The Billionaire's Secret Baby In New York

The dress was a mistake. Mia Carter knew it the second the elevator doors opened on the 40th floor of The Sterling Hotel in Manhattan. The red dress she'd borrowed from her roommate Jenna was too tight around her hips, too short on her legs, and too bright for a girl whose usual uniform was a stained apron from Tony's Diner in Brooklyn. But she was tired. God, she was so damn tired. Tired of waking up at 5 AM to pour coffee for Wall Street guys who never looked at her. Tired of counting crumpled dollar bills at the end of her shift and realizing she was still $200 short on rent. Tired of being 24 and feeling like life had already decided she was going to be nobody. Jenna had forced her. "One night, Mia. Just one night where you don't feel poor. Put on the dress, come to the rooftop party with me, drink free champagne. Feel rich, even if it's fake." So she came. And now she immediately regretted it. The rooftop bar was all glass and gold and people who belonged. Women in designer dresses that probably cost more than her yearly salary. Men in suits that looked like they'd been born in them. And there she was, clutching her cheap purse, looking like a lost kid. "I told the staff downstairs the bar is closed for a private event tonight," a deep voice said right behind her. She jumped and turned around so fast she almost spilled. And then her brain stopped working. He was tall. Like, really tall. Dark hair pushed back, a jaw that could cut glass, and wearing a black suit that fit him like it was made just for him. But it was his eyes that got her. Blue, cold blue, like the winter sky over New York. And right now those eyes were looking at her like she was a problem. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, her face instantly burning red. "I was looking for the bathroom. I got lost." It was the worst lie ever. He took one slow step closer to her. He smelled like something expensive - cologne, whiskey, power. The kind of smell that belonged to someone who owned buildings, not someone who cleaned tables in them. "The staff bathroom is downstairs, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and calm. "This floor is for private guests only tonight. Are you new? I don't recognize you from housekeeping." Housekeeping. The word hit her like a slap. Of course. He looked at her dress, her cheap shoes, and decided she must be staff. "I don't work here," she said quickly, and she hated how small her voice sounded. "Not here. I work at a diner. In Brooklyn. Tony's Diner on Flatbush. I was just... my friend invited me. I just wanted to see what it felt like, you know? To be up here. Where the air is different." Something flickered in his cold eyes. He looked at her again, really looked at her this time. At the nervous way she was holding her purse, at the way her lipstick was slightly smudged. "A Brooklyn waitress in a Manhattan penthouse bar," he said, and finally, there was a hint of a smile. But it wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a wolf gives before it decides if it's hungry. "Interesting. What's your name, Brooklyn?" "Mia. Mia Carter." "Mia Carter," he repeated slowly, like he was memorizing it, tasting every letter. "I'm Alexander." Just Alexander. No last name, like he was so important he only needed one. He walked over to the bar, poured two glasses of champagne without asking, and handed one to her. She shouldn't have taken it. Every smart bone in her body was screaming at her to say thank you and leave. But his fingers brushed hers when he gave her the glass. And for the first time in months, a man was looking at her like she was actually beautiful. Not just the invisible girl who refills his coffee. "What do you do, Alexander?" she asked, taking a small sip. "I own this hotel," he said casually. Like someone would say "I own a bicycle." Mia almost choked. "You own The Sterling? The whole thing?" "Among other things." Of course. Of course the one man she talks to in this place is a billionaire. Only her luck. They talked. Or rather, he asked questions and she answered, feeling more and more dizzy. Not from the champagne, from him. He asked about Brooklyn, about the diner, about why a pretty girl like her looked so tired all the time. No one had asked her that in years. "You look sad, Mia Carter," he said quietly at one point, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "I'm not sad. I'm just... broke," she laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I can fix broke," he said. It should have sounded arrogant. It did. But it also sounded like a promise. Then he leaned in, his voice just a whisper against her ear. "Do you want to get out of here?" She should have said no. She knew all the stories. Rich man, poor girl, one night that ends with her crying in a taxi. She'd served enough women like that at the diner, listening to their stories over cold coffee. She said yes. His suite was on the top floor. It was bigger than her entire apartment building, with windows that showed all of New York City glittering below like diamonds. And when he kissed her, it wasn't soft or romantic. It was desperate, hungry, like he'd been holding back for years and she was the first person to make him snap. He pushed her against the glass, his hands in her hair, and she could feel his heart beating hard against her chest. "I don't do this," she whispered against his mouth, breathless, her hands fisted in his expensive shirt. "Neither do I," he whispered back, and then he kissed her again, deeper. For one night, she wasn't Mia the waitress who couldn't make rent. She was just a woman. Wanted. Seen. Chosen by a man who looked like he could have anyone in Manhattan. She gave him everything. She woke up alone. The morning light was harsh through the giant windows. The other side of the huge, soft bed was cold. Empty. No note on the pillow. No phone number scribbled on a napkin. No "I had a great time" text. Just a single hundred dollar bill left neatly on the nightstand, next to her cheap purse. Like she was a service he had paid for. Mia stared at that hundred dollars, and her stomach turned inside out. Shame flooded her so fast she thought she would throw up. She grabbed her red dress with shaking hands, tears stinging her eyes so badly she could barely see. She ran. Out of the suite, into the elevator, out of that beautiful hotel that had made her feel rich for five hours. She told herself on the subway back to Brooklyn that she would never think about Alexander ever again. That it was just a stupid mistake, a fairytale that turned ugly, and she would forget his face, his voice, his hands. She kept that promise for exactly five weeks. Until this morning. Until she was kneeling on the cracked tile floor of her tiny Brooklyn bathroom, staring down at a cheap plastic pregnancy test from the dollar store, and seeing two solid pink lines looking back at her. Her hand went to her flat stomach automatically, her whole body shaking. "No," she whispered to the empty bathroom. "No, no, no." One night in Manhattan. One stupid, beautiful, terrible night where she pretended to be someone else. Now she was carrying a secret that would tie her forever to a billionaire CEO who didn't even know her last name, and who left a hundred dollars on the pillow like she meant nothing. And she had no idea what she was going to do.