THE BILLIONAIRES WIFE

0004

Olivia had gone to retrieve the car from the garage, leaving the mother and daughter waiting amidst the steady stream of traffic. Amelia Collins held tightly onto Emily's hand, her caution unwavering in the bustling street.

Emily, however, looked visibly displeased, her lips pursed in a sulky pout as she gazed at her mother with discontent.

Amelia Collins found it puzzling; only moments ago, her daughter had been so cheerful-what had changed so abruptly?

"Mommy, I promise I won't run off."

"And why is that?" Amelia mused, wondering what scheme her little one was concocting now.

"A princess doesn't need to be held!" Emily declared loudly, her clear enunciation startlingly mature for a mere two-year-old.

Amelia Collins, slightly embarrassed, released her grip. "Alright, Mommy won't hold your hand, but don't stray from my side."

As she let go, she couldn't help but chuckle as she watched her daughter bounce happily in place.

Aren't little girls supposed to be dainty and obedient? Why is my daughter so lively-so much so that I sometimes feel I have a son instead.

Engrossed in watching Emily, Amelia didn't notice a figure hurrying toward her until the person collided with her, causing her bag to fly and herself to stumble.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I'm in such a rush!" the woman stammered, reaching to steady Amelia with a look of mortified apology.

Amelia composed herself and shook her head with a small smile, indicating she was alright.

"Oh, your bag-wait-" The woman pointed at Amelia's bag, which had been flung a short distance away, but her sentence trailed off as she gasped in horror.

"Is that your daughter?"

Amelia turned abruptly, searching the space beside her-Emily was nowhere to be seen.

Following the woman's gaze, Amelia's heart lurched.

At some point, Emily had wandered into the middle of the street, likely in an attempt to retrieve her mother's bag. Behind her, a line of sleek black sports cars sped towards them with alarming swiftness, showing no sign of slowing.

Among the convoy, one particular car — a black, streamlined supercar-stood out with a dazzling allure, its emblem a testament to its luxury and the status of its occupant.

Inside, the driver's concentration was absolute, executing every movement with precision. Henry's voice could be heard from the backseat.

"Boss Thomas, the shipment has been securely placed in the warehouse, acquired at the lowest possible cost."

"Mm." The man's reply was barely perceptible, his fingers tapping steadily on the laptop keyboard.

His long, immaculate fingers matched his refined features: chiseled and handsome with dark, fathomless eyes, a well-defined nose, and thin lips. Even the crisp, traditional black suit - typically stern and somber-seemed impeccably suited to his form.

He was none other than the youngest corporate mogul, Thomas Blake-a man revered by businessmen as a prodigy and coveted by women as the ultimate eligible bachelor.

For a brief moment, Henry was left speechless- multi-billion-dollar deals received only a nonchalant "mm"? His boss's cool composure was, however, expected.

Having been with him for so many years, what kind of storms and waves has he not experienced? I am afraid that he will never be able to learn the characteristics of his boss.

"If you look any longer, I'll remove your eyes and feed them to the dogs," Thomas drawled, glancing at Henry lazily before resuming his work. His voice was soft but piercingly cold, commanding an icy dread.

Henry shivered involuntarily, nearly falling from his seat. Who didn't know the renowned young CEO Thomas Blake-just twenty-three-whose swift and ruthless methods intimidated even the boldest?

Clearing his throat, Henry feigned adjusting his hair, shifting his gaze. It wasn't his fault; his boss was simply too handsome. Only he knew that behind that mesmerizing face lay a merciless heart.

"Boss Thomas, here's your schedule for today..." he quickly changed the topic, desperate to save his eyes and spare a glance at future beauties.

"After the PC fashion event, your flight home is scheduled... and, um... Mrs.

Collins wishes to see you."

Henry found himself instinctively retreating to the corner of the car, bracing for the possibility of having the laptop thrown at him.

Each time Mrs. Collins was mentioned, Thomas adopted a chillingly indifferent demeanor. Henry knew little of the situation, only that Mrs. Collins was his boss's mother. But was this what people called... mother and son estranged?

Predictably, the atmosphere in the car grew tense, the very air seeming to freeze.

Henry held his breath, waiting for a response. Though he knew the answer, Thomas seemed to wage an internal battle before giving the faintest "mm" of

assent.

Only Henry knew the truth: after each meeting with Mrs. Collins, Thomas would spend the entire night in the boxing room, training until he could no longer stand. No one knew what had transpired between mother and son.

What puzzled everyone was that, despite being the designated successor of the company, Thomas was not William Collins's biological son. Most were aware that William had a daughter who had vanished three years ago, her fate unknown.

In short, dead or alive, no one could say.

And so, in William Collins's sudden decline, he had handed the company over to Thomas Blake.

"Emily-"

Without a second thought, Amelia shoved past the onlookers and darted forward.

Her urgency nearly caused her to stumble, and, in the instant before the cars reached them, she swept Emily into her arms, closing her eyes as fate closed in.

A woman nearby gasped, closing her eyes as her legs went weak with fear.

Screech-

"Boss Thomas, here's your schedule for today..." he quickly changed the topic, desperate to save his eyes and spare a glance at future beauties.

"After the PC fashion event, your flight home is scheduled... and, um... Mrs.

Collins wishes to see you."

Henry found himself instinctively retreating to the corner of the car, bracing for the possibility of having the laptop thrown at him.

Each time Mrs. Collins was mentioned, Thomas adopted a chillingly indifferent demeanor. Henry knew little of the situation, only that Mrs. Collins was his boss's mother. But was this what people called... mother and son estranged?

Predictably, the atmosphere in the car grew tense, the very air seeming to freeze.

Henry held his breath, waiting for a response. Though he knew the answer, Thomas seemed to wage an internal battle before giving the faintest "mm" of

assent.

Only Henry knew the truth: after each meeting with Mrs. Collins, Thomas would spend the entire night in the boxing room, training until he could no longer stand. No one knew what had transpired between mother and son.

What puzzled everyone was that, despite being the designated successor of the company, Thomas was not William Collins's biological son. Most were aware that William had a daughter who had vanished three years ago, her fate unknown.

In short, dead or alive, no one could say.

And so, in William Collins's sudden decline, he had handed the company over to Thomas Blake.

"Emily-"

Without a second thought, Amelia shoved past the onlookers and darted forward.

Her urgency nearly caused her to stumble, and, in the instant before the cars reached them, she swept Emily into her arms, closing her eyes as fate closed in.

A woman nearby gasped, closing her eyes as her legs went weak with fear.

Screech-

Screech-

One by one, the luxury cars came to a screeching halt, the abrupt deceleration sending them lurching forward.

The sharp sound of rubber scraping the wide street assaulted Amelia's ears, an abrasive reminder of their narrow escape.

Feeling no anticipated pain, Amelia, drenched in cold sweat, slowly opened her eyes, her ears ringing.

The first car had stopped less than eight inches from them. Any closer, and tomorrow's sunrise would have been beyond their reach.

Emily, visibly shaken, peered up from her mother's chest, first confused and then bursting into tears.

In the car, the sudden jolt sent Thomas Blake's slim laptop flying from his lap, crashing to the floor of the cabin with a sharp clatter. He himself had lurched forward, barely saved by his quick reflexes.

An uneasy silence fell over the interior.

From the driver's seat, the driver raised his head, visibly trembling as he turned to look at Thomas Blake, now rigidly composed, his sharp features cold as frost.

Even Henry, who usually wore a carefree grin, now sat beside Thomas with a grim expression, saying nothing.

The driver, lips quivering, couldn't bring himself to speak a single word.