Rescued by the billionaire

CHAPTER NINE: Carrington foundation part 1

AARON

This Friday marked the evening of my company’s annual charity ball, an event close to my heart not only because of its cause but also because it was founded by my mother—The Carrington Foundation. She often said she was one of the lucky ones: fortunate to have married into wealth, yes, but never forgetting the struggle it took to get there. Before she met my father in college, she had to fight for everything. She worked multiple jobs to put herself through school, surviving on determination and ambition alone. She told me once that if she had given up during those hard years, she would have never crossed paths with my father—and in turn, never fallen in love with him.

At first, she admitted, she thought he was just another one of those stuck-up, privileged boys who never had to work for anything in life. But he proved her wrong—in more ways than one. Except, she would say with a smile, for the fact that he *was* rich. Still, it wasn’t his money that won her over. It was his kindness, his unwavering belief in her potential, and the way he never once looked down on her for where she came from. Their story became the soul of The Carrington Foundation—an enduring reminder that with opportunity, compassion, and a little help at the right time, anyone can change their life.

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I came back early today in preparation for the charity ball, but the moment I stepped through the front door, I realized my house had been completely transformed. It looked less like a home and more like a high-end boutique—designer clothes draped over the backs of chairs, rows of shoes lined up like soldiers across the hallway, and handbags perched on every available surface. There was no mistaking whose work this was—Amanda Carrington. My mom had clearly made herself at home, and as usual, had brought her entire closet with her, just in case.

Mom’s presence wasn’t surprising. She’s usually my date for these events, ever since dad died when I was teenagers. It’s something of a tradition—us showing up together, the Carringtons front and center for the press and the guests. But something told me this year was going to be different.

"Aaron!" came my mother’s voice, echoing from upstairs.

She appeared at the top of the staircase, wrapped in a silk robe, her hair perfectly styled and her makeup already done. She looked every bit the glamorous founder of the Carrington Foundation. Before I could respond, I asked the question that had been on my mind since I walked in.

"Where's Isobel?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

But instead of giving me a straight answer, my mother simply raised an eyebrow, then scolded me for coming home so late. Without missing a beat, she waved her hand dismissively and told me to stop dawdling and go get dressed.

I put on a black tuxedo, tailored to fit me with almost surgical precision. The fabric hugged my frame just right, smooth and sharp, the kind of suit that made you stand up a little straighter. I took one last glance in the mirror—straightened my cuffs, adjusted the collar—and headed downstairs, expecting to find the usual pre-event chaos.

But the house was eerily quiet.

Not a sound echoed from the living room or kitchen. The hallway, usually scattered with heels, clutches, and frantic footsteps before a big night, was completely bare. No laughter, no perfume lingering in the air, no rustling of gowns. The dresses, the shoes, the bags—everything was gone. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.

Confused, I reached for my phone. Just then, a message buzzed in from Mom:

**“Heading straight to the event. Meet you guys there. And for God’s sake, remember to close your mouth when she shows up.”**

I frowned at the screen, puzzled—until I turned around.

There she was.

Isobel.

As if summoned by those very words, she stood at the base of the staircase. Her hair was swept back with an effortless grace, each strand in its rightful place like it had been sculpted by the wind itself. Her makeup was understated, elegant—soft tones that accentuated rather than concealed. But her lips—her lips were painted in the most vivid red I had ever seen. It wasn’t just a color. It was a statement. A challenge. A warning.

And I realized then—my mother had been right.

My mouth was slightly open.

And I hadn’t even noticed.