All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Unexpected Love: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

May’s POVLater that evening, John sent me his home address and told me to resume with immediate effect.Hmmph, such a rude man.I boarded a taxi with my last $20. The car pulled up to the Bells estate just after sunset. The sky was blushing pink, like even the clouds were embarrassed by how absurdly rich this man was.I stepped out, my knockoff boots sinking slightly into the manicured gravel of the driveway. The house—or rather, the mansion—stretched out before me like something from a magazine I used to flip through at hair salons. Stone columns. Dramatic archways. Windows taller than my ex husband apartment.I clutched the single duffel bag I’d brought. Everything I owned was in it. Every version of me—heartbroken May, angry May, barely-surviving May—crammed between thrift store sweaters and half-used body spray.A butler opened the door before I could even raise a hand. Of course he did.“Miss Hemlings,” he said with a crisp British accent, even though we were nowhere near Brita

May POVI woke up around 6 a.m., determined to make a good impression. It was officially Day One of my new job—babysitter to the billionaire’s son. Easy enough, right?But my unborn child had a different agenda.I barely made it to the toilet before I threw up everything in my stomach. Not once. Not twice. It was like my insides were revolting against me in slow motion. My knees bruised against the cold tile floor as I clung to the edge of the toilet bowl like it was the last stable thing in my life.By 7 a.m., I was so weak I could barely hold myself upright. My head was spinning. My mouth tasted like acid. I wanted to cry but didn’t have the strength for even that.Then my phone buzzed.I squinted at the screen. A message.John Bells.Hold up—how did he even get my number?Then again, the man probably owned half the country. If he wanted my fingerprints and blood type, I’m sure he could get those too.I opened the message with shaking hands.Your duties include:•Eating every meal

JOHN POVI was in a board meeting, half-listening to a proposal I was going to reject anyway when a call came in. But when I saw Saint’s bodyguard team ID flash on my screen, my heart stalled.Then came the words:“Mr. Bells, there’s been an incident involving your son.”My breath left me. Gone. Just like that.I stood. The room blurred. I heard my assistant calling after me, but nothing else mattered. I was already halfway down the corridor before he caught up with the details: Saint was safe. Not shot. A woman had intervened. Took the bullet.A woman?Is she one of those women who wants to get a way into my bed?I gripped the steering wheel myself, ditching the driver. I needed control. I needed answers. Because if anyone had come near my son with a gun—hell, if a whisper of threat had brushed his cheek—I would burn this city to the ground.Because Saint…That boy is all I have left.And he’s not a normal child.He’s brilliant. Reckless. Impossible to keep still. Always plotting som

John POVSeventy-two hours.I had given her exactly that. Enough time to run, to reconsider, to break. And yet I found myself walking through the rain toward that ridiculous café like I couldn’t have sent someone else.I didn’t believe in fate. I believed in strategy. But May Hemlings wasn’t a pawn. She was a wild card. Unpredictable. Infuriating. Dangerous in ways I hadn’t fully calculated yet.The bell above the café door jingled, a quaint sound for a place that smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. She didn’t look up. But I felt her register me.She always did.She moved like she was trying not to flinch. Grabbed a rag like it was armor.“Let me guess,” she muttered. “Tall black coffee, with a large shot of arrogance on the side?”God, she was exhausting.“Actually,” I said, slow and measured, “I thought I’d try something different today.”She looked up then.And I hated what it did to me.Wet curls escaping that too-tight bun. That scowl she wore like mascara. She looked like

“Lying about what?” she snapped.May’s voice was clipped. Defensive. The kind of tone that came with sharp edges and past bruises.I studied her for a beat.She was trembling, pale, clearly sick—and still trying to stand her ground like a soldier bleeding through their boots.“Don’t worry,” she added. “I’m definitely not going to die in your house.”There it was. That little blade of deflection. Humor with bite.I said nothing.And I left.Because if I stayed, I’d ask questions. And if I asked questions, I’d care about the answers.I wasn’t ready for that.⸻The Next MorningMy morning started before dawn. Couldn’t sleep.My body was awake, but my mind was stuck on repeat.May, curled on that bathroom floor.May, saying she wasn’t going to die in my house like this was some kind of warzone.May, shivering with something that wasn’t just illness.I wandered toward the kitchen but stopped when I heard a shriek.Not a panicked one. More… startled. Cartoonish.Then footsteps.And then—I