THE CEO’S UNPLANNED HEIR

CHAPTER FIVE

ISABELLA

Thelma's face filled my screen, propped on something in her nursery, the ceiling fan turning lazy circles behind her.

"Girl, you look like you've been running on two hours of sleep."

Her voice pulled me out of whatever thoughts had been consuming me.

"You can tell?"

"Hell yeah. That crazy boss of yours is at it again, right?"

The moment she mentioned him, something shifted uncomfortably in my chest. I hated that lately, Maxwell Blackwood occupied far too much space in my head.

"I should have gotten used to it by now, but I still haven't. Can you believe he sent me files to review on a Saturday?"

"Scumbag."

I laughed softly.

"Hey T, I'm sorry I haven't had time to come check on you and mini-me. I promise I'll come by soon."

"It's okay, baby. We know you're dealing with a lot lately."

"I've got to go. I just got to the office."

"Go before your devil boss starts breathing down your neck again."

I rolled my eyes. "Bye."

I blew her a kiss before ending the call.

The lobby was already buzzing — phones ringing, heels clicking against marble, conversations blurring into a hum I didn't have the patience for. I tightened my grip on my handbag and headed straight for my office.

The moment I dropped into my chair, I released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

These past few weeks had been hell.

Jeff.

My mother.

The hospital bill.

Five pregnancy tests sitting at the bottom of my bathroom cabinet.

And Maxwell.

God, Maxwell made me earn every cent of my salary — two a.m. emails, weekend assignments, files that could take two days to complete but were somehow expected back by end of day.

I loathed him. Or at least, I kept telling myself I did.

Why not just quit? That question had lived somewhere in the back of my mind for the past two years.

Because I couldn't.

I'd once mopped floors at Starbucks where nobody looked at me twice, counting every dollar in my wallet before I dared buy groceries. I wasn't going back. Jobs were scarce without connections or a degree from the right school, so landing this one had taken four sleepless nights of interview prep and pure luck. Two years later, I was still here.

Bills were dangling around my neck like a noose, and quitting wasn't an option when my mother needed dialysis, I needed money for my master's degree, and now—

I pressed my fingers against my forehead.

The pregnancy. I couldn't even think about that right now.

My phone buzzed. Maxwell: My office. Now.

Of course. If it wasn't the devil in Dior.

He never calls me into his office first thing on a Monday. Well, at least I could finally ask him about the salary advance.

I grabbed my handbag and stood, pulling out the small mirror I kept inside it before I left.

Dark circles, pale skin, hair that had clearly given up on me sometime around Saturday. No amount of concealer was fixing this.

"Perfect," I muttered, shoving the mirror back into my bag.

Maxwell's office was exactly what I'd expect from a man who owned a luxury furniture empire — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, dark walnut polished to perfection, hand-carved shelves, leather chairs around a glass conference table. I'd been in here countless times. I still wasn't used to it.

It didn't scream wealth. It whispered it.

Everything was immaculate. Cold. Controlled. Just like him.

Maxwell stood behind his desk, both hands tucked into his pockets. He didn't even look up when I entered.

"Good morning, sir."

Silence.

I stood there awkwardly. The atmosphere felt strange. Heavy. Like I'd walked into a room where something had already happened, but nobody had told me what it was.

My stomach tightened. Does he know? Had he somehow found out about the pregnancy?

Impossible. No one knew. I hadn't even told Thelma.

"Sit."

The word was quiet. It was also not a request.

I walked toward the chair opposite his desk and lowered myself into it, hands trembling enough that I clasped them together in my lap.

Maxwell finally lifted his eyes to mine — something different about his expression, something I couldn't read.

Asking for a salary advance suddenly felt like the stupidest thing I could do.

I swallowed. He studied me like I was a piece of furniture he was trying to sell.

The silence stretched.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

I shifted in my seat. "Sir, if this is about the files from Saturday, I—"

"Marry me."

I stopped breathing, half convinced I'd imagined it.

I stared at him. He stared back — calm, as though he hadn't just asked his employee to marry him on a Monday morning.

"I…"

Nothing came out. My brain had abandoned me.

Maxwell tilted his head slightly. "Do you want me to repeat myself, Hayes?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"What?"

"Marry me."

I let out a nervous laugh. He didn't smile.

"You're asking me to marry you?"

"Yes."

"Me? Your assistant?"

"Correct."

"Have you lost your mind?" I stared at him, waiting for the smallest hint of a smile. There wasn't one. "Because if this is some twisted joke, Maxwell, I really don't appreciate being the punchline. Did you hit your head somewhere over the weekend?"

"Marry me and I will—"

"No!" The word came out sharper than I meant it to, sharp enough that a couple of staff glanced up through the glass walls.

"No?"

"Yes, Maxwell. No. Don't you get it?"

"You haven't even heard my offer."

"I don't need to hear one more thing from you."

Maxwell watched me rage. He'd never seen this side of me in two years of working together, and right then I didn't care about consequences. This was already insane.

I turned to leave.

"Two million dollars."

I stopped, my hand already on the doorknob.

"Two million what?"

"Dollars, Hayes."

Slowly, I turned back. Maxwell hadn't moved. Same expression, like none of this was extraordinary to him.

Two million dollars. I'd never ever seen two million dollars. I'd woken up this morning worried about forty thousand, wondering how I was going to ask for a three-month salary advance. And now this?

"What exactly is this, Mr. Blackwood?"

"A one-year marriage contract. Be my wife for twelve months. After that, we file for divorce, and I set you free with two million dollars in your account."

I was lost.

"Remember the master's program you mentioned once? I'll fund it. Anything you want."

I laughed, bitter. "You think throwing money around solves everything? Two years of treating me like garbage — the impossible deadlines, the two a.m. emails — and now you want to marry me?"

"It's a business transaction, Hayes."

"It's insane."

"It's practical." Maxwell pressed both hands flat against the desk. "I need a wife. You need money. We can solve both problems with one signature."

"You don't know anything about my problems."

"I know exactly what your problems are, Hayes. Everyone has problems. Yours happen to be the kind money can fix."

I clenched my jaw.

I'd slept with this man barely two weeks ago. The way he kept using my last name felt like a slap.

"Take the rest of the day off, Hayes. Think about my offer. I know you'll come around." The certainty in his voice made me want to scream.

"I won't."

"I know you will."

My legs felt too heavy to carry me, but I walked out anyway, leaving the door open behind me. I hailed a cab and started crying before I'd even given the driver an address. He caught my eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Rough morning?"

"You have no idea."

At least he'd given me the day off instead of firing me.

I paid the driver and got out.

I didn't need Maxwell's bloody arrangement to fix the mess my life had become. I walked straight to my apartment, keys already in hand.

The door was open.

I stopped. I'd locked it this morning — I always double-checked before leaving.

I pushed it wider.

Inside, my wardrobe hung open, clothes scattered across the floor like garbage. My whole room, turned upside down.

"No, no, no, no."

I dropped my bag and rushed to the wardrobe, shoving clothes and shoes aside to reach what I'd hidden.

I finally found the steel lockbox. It was open, the small lock snapped clean off.

Empty. My heart lurched.

Five thousand dollars, gone — money I'd saved by skipping lunch, walking home instead of catching the bus, money scraped together for my mother's treatment. All of it, gone.

Aside from my mother, only one other person had a key to this apartment.

Jacob.

My father had robbed me.