The Billionaire’s Forbidden Submissions

Chapter 2

Vivi's POV

The text comes through at 4:32 PM on a Tuesday.

I'm sitting in my car in the parking lot of the skating rink, still wearing the grease-stained uniform from my lunch shift, when my phone buzzes. It's Cameron. Three words: "My dad wants it."

I stare at the message for a full thirty seconds before my brain catches up. What? The deposit? How does his dad even factor into this? We broke up six months ago. I've been trying to move on, trying to stop thinking about the ways he systematically dismantled my confidence like it was a hobby.

Sophie's in the backseat, scrolling through her phone, humming something I don't recognize. She's wearing her school uniform—plaid skirt, white blouse, the whole conservative Catholic school package our mother insists on. Her blue hair is pulled back in a ponytail, the color almost completely faded now, looking more grey than anything else. When she notices me frozen over my phone, she glances up.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing. Cameron's just being Cameron."

The response is immediate. "So, an asshole?"

I don't correct her. Can't, really. She's right.

I type back: "I already told you I need that money. Figure it out."

The response is faster than I expected: "Not his problem anymore. Mine either. Go see him yourself."

I read it twice. Three times. Each time it feels like a small knife twist. Six months of living together and this is how he handles a shared financial obligation—by palming it off to his father and pretending he has no stake in the outcome.

"We should go get it," Sophie says from the backseat, leaning forward. "Your money is your money."

"It's complicated."

"How?"

I don't answer because there's no good way to explain the humiliation of having to ask your ex's father for money that should have come to you automatically. There's no good way to explain that his dad always made me uncomfortable anyway the way he looked at me during the rare dinners we were forced to attend together. The way Cameron would suddenly become quiet and careful around him, like he was walking on eggshells.

I start the car instead.

"Where are we going?" Sophie asks.

"Piano lessons. Then we're getting your birthday present."

"I don't need—"

"Sophie."

She goes quiet.

°°°°

The address Cameron sends comes with another message: "He's expecting you tomorrow at 3 PM."

I don't remember telling him I'd go. I don't remember agreeing to anything.

But tomorrow at 2:47 PM, I'm pulling up to a street I've never seen before, in a neighborhood I didn't know existed. The houses here aren't just big—they're architectural statements. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern lines. The kind of places that make you feel immediately poor just by looking at them.

Sophie's pressed against the passenger window, eyes wide.

"Holy s**t," she breathes.

"Language," I say automatically, even though I'm thinking the exact same thing.

The house at the address is a three-story Spanish colonial nightmare of money. Oceanview estate. Ocean-f*****g-front. Cameron's never mentioned this. Never said his dad had anything close to this kind of wealth. We used to joke about our fathers being failures, bonding over the shared experience of paternal disappointment. Except apparently, Cameron's failure of a father is a failure with a beachfront mansion.

I'm trying to process this information when my phone rings. Unknown number. I answer without thinking.

"Vivi?" A man's voice. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous in a way I can't quite articulate. "This is Alexander Blackwood. Cameron's father. I believe my son told you I'd be expecting you?"

My throat tightens.

"He did."

"Good. I'm going to be honest with you I'm not thrilled about this entire situation. But the money belongs to you, and it's been sitting in my account for months while you and my son play games." There's something cutting underneath the words. Something that suggests he's not talking just about money. "I'd prefer to handle this directly. Today. Three o'clock. Are you on your way?"

I check my phone. 2:52 PM.

"I'm outside."

The line goes quiet. Then: "Well, come inside then. Don't keep me waiting."

He hangs up before I can respond.

Sophie's staring at me. "That sounded intense."

"That sounded like his dad."

I turn off the engine. My hands are shaking. I don't know why. It's just money. It's just a man I've met a handful of times, all of which were uncomfortable and formal and filled with the kind of small talk that makes your skin crawl.

"I should wait here," Sophie says, reaching for her earbuds.

"Yeah. Keep the doors locked. And don't open them for anyone."

"You think something's going to happen?"

I think about the tone of his voice. The way he said my name like he already knew things about me. The way Cameron mentioned he doesn't talk to his father anymore, like there's a reason beyond typical family dysfunction.

"No," I lied. "But your mom would murder me if anything happened to you."

I climb out of the car before she can ask more questions.

°°°°

Walking up the stone driveway, I notice details I missed from the car. The landscaping is immaculate. Not a single leaf out of place. No kids' toys. No signs of a life lived normally. Just money, carefully arranged and maintained by people whose job it is to keep things perfect.

The door opens before I ring the bell.

A woman answers. Mid-fifties, expensive haircut, the kind of polish that comes from never having worked a day in her life. She's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Oh! You must be Vivi. He said you were coming." She opens the door wider. "Come in, come in. He's just finishing something in his office, but he'll be right out."

The interior is all marble and high ceilings. Ocean-view windows frame the water like expensive artwork. Everything is too clean. Too controlled.

"Thank you," I managed.

"Your outfit is really something," the woman says, studying me. My grease-stained work uniform. My hair that I didn't have time to wash. "I think he'll like it."

I don't know what that means. Don't want to know.

She leads me through the living room to an office with bay windows overlooking the ocean. I'm struck momentarily silent by the view, the expanse of blue and sky and endless possibilities.

"He's coming," the woman says. Then, as she's leaving: "You should probably be on your knees."

"I'm sorry?"

But she's already gone.

I'm standing alone in the office when I hear him. Footsteps. The click-click-click of expensive shoes against marble floors. Before I can turn around, a man enters.

He's not what I expected. Not kind. Not soft. Not anything that resembles the man Cameron briefly mentioned years ago. He's tall. Commanding. There's something in his eyes that makes me feel small and exposed, like he's already reading all my secrets.

He closes the door behind him.

"Vivi," he says, and the way he says my name like he's been waiting for this moment sends a chill down my spine.

I realize I've made a terrible mistake coming here.

But I'm about to make a much worse one.