The CEO's Secret Heir

The ballroom looked exactly the same as it always did: white, expensive, and packed with people who understood the language of money. To them, being rich was as natural as breathing. Callum Voss walked through the crowd without stopping. He touched a board member’s wife on the hand, nodded at a future investor, and said a quick word to Petra Langford, who was already plotting something behind her fake smile. By his third walk around the room, he had shaken seventeen hands and listened to the exact same congratulations eight times. Tomorrow, his engagement will be official. Nobody was supposed to know yet except the VIPs, which really meant everyone knew. That was how high society worked. Gossip traveled through family lines before it ever hit the news. His mother had shared the secret at the right lunch table earlier that day, and by evening, it was a done deal: Callum Voss and Wren Ashford were getting married. It was a smart business move. Both families were thrilled. But Callum wasn't thrilled. He didn't feel much of anything except the dull, constant ache of a life that had been planned out for him before he was even born. "Callum." His mother appeared right next to him. She moved with the smooth perfection of someone who never just randomly stumbled into a conversation. Isolde Voss wore her white dress like armor. "You're leaving too early. It's only ten o'clock." "I've done my duty." "You've been here for forty minutes." "Forty-two," he said. "I counted." Her lips tightened into a thin line. She wasn't a woman who liked jokes, even accurate ones. "Wren is looking for you. You should dance with her. The photographers are waiting." Callum looked at his mother's face. It was completely controlled. She held her shoulders stiffly, acting like she was carrying the entire Voss family legacy all by herself. In reality, she had been doing that ever since his father died. She had done a good job, too. The company was strong, the business was growing, and their reputation was perfect. None of it had actually made her happy. But then again, happiness had never been part of the plan. "Later," he said. He didn't wait for her to answer. He walked through the crowd with the effortless confidence of someone who had been raised to own the room. The stairs to the outdoor terrace were past the west hallway, right through the doors that looked out over the city. The city. That was where he felt at home. Forty-three floors below, the streets were alive. Down there, people actually chose their own lives. They woke up and decided who they wanted to be, instead of just taking over a family business. The terrace was completely empty. Good. He leaned against the railing and let the cool night air hit his face. It was October, and the city smelled like concrete and autumn—everything was cooling down and slowing down, getting ready for winter. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Niall, his assistant: Board dinner moved to Thursday. You're free Monday morning. He deleted the message. He didn't want to think about the board, or Monday morning, or anything else on his schedule. He just wanted to stand there, feel the energy of his city, and forget that he had never made a single choice for himself. A bartender brought over a glass of scotch and left it on the table. Callum didn't remember ordering it, but the bartender already knew. Everyone knew what Callum Voss drank. Everyone knew what he liked, what he wanted, and exactly where he would be. His entire life was mapped out like a machine. He took a sip. The city lights blurred for a second, then became sharp again. He wasn't drunk; he was just exhausted in a way that sleep couldn't fix. It was the kind of tired you feel when you've been playing a part for so long that you forget who you actually are underneath the act. He was thirty-two years old. CEO of Voss Capital Group. As of tomorrow, he will be engaged to Wren Ashford. Tomorrow, he would smile for the cameras and pretend to be happy about it. The day after, the engagement would be in all the major newspapers. Within six months, they would have a massive wedding, and then… And then what? More of the same thing, forever. He heard the terrace door open behind him but didn't turn around. Whoever it was would either say something or walk away. He had learned not to waste his time on people who didn't matter. The footsteps came closer. He could tell it was a woman by the sound of her high heels. "I'm sorry," she said. Her voice had an accent he couldn't quite place, but she definitely didn't sound like the wealthy people inside. "I didn't know anyone was out here. I was just trying to escape..." She waved her hand vaguely toward the ballroom. "...all of that." Callum turned around. The terrace lights were behind her, so he couldn't see her face clearly—just her outline. She had dark hair and wore a simple dress that wasn't trying to look expensive. She was beautiful, but not because of money. It was just the way she was built, and the way she stood a little apart from the world, like she wasn't entirely sure she belonged there. "Well, you found a quiet spot," he said. She didn't leave. He figured she would walk away once she realized he was someone important—or maybe she already knew who he was and just didn't care. The terrace was big enough for both of them. She walked over to the railing a few feet away and looked out at the city the same way he had been—like it was a puzzle she was trying to solve. "Do you work here?" she asked. "In a way." "That's not a real answer." "No," he admitted. "It isn't." She turned to face him, and the light hit her features. She had a very direct way of looking at people. It was the kind of honesty you find in people who can't afford to play polite social games. She looked smart, but also cautious, as if she were trying to figure out if he was going to be a problem. "I'm filling in for a catering worker," she said. "My friend called in sick and I needed the cash. I'm guessing you're not with the kitchen staff." He almost smiled. "No." "Rich, then." "Yes." "And definitely trapped." That made him freeze. He looked at her again. She was back to watching the city, not him, but she meant what she said. She could see it right through him—the heavy burden he carried, the deep exhaustion of a man who had never been allowed to make his own choices. "What's your name?" he asked. "Seren." "That's different." "It means 'star' in Welsh," she explained, sounding like she had repeated this a thousand times and didn't really care if he found it interesting. "My mother loved poetry. My father loved running away, so I got the poetry and not much else. What's your name?" "Callum." "Okay, Callum." She finally looked him straight in the eye. "Are you going to tell me you're someone incredibly important? Because if you don't, I'm just going to keep talking, and I have a feeling important people don't like that." This time, he actually did smile. "I'm definitely important. Tell me everything." And she did.