The Billionaire's Secret Daughter

  NAOMI

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I walk down the hallway of Cedars-Sinai Hospital, and the air smells like disinfectant mixed with faint coffee.

Nurses move quickly, their Crocs gliding against the polished floor. The Los Angeles rain has soaked me, leaving my sleeves and hair damp.

I hold Sophie’s tiny hand tightly in mine, her warmth pressed against my palm. My six-year-old daughter blinks rapidly at everything: the bright signs, the glass doors, the polished nameplates on every office door.

I have practiced this moment in my head for days, what to say, how to smile, how to keep my voice steady. But as I sit at the reception area of the consulting room, staring at the name on the door, I keep twisting my wristwatch, and waves of emotion rush through me.

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Attending Physician: Dr. Peter Hayes.

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The name feels strange on paper, yet my body remembers it instantly. My breath grows shallow, a small pain blooming beneath my ribs.

Seven years. It’s been seven long years since I last saw him, since I stormed out of his apartment in tears and swore never to look back.

But that girl is gone.

The overweight, softhearted girl who used to believe in fairy tales died quietly that night. What’s left is Naomi Wells, a woman of calm voice and careful steps, someone who has built a safe, small world for herself and her daughter.

“Mom,” Sophie murmurs softly, tugging on my sleeve. “Why are you staring at the door?”

I snap out of it, forcing a smile. “Nothing, baby. I’m just thinking. The doctor will see us soon.”

Finally, the nurse calls our number. I rise quickly, my legs shaking as though I’ve forgotten how to walk. I open the door, and the past hits me like a gust of cold air.

There he is, standing by the examination table. His white coat gleams; his hair is slightly messy from long hours of work. His hands are long and clean as he flips through a medical chart, his expression serious. Time has refined him; he carries himself with quiet control, confidence carved into every movement.

My throat goes dry. “Dr. Hayes,” I whisper.

He looks up. For a moment, his gray eyes meet mine, firm and unreadable, the same eyes I’ve tried to forget. Everything stills. Then he nods briefly, polite, professional.

“Please, take a seat. What’s the patient’s name?”

I swallow. “Sophie Wells.”

He doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice. His pen moves smoothly over the form. “She’s here for a follow-up on the chest tightness?”

“Yes,” I answered  softly.

He gestures for Sophie to sit on the chair. My daughter climbs up, her eyes shining with curiosity.

“Take a deep breath for me, okay?” Dr. Hayes says gently, placing the stethoscope on her chest. His voice hasn’t changed, low, steady, carrying the same authority that once made my heart flutter.

Sophie obeys quietly, her small chest rising and falling. “Dr. Hayes, are you going to fix my chest?”

He smiles faintly, and for a moment, the frost on his face melts. “That’s my job.”

I can’t speak. Watching him so close, hearing him speak to our daughter, it’s almost suffocating.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I hesitated before saying,  stretching to pick up the folder. Our fingers brush, the contact burns almost as if I touched fire. I flinch, pulling away.

He frowns, eyes lingering on me. “Have we met before?”

My heart stops. I force a small, polite laugh. “I don’t think so, Dr. Hayes. Maybe you’re confusing me for someone else.”

He studies me for a breath longer, then murmurs, “Maybe.”

“Mom, are you okay?” Sophie’s voice pulls me back.

I blink fast. “Yes, baby, we’re done. Let’s go.” I bow slightly in thanks and lead her out. The air outside the room feels too bright, too clean. My chest is heavy with everything I can’t say.

Sophie looks up. “Mom, why are you crying?”

I kneel, wiping my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized. “It’s nothing, honey,” I whisper. “The hospital lights are too bright for my eyes.”

But as we walk away, I can still feel his gaze on my back long after the door closes.

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PETER​

When she leaves, I sit in my chair, twirling my pen restlessly. The faint scent she leaves behind, fresh and light like jasmine, lingers. I sigh and lean back, the noise of the hospital humming faintly outside my office.

For seven years, I’ve been steady. No matter how chaotic the ER gets, no matter the losses, I’ve kept my heart locked away. But something about her shakes me.

Her eyes had that familiar glint, that sadness that reminds me of someone I used to know. I could almost see her standing beneath the jacaranda trees at UCLA, shy, round-cheeked, clutching her sketchbooks like armor.

Chloe Quinn.

The name rises like smoke in my mind.

I frown and turn to the computer, forcing myself to type my notes. But concentration eludes me. It’s ridiculous to think it’s her. The woman I saw today is poised, graceful, and completely different.

And yet, why did her voice quiver? Why did she flinch when I touched her hand?

I glance at the silver pen lying beside my keyboard, the one engraved with C.Q. I found it years ago, buried in a box of old textbooks. For reasons I never admitted, I never threw it away.

I pick it up, turning it between my fingers. A meaningless object, and yet, it feels heavy tonight.

“Dr. Hayes, next patient?” The nurse peeks in.

“Send them in,” I say automatically.

She lingers. “That mother earlier looked familiar, don’t you think? Pretty, but kind of sad.”

I keep my tone flat. “People are always sad in hospitals.”

When she leaves, I stare at the chart again.

Sophie Wells. Six years old.

Mother: Naomi Wells.

Naomi Wells.

I whisper the name out loud. It doesn’t spark recognition, but something about it unsettles me.

I put down the pen, but my hand trembles slightly.