TWISTED FATE:The Hidden Billionaire

CHAPTER THREE

The subway doors scraped open, and I walked out. No—I launched myself onto the concrete platform. My boots hit the ground hard, sending a shockwave up my shins. The station smelled like wet wool, and damp trash.

I ran.

My lungs burned like I was breathing in battery acid. I dodged a businessman in a gray trench coat, my shoulder clipping his arm. I didn't stop to apologize. The digital clock above the turnstile flashed 12:08 PM in bright red numbers. I was late. The panic in my chest wasn't just a flutter; it was a physical weight, crushing my ribs against my lungs.

I took the concrete stairs to the street two at a time. The rain was still coming down in thick, gray sheets, turning the New York sidewalks into slick mirrors. I reached my apartment building. Fourth floor. I pressed the elevator button. Nothing happened. The elevator was broken. It was always broken.

I took the stairs. My thighs burned with lactic acid. The narrow hallway on the fourth floor smelled exactly like stale grease and boiled cabbage. The fluorescent bulb above my door flickered with a faint, electrical buzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. I stopped in front of unit 4B. I pulled my keys out of my wet coat pocket. My hand shook so badly the metal scratched against the brass plate of the deadbolt. I forced the key in and pushed the door open.

The hinges whined.

He was there.

My father sat at my cheap, laminate kitchen table. He was wearing his immaculate charcoal suit, completely out of place in my cramped apartment. He didn't look at me when I walked in. He was staring at his black coffee mug. The dark liquid inside was completely still.

Right next to the mug was a torn white envelope.

The clinic’s blue logo was printed in the top left corner. The paper was ripped open.

"Close the door," my father said.

His voice was perfectly flat. It wasn't angry. No—it was worse than angry. It was dead.

I closed the door. The latch clicked loudly in the quiet room. "Dad, I can explain," I started. I shrugged off my wet coat. Water dripped from the hem and splashed onto the faded linoleum floor.

"I got a letter today," he said. He tapped a thick, calloused finger against the ripped paper. "From the insurance company. They billed my account for an out-of-network clinic visit. A maternity clinic."

I swallowed. My throat was bone dry. "It was just a routine—"

"Do not lie to me!" he shouted.

The sudden volume made me flinch backward. My shoulders hit the solid wood of the front door.

"I called the billing department," he said, standing up. The metal legs of his chair scraped loudly against the cheap linoleum floor. It sounded like a scream. "They wouldn't tell me the diagnosis, but they confirmed the billing codes. Pregnancy test. Bloodwork."

He stepped away from the table. The refrigerator hummed behind him.

"Are you pregnant, Isabella?" he demanded.

I couldn't breathe. I stared at the sharp knot of his silk tie. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell him the clinic made a mistake. No—I couldn't. The evidence was sitting right there on the table.

"Are you?" he asked again, his voice dropping an octave.

"Yes," I whispered. The word tasted like ash on my tongue.

"Dad, please," I begged, the tears finally spilling over my cold, wet cheeks. "I'm still taking my accounting finals tomorrow. I swear to you. I've been studying every single night."

He didn't say anything. He just stared at me. His face was a blank mask.

"I'll work double shifts," I rambled, the words spilling out in a frantic, desperate rush. "I'll pay you back for the insurance premium. I'll get a job at the campus bookstore. I can fix this. I won't let it ruin my degree. Please."

For five agonizing seconds, my father went completely silent.

He looked at me. He didn't look at my wet boots, or the puddle of rainwater on the floor. He looked right into my eyes. The silence stretched tight across the room. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to get louder.

I thought, just for a second, that he might actually forgive me. The tension in his rigid shoulders loosened. His hands unclenched. I thought maybe he would walk over. Maybe he would hug me. Maybe he would tell me that we were family, and family figures it out. It was a stupid, childish hope, but it bloomed in my chest anyway.The relief shattered a second later.

"You are a disgrace," he said.

The words were quiet, but they cut deeper than a physical blow. He reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out his leather-bound checkbook. He clicked his silver pen, scribbled a number, and then ripped the check out of the binding.It was the tuition check for my final semester.

He held it up, looked me dead in the eye, and tore it in half.I gasped.

He tore it again. He dropped the pieces. The thick paper fluttered down and landed right in the wet puddle my boots had left on the floor. The ink immediately began to bleed.

"Pack your bags," he ordered. His tone was cold and absolute.

"Dad, please don't do this. I have nowhere to go. I have forty-two dollars."

"If you ever come back to this house," he continued, speaking right over me as if I wasn't even making a sound, "I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

"Dad..."

"You are not my daughter," he said.

He walked past me. He opened the front door, stepped out into the hallway, and left. He didn't look back. The door slowly swung shut on its own, clicking into the frame.

I was completely alone.

The apartment was dead silent. I didn't cry. The shock was too heavy to process. It sat on my chest like an anvil. I walked into my small bedroom. The beige walls suddenly looked foreign. This wasn't my home anymore.

I pulled my faded canvas duffel bag out from under the bed. A dust bunny clung to the strap. I brushed it off. I numbly opened my dresser drawers. I folded my sweaters. One gray. One blue. One black. I placed them in the bag. The fabric felt rough and scratchy against my numb fingers.

I walked over to my small desk. The fake wood was chipped on the left corner. I opened the bottom drawer, pushing aside a stack of blank spiral notebooks.

I pulled out the framed piece of paper. My original college acceptance letter. It was the only time my father had ever smiled at me. The only time he had looked truly proud.

I stared at the glass for a long moment. I placed the frame flat at the bottom of the duffel bag, hiding it under the sweaters. I pulled the two sides of the bag together. I zipped it up.

The metal zipper caught on a loose black thread. I pulled on it. It wouldn't budge. I yanked it hard, tearing the thread completely out of the seam. The bag closed.

Ten minutes later, I was back on the street.

I stood under the cracked plastic overhang of a bus shelter. The rain was pouring now, drumming heavily on the plastic roof above my head. I gripped the canvas handles of my duffel bag. My knuckles were white.

I had forty-two dollars. I had no family. I had nowhere to go.

I looked across the street. A car was parked next to a yellow fire hydrant. It was a sleek, black SUV with heavily tinted windows. It was idling. A steady stream of white exhaust curled up from the tailpipe, dissolving into the freezing rain.

I frowned. It had been sitting there the whole time I was inside.

My phone rang in my pocket.

The sudden vibration startled me. I dropped my duffel bag on the wet concrete and pulled the phone out. The screen was wet from the rain.

Unknown Number.I swiped my thumb across the cracked glass to answer. I held the cold phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Isabella," a voice said.

It was cold. Professional. It sounded like a machine, but it was a man.

"This is Aiden Thorne’s office," the voice continued.

"The car across the street is waiting for you. Get in."