Devon’s Fury

The view from Devon Cage's penthouse stretched across the entire city. Fifty floors up, the people below looked like ants. That's how Devon liked it—everyone small and distant beneath him.

Devon stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his broad shoulders tight with tension as he gripped his phone. His reflection stared back at him—a tall man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, thick dark hair with touches of silver at the temples, and cold gray eyes that rarely showed emotion.

"What do you mean there was a mix-up?" His voice was quiet but razor-sharp. He never yelled. He didn't need to.

On the other end of the line, Dr. Morrison's voice trembled. "Mr. Cage, I cannot express how deeply sorry we are. This type of mistake is unprecedented in our clinic's history."

"I don't care about your history," Devon said. "I care about who you gave my sperm to."

His butler, James, stood nearby with perfect posture, holding a glass of water. The older man's eyebrows shot up at Devon's words, but he quickly composed his face back to professional blankness.

"Who is she?" Devon demanded. "How dare you make such a mistake, inseminating my sperm into the body of a stranger?"

"We're pulling her file now, Mr. Cage," Dr. Morrison said. "This is a very delicate situation involving patient confidentiality—"

"Send me her details as soon as possible," Devon cut her off, "unless you want to lose your license and have your hospital shut down."

The threat wasn't empty. Devon Cage had expanded Cage Construction from what it was to what it is now, a billion-dollar empire. He crushed obstacles like insects. One small fertility clinic would be nothing.

"You'll have the information in a few minutes," Dr. Morrison promised.

Devon ended the call without another word. He turned to James, his face a mask of controlled fury.

"Get Elliot in here. Now."

James nodded once and left the room. Devon walked to his desk—a massive piece of dark oak that dominated one side of his penthouse living room. Everything in the space spoke of power and wealth: the minimalist furniture, the original artwork, the unobstructed views. Nothing was there by accident. Nothing was out of place.

Except now something was very out of place in Devon's carefully controlled life.

He'd only agreed to freeze his sperm because his grandmother had begged him. "For peace of mind," Nana had said, worry lining her face. "You work too hard, Devon. And after your last accident where you were in a coma for a month I was so worried, just in case something happens to you, a piece of the Cage legacy should be preserved."

Nana was the only person who could make him do anything he didn't want to do. She'd raised him after his mom died, his dad remarried and a year later she had a son Damien whom he despises so much, well…the feeling is mutual. They are always at loggerheads at the company, and his mother Elaine, always trying to pave the way for her son to be the CEO.

But the sperm was supposed to stay frozen indefinitely because he could get married and have a child through the normal route and now what was there as a backup plan has now turned to the main plan.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Elliot Chen, his personal assistant for the past five years, entered the room. Elliot was the only person besides Nana who Devon trusted completely. He was efficient, discreet, and unfailingly loyal.

"Sir?" Elliot asked, standing at attention.

"The Morrison Fertility Clinic made a mistake, they used my sperm to inseminate some woman." Devon said with a sigh.

Elliot's usual composure slipped for a moment. "They did what?"

"They're sending over her information shortly. I need you to find her and bring her to me."

"Of course, sir," Elliot said, already taking out his tablet. "What would you like me to tell her?"

"Nothing. Just get her here."

Elliot nodded, knowing better than to ask questions. He'd already turned to leave when the elevator doors opened with a soft ping.

Yvonne Blackwell glided into the penthouse like she owned it. In a way, she soon would. As Devon's fiancée, everything that was his would eventually be hers—at least that's what she thought.

"Darling!" she called out, her designer heels clicking on the marble floor.

She was beautiful in the cold, perfect way of a fashion magazine cover: tall and slim with golden hair cascading down her back, wearing a white designer dress that probably cost more than what most people made in a month.

Devon's face didn't change as she approached, even when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"I missed you," she purred. "You left the charity gala so early last night."

"I had work to do," Devon said, gently disentangling himself from her embrace.

Yvonne pouted but didn't push it. She'd learned early in their relationship that Devon wasn't a man who enjoyed public displays of affection—or private ones, for that matter. Their engagement was more of a business arrangement than a love match. Devon needed a suitable wife to complete his image, and Yvonne, as the daughter of one of his business partners, fit the bill perfectly.

"I'll get to work on this right away, sir," Elliot said, moving toward the elevator.

"Work on what?" Yvonne asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "I heard you asking Elliot to find someone. Who?"

Devon sighed. He'd have to tell her eventually. "Let's sit down."

They moved to the living area. Devon took a seat in his leather armchair while Yvonne perched on the edge of the sofa across from him.

"There's been a situation at the fertility clinic where I stored some samples," Devon began.

"The sperm bank?" Yvonne asked, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising. "What happened?"

"They made a mistake. They used my sample for someone else's procedure."

Yvonne's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying some random woman is pregnant with your baby?"

"We don't know if she's pregnant yet," Devon said. "But yes, they used my sperm to inseminate her."

"Who is she?" Yvonne demanded, her voice rising. "Some gold-digger? Did she plan this?"

"The clinic says it was a genuine mistake," Devon replied. "I'm having Elliot look into her now."

Yvonne stood up, pacing across the room. "This is outrageous! We need to make her get rid of it if she's pregnant. We can pay her off. Make her sign an NDA. This can't get out to the press, Devon. Imagine the scandal!"

Devon watched her with cold eyes. Of course Yvonne's first thought was about their public image. Not about the possible child. Not about the woman whose life had just been upended.

Not that Devon cared about the woman either. But he did care about control. And right now, he had none.

"We'll handle it," he said simply. "Discreetly."

Yvonne took a deep breath, composing herself. "Of course we will. Just make sure this goes away, Devon. We don't need this kind of complication right now."

She glanced at her diamond watch. "I need to go. I have a lunch meeting with the wedding planner."

Devon nodded, not bothering to see her out. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, his phone pinged with an email. It was from Dr. Morrison, marked urgent.

Inside was a single file. Clara Stone.

Devon opened it and stared at the woman's picture. Average height. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Thirty-four years old. Owner of a small Flower shop. Single.

She looked... ordinary. Not the type who'd try to scam a billionaire. But Devon had learned long ago never to trust appearances.

He forwarded the file to Elliot with a simple message: Find her. Today.

It was morning as Clara woke up feeling whole. It had been just a day after the procedure at the fertility clinic, and though she knew it was too early to tell if it had worked, she couldn't help feeling hopeful.

Her apartment wasn't much—a one-bedroom place with a tiny kitchen and a living room just big enough for a small couch and TV—but it was hers.

Potted plants occupied every available surface, spilling from shelves onto side tables and windowsills. Clara had always found more comfort in her flowers than in people.

She grabbed the newspaper from her doorstep and turned on the TV and there it was, a news story of the Cage Construction Company and the new spa they are constructing on a land that had an old aged home which they recently demolished. “What a heartless man. I hope I never have to come across someone so mean and selfish as you” she said as stared at the photo of Devon on TV with so much disdain, then she changed the channel to something less mean.

She got her phone from where she plugged it all night as she scrolled through. She had several missed calls from the fertility clinic from last night.

"That's odd," she murmured to herself. Maybe they needed her to come in for a follow-up sooner than planned?

Before she could call them back, her phone rang again. It was the clinic.

"Hello?" Clara answered.

"Ms. Stone, this is Dr. Morrison," came the familiar voice, though it sounded strained. "I'm so sorry for all the calls."

"No problem," Clara said. "Is everything okay?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Ms. Stone, I'm afraid I need to inform you of a situation that has arisen regarding your procedure."

Clara's stomach tightened. "What is it? Did something go wrong?"

"The procedure itself went perfectly," Dr. Morrison assured her quickly. "But there was a... mix-up with the donor samples."

Clara sank down onto her couch. "A mix-up? What does that mean?"

"It means we... we mistakenly fertilized you with the wrong sperm," Dr. Morrison said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "We used the sperm of another client instead of the donor you selected."

Clara's hand flew to her mouth. "What? Whose sperm did you use?"

"That's the complicated part," Dr. Morrison said. "The client is... well, he's Devon Cage."

"What!" Clara exclaimed, “Devon Cage. The Devon Cage. The mean, selfish and ruthless business man”. Clara's mind was racing so fast she almost missed the sound of knocking at her door.

"Hold on," she told Dr. Morrison. "Someone's at my door. Let me call you right back."

She ended the call and went to the door, still dazed from the news. Without thinking to check the peephole, she pulled it open.

Two men in dark suits stood outside. They were tall, imposing, with expressionless faces and earpieces like secret service agents.

"Clara Stone?" one of them asked.

"Yes?" Clara replied, her voice small.

The man reached into his jacket. Clara caught a glimpse of something—a cloth in his hand—before he pressed it over her face.

Clara tried to scream, but her muscles wouldn't respond. Her vision blurred and darkened at the edges. The last thing she saw was her phone dropping from her hand onto the floor as she collapsed into the arms of the suited men.