Billionaire's Sweet Trap: My Ex-Boyfriend's Father Wants Me

The rain came down like the city itself was crying. I stood on the sidewalk, my designer heels in one hand, my phone in the other, staring at the message that had just destroyed three years of my life. "I'm sorry, Cynthia. But I've found someone better. Don't call me." That was it. No explanation. No apology. Just a text. After three years of devotion, of cooking his meals, of helping him build his failing startup, of being his emotional punching bag whenever things got hard at work. After all of that, this was how Lucious Harry ended things. With a text. While I was standing outside our apartment, holding groceries. The bag slipped from my fingers. Oranges rolled onto the wet pavement. A carton of eggs cracked open, yellow yolk mixing with puddle water. I didn't care. I couldn't care. My entire world had just collapsed, and the rain was the only thing that seemed to notice. "No," I whispered. "No, no, no." I called him. Straight to voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. A third time. Blocked. He had blocked me. The man I had given everything to had blocked me like I was some random telemarketer. I sank onto the curb, the cold wetness seeping through my thin dress. People walked past me, their umbrellas shielding them from the storm. Some glanced at me with pity. Others with disgust, like I was just another crazy woman having a breakdown on the street. Maybe I was. I had given Lucious everything. My youth. My savings. My dreams. I had supported him when no one else believed in him. When his father, the ruthless billionaire Alexander Harry, had cut him off financially, I was the one who worked double shifts to pay the rent. I was the one who stayed up late helping him refine his business proposals. I was the one who believed in him when his own family didn't. And now, he was done with me. Like I was a toy he had grown tired of. "He found someone better." Who? Who could possibly be better than me after everything I had sacrificed? I had given up a scholarship to study abroad just to stay with him. I had turned down job offers in other cities because he wanted me close. I had poured my soul into a man who, apparently, never deserved it. The rain continued to pour, and I continued to sit there, frozen, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything except replay every moment of our relationship in my head, searching for the signs I had missed. The late nights at work. The secretive phone calls. The way he had become distant over the past few months. I had convinced myself it was stress. I had convinced myself that if I just loved him harder, supported him more, he would come back to me. But he hadn't come back. He had left. And he had left me with nothing. I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes, maybe hours. The rain eventually stopped, replaced by a cold, biting wind. My teeth chattered. My fingers were numb. But I couldn't move. I couldn't go back into that apartment. It wasn't mine anymore. It was never mine. It was always his. "I can't do this," I whispered to no one. "I can't survive this." But then, something happened. Something that would change my life forever. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb in front of me. The door opened, and a man stepped out. He was tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to block out the streetlights. He wore an expensive black suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His hair was dark with distinguished silver streaks at the temples. His face was chiseled, sharp, and devastatingly handsome, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold. Piercing grey eyes that seemed to see right through me, that stripped away every layer of pretense and looked directly at my broken soul. He was older, maybe in his late forties, but his body was that of a man half his age. He was powerful, commanding, dangerous. Everything about him screamed authority and wealth. And he was walking toward me. "Are you alright?" His voice was deep, smooth, like aged whiskey. It sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. I shook my head, then nodded, then shook my head again. I must have looked insane. He crouched down in front of me, completely unbothered by the dirty sidewalk. Up close, he was even more intimidating. His presence filled every inch of space around us. I could smell his cologne, expensive and subtle, like sandalwood and something else I couldn't identify. "You're soaked," he said, stating the obvious. "You'll get sick if you stay out here." "I don't have anywhere to go," I heard myself say. The words came out raw, broken, pathetic. I hated myself for saying them. I hated showing weakness to a complete stranger. But something in his expression shifted. The coldness in his eyes softened, just slightly. "What happened?" "My boyfriend," I choked out. "He... he kicked me out. He found someone else. I gave him everything, and he just... he just..." I couldn't finish the sentence. The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable, mixing with the rain still dripping from my hair. The man was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took my hand. His grip was warm, firm, grounding. "What's your name?" "Cynthia," I whispered. "Cynthia Chen." "Cynthia," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "I'm Alexander Hamilton. And I think you need a ride." My head snapped up. Harry . The same last name as Lucious. My heart pounded in my chest. "You're... you're Lucious's father." A shadow passed over his face. "Ex-father," he corrected coldly. "Lucious is no son of mine." "But—" "I'm not giving you a ride because of him," Alexander interrupted. "I'm giving you a ride because no woman should be left on the street like trash. My son was always an i***t. It seems he hasn't changed." I stared at him, completely bewildered. This was the man Lucious had always described as cold, ruthless, and heartless. The man who had cut his own son off without a second thought. The man Lucious had painted as the villain of his story. But right now, this villain was the only person offering me help. "I can't—" I started. "You can," he cut me off again. He stood up, towering over me, and extended his hand. "Come with me, Cynthia. Let me take care of you." Those words. Let me take care of you. No one had ever said those words to me. Not my parents, who had abandoned me when I was eighteen. Not Lucious, who had always taken but never given. No one. Tears streamed down my face again, but this time, they weren't tears of despair. They were tears of something I hadn't felt in years. Hope. I took his hand.