All Chapters of ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MR.BILLIONAIRE : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Calla’s Daughter – POVIt started with a spine.Not her own — although, looking back, maybe it was hers too. The kind that stiffened without reason, bracing for something unnamed. The kind you carry when the past hums beneath your skin, even if no one ever taught you the words to sing it out loud.But in that moment, it was the spine of a book.Dusty blue, smooth, understated. The title etched in a careful serif font, not flashy or loud. Just there, like it had always waited on the shelf for her fingers to pause and say, yes, this one.The bookstore smelled like wood and paper and memory. One of those indie shops tucked behind a coffee bar, where the owner knew your name after two visits and alphabetized the poetry section like it mattered.She had come to escape the heat, not to find answers.The summer had been long. Hot in the way the Midwest gets — humid, angry, storm-heavy. She’d just finished her first year of college. Political science major, though she was already doubting it.

Calla’s Daughter – POVThe house was smaller than she imagined.It sat at the end of a winding street shaded by elms and sycamores, its white paint soft from sun and years. There was a rusted mailbox, a cracked stepping stone, a porch swing with one frayed rope — and yet, it was the kind of place that felt lived in, not abandoned.River stood on the porch with a cup of tea, barefoot, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big. They didn’t speak when she arrived. Just tilted their head, as if to say You came anyway.She did.Because the letter didn’t answer anything.Not really.It whispered. It reached. It circled truth without landing.And that was okay.But there were other things she needed now — not clarity, but context.She needed to see where Rachel had lived.Where River had written.Where the echoes still lingered.So she followed River inside.The living room smelled like books and memory.There were stacks everywhere. On the table. On the windowsills. On the floor beside the fir

Calla’s Daughter – POVIt wasn’t until her seventh night in the house that she opened the journal.She found it tucked beneath a stack of old manuscripts in River’s study — bound in soft leather, pages yellowed, corners fraying. There was no lock, no warning, just a single name written inside the front cover in delicate script:Rachel.Her breath caught.She brought it to River, unsure, unsure if it was meant to be found, unsure if she had overstepped.But River just nodded. “She wanted someone to read it one day.”She sat on the floor of the guest room, knees pulled to her chest, and opened the journal beneath the light of the moon coming through the window.The first page read:This isn’t a story.It’s a confession I haven’t earned the right to forget.She read slowly, carefully, like the pages might dissolve if handled too quickly. The entries were dated, but irregular. Weeks would pass between some. Months between others.The first few talked about Calla.She was too brave for her

River – POVThe letter arrived in a manila envelope without a return address.River wasn’t expecting anything — not from anyone. These days, the mail held mostly noise: royalty notices, donation requests, academic invites they no longer had the energy to accept.But this envelope was different.The paper was thick. Handwritten, not printed. A single sentence written across the top in slightly slanted cursive:“I think it’s time I said it in my own words.”No name.But they didn’t need one.River sat down at the desk, heart already climbing into their throat, and pulled out the pages.Calla’s Daughter – POVIt took her five months to write it.Not because the story was complicated — it wasn’t, not really. It was a thread she could finally trace backward, through Rachel, through Calla, through River, to the quiet moment in the bookstore where everything shifted.No — what took time was letting herself believe that her voice mattered.That she was allowed to speak about it.That she woul

Calla’s Daughter – POVThe train ride felt different this time.She wasn’t running. She wasn’t chasing. She wasn’t even searching. She was going — forward, not backward. Present, not lost.In her backpack was a copy of her book, a leather journal, and the cassette player, now worn at the edges from overuse. The tape itself had begun to crackle more, but the sound still played, the lullaby still hummed through, like a memory refusing to fade.The reason for the trip? A new city, a new center, a small reading circle run by survivors of foster care and adoption. People like her. People who had once looked for answers in places that had none. People who built their stories out of silence and longing.When she arrived, she was greeted not with applause, but with understanding.That mattered more.River – POVRiver didn’t go with her this time.Instead, they mailed her a package — a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with rough twine. Inside, she would find a single photograph: Rache