Rejected by the Billionaire, Returned With His Child

JENNAHis hand is warm.That’s the first thing I notice when my fingers slip into his. Warm, steady, confident—like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly how to guide someone through a city that could swallow them whole.I’m not sure why I take it.Maybe because I’m new here.Maybe because I’m lonely.Maybe because something about him feels… inevitable.We step out of the bar and into the cold night. The air bites at my skin, sharp and unforgiving, but his hand doesn’t let go.He doesn’t rush.He doesn’t pull.He just walks beside me, matching my pace, like he’s done this with me before.“Where are you staying?” he asks quietly.“On 82nd,” I say. “A small apartment. I just moved in.”He nods. “Montana to Manhattan. That’s a hell of a jump.”I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I’m still adjusting.”“You will,” he says. “This city tests you. But if you survive it, it becomes yours.”I glance up at him. “Is it yours?”His jaw tightens. “It used to be.”There’s a story there—someth

JENNAThe next few weeks pass in a blur of tension so thick I can barely breathe.Every day, I sit outside his office, typing reports, answering calls, pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me every time he walks past. Pretending I don’t replay that almost‑moment in his office every night before I fall asleep.Pretending I’m not falling.Fast.And he’s not helping.Not when he watches me like he’s starving.Not when his voice drops when he says my name.Not when he stands too close, breath brushing my neck, pretending it’s accidental.We’re both pretending.Until the night we stop.**It’s late. Everyone has gone home except me and Jaxon. I’m finishing a report when I hear his office door open.“Jenna.”I look up.He’s standing in the doorway, jacket off, tie loose, eyes dark with something I’ve seen building for weeks.Something dangerous.“Come here,” he says.My heart stutters. “I—I’m almost done with the—”“Now.”The word sends a shiver down my spine.I stand slowly, walking toward

JENNACold.That’s the first thing I feel.Cold pavement against my cheek. Cold air slicing through my lungs. Cold fear crawling up my spine.Then—voices.Muffled. Distant. Warped, like I’m underwater.“Miss? Hey—hey, can you hear me?”A man’s voice. Deep. Urgent. Close.I try to open my eyes, but the world tilts violently, spinning into streaks of light and shadow. My stomach lurches. My fingers twitch uselessly against the concrete.Something warm touches my shoulder.“Stay with me,” the voice says again, firmer this time. “You’re bleeding. I need you to stay awake.”Bleeding.The word slices through the fog.My baby.I try to speak, but only a broken gasp escapes my lips. Pain shoots through my abdomen—sharp, hot, terrifying. My vision blurs again.“Shit,” the man mutters. “Okay. I’m picking you up.”Strong arms slide under me, lifting me off the ground. My head falls against a solid chest. I smell soap. Clean cotton. Warm skin.Not Jaxon.Someone else. Someone safe.“Ambulance is

JENNAI wake to the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of voices drifting from the kitchen. For a moment, I lie still, letting the unfamiliar quiet settle around me. No machines. No nurses. No footsteps in sterile hallways.Faith’s apartment.Safety — or something close enough to pretend.I push myself upright, wincing at the pull in my abdomen. My hand goes instinctively to my stomach. The flutter beneath my palm is faint but steady.Still here.Still fighting.I shuffle into the living room.Faith is at the counter, hair in a messy bun, stirring something in a mug. Ivan sits at her tiny table, laptop open, eyes narrowed in concentration. They both look up when they hear me.“You should be in bed,” Faith says.“I’ve been in bed for two days,” I murmur. “I needed to see something that isn’t a ceiling.”Ivan closes the laptop halfway. “How’s the pain?”“Manageable.”He doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go.Faith gestures to the couch. “Sit. I’ll get you water.”I lower myself onto

JENNAFaith’s apartment feels smaller today.Maybe it’s the rain tapping against the windows, or the way the clouds hang low over the city like they’re pressing down on the roof. Or maybe it’s the fact that my entire world has narrowed to one impossible task:Calling a grandmother I never knew existed.Ivan stands near the window, arms crossed, watching the street below like he expects danger to climb the fire escape. Faith sits beside me on the couch, her knee touching mine, grounding me.My phone lies on the coffee table between us — screen dark, number typed in, waiting.The number.The one Ivan’s cousin found after digging deeper into the Kingsley records. A landline in Surrey, England. A house older than the country I’m sitting in.My stomach twists.“I can’t do this,” I whisper.Faith squeezes my hand. “You can."Ivan turns from the window. “You don’t have to say much. Just… let her know you exist. That’s all.”“That’s not small,” I say, voice cracking. “That’s everything.”He n