PREGNANT FOR MY COLD -HEARTED BILLIONAIRE NEIGHBOR BY MELLA

I wasn’t supposed to be here. The thought echoed with every step I took across the polished marble floors of the Vane Estate. My borrowed heels clicked like a countdown clock, a rhythmic reminder that my time was running out. I was wearing a midnight-blue silk gown that cost more than my father’s heart medication for the next six months, a dress that made me feel like a queen, even though my bank account held exactly forty-two dollars. The weight of the fabric felt like a second skin, heavy and cool, but beneath it, I was burning with a feverish anxiety. The ballroom was a shimmering trap. Chandeliers dripped with real diamonds, casting a cold glow over the city’s elite. I adjusted my silver filigree mask, my fingers trembling. I was an intruder. A ghost in the machine. If these people knew I lived in a crumbling apartment in Queens with a roof that leaked every time it drizzled, they would have me thrown out into the Manhattan rain before I could take another breath. "Just one hour," I whispered, my voice lost in the swell of the violins. My heart was hammering against my ribs. "Find the medical donor. Get the funding for Dad’s surgery. Leave." The stakes were simple and terrifying: If I failed tonight, my father wouldn't just lose his home, he would lose his life. He was the only family I had left, the man who had worked two jobs to buy me art supplies when I was a child, and I was willing to lie or break every rule in the book to save him. The smell of the room, a mix of expensive lilies and vintage champagne made me nauseous. It was the scent of a world that didn't care if people like me lived or died. I scanned the room for my target, a billionaire philanthropist known for funding medical miracles, but the air suddenly shifted. The idle chatter died down to a respectful, fearful murmur. The temperature didn't drop, but a heavy stillness settled over the crowd, like the silence before a lightning strike. I followed the collective gaze toward the grand marble balcony. There he stood. Silas Vane. My breath hitched. Even with a black silk mask obscuring his face, his dominance was absolute. He didn't just walk into a room; he owned the very air inside it. He was the "Ice King" of Manhattan, a man who broke companies for sport and never looked back at the wreckage. Rumor had it he didn't have a heart, only a ledger where he calculated everyone’s worth in cold, hard cash. He stood perfectly still, one hand resting on the gold-leaf railing. I could see the sharp, predatory line of his jaw hard as granite. He wasn't participating in the gala; he was presiding over it like a dark god. I tried to look away, but my feet felt rooted to the floor. I was a moth, and he was the most dangerous flame in New York. Then, his head turned. Behind the dark slits of his mask, I felt his eyes lock onto mine. It wasn't a casual glance. It was a physical weight—a pressure that pressed against my chest. My skin prickled with a sudden, electric heat. He didn't smile. He didn't beckon. He simply watched me, his gaze so intense it felt like he was peeling back my layers, seeing the desperation I worked so hard to hide beneath the borrowed silk. Before I could retreat into the shadows, Silas began to move. He descended the stairs with a slow, deliberate pace that made my pulse spike. Every person he passed leaned in, their bodies physically yearning for his attention. He ignored them all. His path was a straight line, and I was the target. Panic flared in my belly. My instinct told me to run, to bolt through the service entrance and never look back. But the memory of my father’s pale face in that hospital bed held me steady. I couldn't leave. Not yet. As Silas stopped exactly three inches away from me, the scent of him hit me—sandalwood, expensive bourbon, and the crisp scent of winter air. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest, a stark contrast to his reputation. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, he slowly lifted his hand. It hovered in the air between us for a heartbeat. Waiting. Demanding. His fingers were steady, his posture radiating a quiet power that made it clear he already knew I wouldn't refuse. My heart was beating so fast I feared it would burst through my ribs. "Dance with me," he murmured. His voice was a low, dark velvet rumble that vibrated in the very center of my bones. It wasn't a request; it was a command wrapped in silk. I looked at his hand, then up into those icy, unreadable eyes. I knew, at that moment, that stepping into his arms would be the most beautiful mistake of my life. But for my father, I would dance with the devil himself. I reached out and placed my hand in his. The moment our skins met, a jolt of pure electricity surged up my arm. He didn't hesitate. He pulled me flush against his chest, his other hand settling firmly on the small of my back. The world simply vanished. The music swelled, a haunting waltz that mirrored the frantic rhythm of my heart. Silas moved with a predatory grace, his long strides forcing me to follow his lead. I felt small in his arms fragile, like a glass ornament he could crush if he chose to. "You're trembling, Silver Butterfly," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he spun me across the floor. "It’s a cold room, Mr. Vane," I lied, my voice barely a whisper. I focused on the knot of his tie, unable to meet his gaze. "Is it?" He leaned in, his lips hovering just an inch from the shell of my ear. I could feel his warm breath against my skin. "I find it's getting quite hot." His hand on my back tightened, pulling me even closer until there wasn't a whisper of air between us. Every time our bodies brushed his hard thighs against my legs, his chest against mine, my mind went blank. I forgot about the donor. I forgot about the hospital. For a few stolen moments, I was just a woman in the arms of a man who made me feel more alive than I had in years. "You don't belong here," he whispered, his voice like a secret shared in the dark. I stiffened. "What makes you say that?" "Because," he said, his eyes burning into mine as he pulled back just enough to look at me. "You're the only thing in this room that isn't trying too hard. You're the only thing that feels... real." My heart stopped. He was looking at me as if he could see through the mask, through the lies, and straight into my soul. I wanted to stay. I wanted to tell him everything. But then, over his shoulder, I saw my target leaving through the side door. "I... I have to go," I blurted out. Before he could respond, I broke from his hold. I turned and ran, my heels clicking frantically against the marble. I didn't look back, not even when I heard the heavy silence fall behind me. I pushed through the heavy doors and into the night, the cold rain hitting my face. As I scrambled down the steps toward a waiting taxi, I felt a sharp tug at my neck. My silver butterfly necklace, the last thing I had from my mother, snapped against the stone railing. I felt it slip away, but I couldn't stop. I dove into the car and disappeared into the dark. Silas didn’t follow. He didn’t call out my name again. He just stood there on the rain-slicked balcony, a dark silhouette against the gold light of the ballroom. He stared down at the broken piece of silver in his palm, a mystery he wouldn’t forget.