Playing Mommy With My Billionaire Enemy

HERSHEY'S POV “Woke up like this, my ass. Your cheeks are bright red, and you're wearing tiger-print contacts? Girl, be honest. How the hell did you sleep with those things on?” I snickered as I scrolled through my social media, staring at yet another heavily filtered selfie of my shameless coworker, Kristelle Morgan. The woman had apparently made it her life's mission to flood my feed with daily documentation of her own existence. Unfortunately, she was also my ex-boyfriend's brand-new girlfriend. Yes, Darwin Brooks had cheated on me with my own coworker. And now the two of them were busy flaunting their relationship all over social media as if they hadn't both earned a one-way ticket straight to the lower circles of hell. The audacity was truly staggering. I was sitting in the teachers' lounge at Little Oaks Preschool, taking full advantage of the quiet sanctuary I'd gained by arriving far too early. It was barely six-thirty in the morning, and the first wave of sugar-fueled children wouldn't be dropped off until seven. As a preschool teacher, I was theoretically supposed to be the epitome of patience, nurturing grace, and positive reinforcement. Unfortunately, none of those professional virtues applied when I was knee-deep in stalking my ex's social media account. I’m a preschool teacher by profession, but a ruthless defense attorney at heart. Kidding! Still, was it really a crime to dream big? Even Kristelle dreamed of being a natural beauty, despite the fact that no amount of saturation sliders could fix her rotting personality. What was stopping me from dreaming of marrying a successful, high-powered lawyer? Besides, I was naturally gorgeous. At least, that’s what I told myself every morning while staring into the mirror, and self-delusion is a powerful skincare routine. I rolled my eyes and instinctively flipped my hair over my shoulder. Then I remembered my hair barely brushed my collarbones anymore. Damn it. Why was getting a dramatic post-breakup chop such a universal, deeply regrettable female experience? Who started that trend, anyway? And why had I been stupid enough to participate? Now I couldn't even execute a proper, disdainful hair flip. Great. Just great. “It’s barely six-thirty, and you’ve already managed to contaminate this entire room with your bitterness.” Ish—short for Trisha—shook her head as she approached my desk, clutching a venti iced coffee like it was a life raft. I shot her a withering look and went back to scrolling. Unfortunately, Darwin’s smug, punchable face immediately assaulted my screen. I aggressively swiped past it. Wait. Couldn't I just block him and save myself the daily psychic damage? Well, obviously. Why hadn't I thought of that brilliant solution sooner? My thumb hovered over his profile picture. Then I hesitated. What if he thinks I'm still hung up on him? I frowned at my phone screen. Well, I was bitter, but he didn't need a front-row seat to my emotional wreckage. “See? This is exactly what I'm talking about!” Ish exclaimed, leaning over my shoulder with the precision of a hawk. “You can't heal in the same environment where you got sick. Move on, girl! We're gorgeous. We don't need discount men in our lives!” I slowly turned my head to look at her. Coming from the reigning queen of toxic domestic nostalgia, that was rich. If resentment had a physical mass, her child's father would've been six feet under years ago. Ish had practically drafted an entire necrology of death wishes for that poor man. “Listen to the oracle of broken vows,” I deadpanned. “Her standards plummeted right after she met a man whose body shape resembled a walking bad decision.” “b***h!” I burst out laughing as Ish scowled and crossed her arms. Gwenette, who had just pushed open the lounge door, nearly doubled over at the sound. “She’s not wrong!” Gwen managed between gasps of laughter. Ish pointed an accusing finger at both of us. “f**k men! They love the benefits, but they treat accountability like a terminal disease.” Gwen and I howled. Honestly, Ish's filter completely dissolved the moment the topic of men arose. Her immaculate preschool-teacher persona vanished into thin air, replaced by a razor-sharp cynic who spoke absolute gospel. “Commitment before everything else, ladies!” I declared, wagging an authoritative finger at them. “Before you hand over the keys to the kingdom, make sure the man is actually willing to stand by you in the harsh light of day. Ring first, then he gets access to your life!” Gwen snorted into her travel mug. “Easy for you to say.” I narrowed my eyes at her. We’d been ride-or-die friends since high school, which meant we possessed enough dirt on one another to warrant federal investigations. Ish was easily the most vulnerable to temptation; a few whispered sweet nothings and a flash of a charming smile, and she was ready to give any walking red flag the benefit of the doubt. Her romantic philosophy was pure trial and error—mostly error. Gwen, on the other hand, held a deeply misguided fondness for long-distance relationships. She actively preferred men who lived hundreds or thousands of miles away under the delusion that geographical separation made things exciting. According to her, distance made the heart grow fonder. Personally, I was convinced distance just made it easier for a man to cheat without getting caught on Ring camera footage. Out of sight, out of mind, right? For all she knew, her current boyfriend was whispering sweet nothings while spooning another woman in a different time zone. But who was I to judge? I was a purist when it came to commitment. It’s hard to truly commit to someone you don't deeply love, and if a man is willing to legally tie himself to you, surely that meant he loved you enough to choose you for the rest of his natural-born days. Right? “Naturally, the resident expert on commitment has spoken,” Gwen said, interrupting my spiral. I gave her a deeply suspicious squint. She grinned, entirely unbothered. “Three broken engagements, three failed relationships, and absolutely nothing to show for them except a collection of sparkly paperweights. What are we calling you these days? A ring collector? Should we pool our money and get you a loyalty rewards card?” My eyes narrowed into lethal slits. The sheer, unadulterated nerve! She was only this cocky because her long-distance boyfriend hadn't ghosted her this week. Ish cackled, completely betraying me. “She’s got a point, Hershey.” I whipped around. “Whose side are you on?” “Mine. Always mine.” Traitor. Gwen shook her head, her expression softening into something uncomfortably sincere. “Seriously, though, Hershey... marriage isn't a magical vaccine against heartbreak. If it were, divorce lawyers wouldn't be driving sports cars. Just because a man puts a ring on your finger doesn't automatically mean he'll love you the way you deserve to be loved. The right one stays even when you're stubborn, chaotic, and impossible to understand.” Ish and I fell dead silent. For all her daily vendettas against the male species, Gwen occasionally dropped devastating truths. Though, wait—hadn't Ish said almost the exact same thing five minutes ago? Whatever. The painful reality was that both of my best friends possessed vastly more relationship mileage than I cared to acknowledge. Gwen had mastered the art of romanticized fantasy, and Ish had survived enough relational trainwrecks to write a bestselling textbook on what not to do. And me? I was apparently the poster child for premature diamond shopping. “Which is why you, Hershey Bennett, need to put a hard stop on your tragic streak,” Ish said, pointing an admonishing finger at my chest. “Just because your dad's a high-powered attorney doesn't mean your entire life script has to read like a legal drama. Leave those ridiculous, fairytale standards in your imagination, or you're going to spend your golden years collecting dust alongside your three engagement rings.” I scoffed and crossed my arms defensively, though a cold dread pooled in my stomach. Unfortunately, she wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe marrying a high-powered lawyer really was nothing more than a childish fantasy. “That’s right!” Gwen chimed in, twisting the knife. “This time, actually listen to your gut instead of chasing your Pinterest boards. If a man realizes you're forcing yourself to love the idea of him rather than his actual messy self, it gives him an easy out. Not everything can be negotiated, especially matters of the heart. Take notes!” I glared at both of them. Go ahead. Keep piling on. Just be profoundly grateful I’m currently single, otherwise you'd be on the receiving end of my undivided wrath. Besides, I wasn't asking for the moon. I just wanted a man who commanded a room. A sharp, intelligent, devastatingly handsome lawyer. A man who could dismantle an opponent in a courtroom and still make time to look at me like I hung the stars. Someone brilliant enough to challenge my mind, patient enough to handle my sharp tongue, and utterly devoted enough to choose me every single day. Was that really so impossible? Apparently, according to the universe's cosmic joke book, it was. Whatever. I’d find him eventually. Or die trying out of pure spite. By seven o'clock, the morning rush hit full throttle. Parents streamed through the front gates, juggling coffee cups, diaper bags, and reluctant toddlers. Gwen and Ish peeled off toward their respective classrooms while I took my station near the double doors to welcome our pint-sized charges. The foyer was already a cacophony of sound. A little boy was currently staging a full-scale emotional breakdown because his mother had packed the wrong shade of blue dinosaur thermos, while another child was loudly debating the structural integrity of his morning pancake. I smiled on autopilot, kneeling to help a little girl re-anchor her pastel backpack and gently reminding a pair of running boys that hallway track-and-field was strictly prohibited. Just another Tuesday morning in paradise. Then, a sleek, matte-black SUV slid effortlessly into the drop-off lane. I didn't even need to look at the license plate. Who else possessed the sheer financial arrogance to arrive at a preschool in a vehicle that cost more than a suburban estate? The driver’s side door swung open, and out stepped my lifelong nemesis, next-door neighbor, and eternal thorn in my side: Stanley Hayes. He wore a crisp white polo shirt with the sleeves rolled up to showcase corded, tanned forearms, tailored charcoal trousers, and a watch that probably funded a small nation's healthcare system. His dark hair was effortlessly styled, and his bone structure was so aggressively symmetrical it felt like an insult to the rest of humanity. Then I remembered his personality, and the illusion instantly shattered. He looked like a man who could walk into a hostile boardroom, obliterate a corporate merger in five minutes flat, and walk out without a single wrinkle on his linen shirt. Which made sense, considering that was essentially his daily routine. Stanley wasn't just a successful attorney. He was a bonafide billionaire. As the founder and managing partner of Hayes, Whitmore & Associates—one of the most prestigious, cutthroat law firms in the country—Stanley had built a terrifying reputation for winning high-stakes litigation for corporate elites. Between his legal empire and savvy venture capitalist investments, his net worth was astronomical. He could have bought Little Oaks Preschool and turned it into his private parking garage without batting an eyelash. And yet, despite commanding an army of corporate lawyers and managing billions of dollars, he still somehow found the time to personally make my existence a living hell. Some billionaires funded space programs or established global charities. Stanley Hayes weaponized his considerable resources to push my buttons. What a tragic waste of capital. He rounded the hood of his SUV, pulled open the rear passenger door, and crouched down to unclip his niece, Kim, with a gentleness that always gave me whiplash. For a single, unguarded second, I watched him with something suspiciously close to admiration. He was endlessly patient with Kim. Always had been. Then, as if sensing my gaze, his dark eyes snapped up. Our eyes locked across the pavement. I instantly snapped my head away, feigning sudden, intense interest in a stray leaf. The deep-seated irritation I'd harbored toward him since our sandbox days flared right back to life.