’t look back.
---
Two Days Later
The shortlet apartment smelled faintly of paint and detergent. A far cry from the lavender-polished marble halls of the Coles’ mansion. The space was cramped, with a single bed pushed against the wall and a buzzing fridge that hummed louder than her thoughts.
Naomi stood by the window, watching life outside pass her by—children chasing a ball, a street vendor shouting prices of tomatoes, the city moving on as though her world hadn’t just imploded.
Freedom felt strange. Lonely. Terrifying.
But she reminded herself: At least here, no one controls me.
When her cupboards ran empty, Naomi decided to head to the market. She tied her hair in a loose bun, slipped on a plain blouse, and walked to the grocery store.
For the first time in days, she allowed herself to smile at something as simple as picking out vegetables and milk. Independence, though fragile, felt sweet.
Until it wasn’t.
At the counter, she slid her card into the machine. Declined.
Her chest tightened. She tried another card. Declined. A third. Declined.
Heat crept up her neck as the cashier frowned. People shifted behind her in line, whispering impatiently.
Naomi’s fingers shook as she pulled out her phone, opening her bank app. Her account read: Frozen.
Franklin.
Her stomach dropped. This was his punishment. His leash, still tugging, even outside his house.
She forced a weak smile at the cashier. “I’ll… just return these.”
But before she could, the cashier’s phone buzzed. Her eyes widened at the notification. She looked up at Naomi with sudden nervousness, then began packing the groceries into bags.
“Ma’am, please… don’t worry. Everything is covered.”
“What?” Naomi blinked.
The store manager rushed over, bowing slightly, his face pale. “Apologies for the delay, madam. You must never pay here. From now on, anything you need will be taken care of.”
Naomi froze. “I—I don’t understand—”
But they ignored her questions, bustling around to ensure she had everything.
Naomi, cheeks burning with confusion, whispered a soft prayer. A good Samaritan. God sent someone to save me from shame.
Gathering her bags, she turned to leave—only to stop dead in her tracks.
Marcus.
And Dorothy.
---
Dorothy’s eyes widened, her lips parting in feigned surprise. “Naomi!”
Naomi’s stomach twisted.
Dorothy hurried forward, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Sis, you should come back. We all miss you so much.”
Naomi laughed coldly, the sound sharp as glass. “Spare me the act, Dorothy. I’ve fallen for those crocodile tears too many times.”
Dorothy’s face faltered, then she glanced at Marcus. “I’ll… excuse myself,” she murmured, slipping away toward the restroom.
Marcus stepped closer, his cologne familiar, suffocating. His smile was thin, manipulative.
“You’re really making this harder than it has to be,” he said smoothly. “You’re blowing everything out of proportion.”
Naomi’s jaw clenched. “Out of proportion?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, Dorothy is pregnant. But it’s you I love. It was a mistake, Naomi—just one night. Don’t throw away what we have.”
Her eyes burned with rage. “What we have? You betrayed me with her!”
He reached for her hand. “Naomi, be reasonable. I love you. Stop being dramatic.”
Dramatic. The word snapped something in her.
Her palm cracked across his face before she realized it.
Marcus staggered back, his face twisting in fury. “You—” He raised his hand to strike her.
But it never landed.
---
A hand caught Marcus’ wrist midair, grip like steel.
Marcus spun around, eyes blazing. “Who the hell—”
Damian.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit that exuded power. His eyes, cold and unflinching, pinned Marcus in place.
“I’m her husband,” Damian said evenly, his voice like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Marcus blinked, then let out a mocking laugh. “Husband? So you were cheating all along, Naomi? You slut.”
The sound of a fist colliding with flesh cracked through the air.
Marcus crumpled, blood gushing from his nose. Damian stood over him, jaw tight, his knuckles reddened.
“Call my wife that again,” Damian growled, his voice low, dangerous, “and it won’t just be your nose I break.”
The crowd gasped. Phones raised, capturing the scene. Naomi’s heart thundered in her chest, torn between shock and an unfamiliar sense of safety.
Dorothy came running back, shrieking dramatically. “Naomi! You want to kill my fiancé because he dumped you?!”
Naomi could only stare, disgust hollowing her chest. She turned and walked out, her bags heavy in her hands, Damian silently following like a shadow.
---
The apartment was quiet when she returned, though her pulse still raced from the mall chaos. Setting her groceries down, Naomi pushed her door open—then froze.
On her bed sat a small, black velvet box.
Her breath caught. She approached slowly, her hands trembling as she lifted the lid. Inside gleamed a diamond bracelet, elegant, dazzling.
A note rested beside it, written in sharp, precise handwriting.
For my wife.
– D.
Naomi’s lips parted, her heart hammering.
The good Samaritan hadn’t been God.
It had been Damian.
And he had already claimed her.
- Writer
