All Chapters of THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET SON: BETRAYAL AND BLOODLINE: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The next day, I woke up with the cold wind blowing on my window. The house was quiet, empty of life—just like me. The silence of my mother was crushing; it all felt dreamy—an agonizing emptiness that permeated into my bones. I clutched the thin blanket around me, praying and hoping it was all just a nightmare. If I could just hold my eyes shut long enough, I'd wake up to the aroma of her morning tea wafting through the air. But the silence existed; the pain existed, too. With a searing knife lodged in my chest, the words of the doctor lingered in my head. "Sophia, I am sorry, your mother's health is extremely poor. She must be treated right away if she is to live." I closed my eyes tightly, trying to forget the incident, but it flashed back in waves. The sum of 10,000 dollars is payable for an urgent surgery. Late payment will take your mother's life." "No, Doctor!" I had cried out, panicked, and trembled. "I will pay for the money, please. My mom's life is important to

They inform you that gestation is supposed to be this beautiful thing. Someone who never walked in my shoes told me that. For me, it was not a rosy cheek and joyous expectation. It was terror, a creeping, inviting terror that burrowed under my skin and made every one of my breaths espouse. I knew I was pregnant two weeks after I buried my mama. I flash back to the test strip shaking in my hand, the pale red lines growing dark as if mocking me. The illness wasn't running sickness—it was fear churning in my stomach. I was eighteen, out of work, and nameless, and now I would be someone's mama. It was just one night. One hopeless night, one deal, one body paid for stopgap—and the man who gave me the plutocrat dissolved like a bank. Damien—a name I vaguely recalled. I didn't retain the surname. Only a large presence and cold eyes visited my agonies. I leaned against the restroom wall, back against it, gobbling and exhaling like I'd learned in some composition about stre

They say motherhood puts a glow on your face. But I didn't glow—I sweated, I sobbed, and I wore exhaustion like a second skin. It was when Ethan was three months old that I acquired my first real job as a cleaner. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't even safe. It was, however, the best I could find that did not require a degree or overlook the baby slung over my shoulder at job interviews. The tower was one of those gleaming skyscrapers smack dab in the middle of downtown Houston—the kind of building that reeked of imported air freshener and marble sheen. I didn't sweep the boardrooms or the penthouses. No. My hands were confined to the stairwells, the basement garage, and the bathrooms where the stench of urine and bleach wrestled for dominance. I arrived at the office every morning at 6:30 AM, my uniform stretched at my post-pregnancy waist, my shoes worn out. I would drop Ethan off at the apartment of a neighbor, a kindly older woman named Mama Jo who barely charged me anything b

"Mommy, do angels eat bread?" The inquiry floated over to me as I tied the last knot on Ethan's school shoes. I looked up, sleepy eyes blinking furiously as I strained to come up with some mystical answer from a mind that had not received nearly enough rest. "Why, baby?" I asked, running a palm over his blonde curls. That hair—still enigmatic each morning, still recalling a man whose name I never spoke aloud. Ethan shrugged once more. "Because if Grandma is in heaven, and we're all out of bread, then the angels will maybe share some with us?" My heart twisted. I swallowed hard and kissed his forehead. "Angels share everything," I breathed. "And we're gonna have bread again, sweetheart. Mommy's working on it." It was barely 5:30am. The shadows still clung to the panes like a wet shroud of exhaustion. Our flat was peaceful except for the dripping tap in the bathroom and the far-off thrum of the city waking up outside. One shattered wall, one wayward bulb, one stubborn kettle

"Mommy, my tummy hurts." I froze at Ethan’s little voice from the corner of our cluttered bedroom. It was 4:42 a.m., and I was halfway through buttoning my uniform top. The stale air of our apartment was a warning. I turned, heart already racing. Ethan sat up in bed, his face pale, his little arms wrapped around his stomach. "How bad is it?" I said, rushing over, putting my hand on his forehead. Warm. Too warm. "It's like something's doing somersaults in there," he groaned. "Like a circus." I sat beside him and exhaled slowly. This could not be happening, not today. "Did you eat anything unusual yesterday?" I asked gently. He shook his head. "Just the schedule and peanut stew from Auntie Kattie." Of course. Kattie. I stroked his back, kissed his perspiring forehead, and drew the blanket higher on his chest. "Okay, baby. You rest in bed. I'll call Mama Jo. She'll come sit with you while I go to work." "Nooo," he whimpered, clutching my sleeve. "Don't go. Please." Guilt hit