All Chapters of ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MR.BILLIONAIRE : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Melinda’s POVI hadn’t meant to wait by the window that morning.But I did.Draped in my robe, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling between my palms, I stood behind the sheer curtains and watched the street like it might give me answers. The twins’ backpacks were already by the door, lunch boxes packed, hair brushed, shoes waiting to be tied.Still, I hadn’t tied them. I hadn’t moved.Because James was late.The thought made my throat tighten, and I hated how quickly old habits came clawing back—waiting on a man, hoping for consistency, bracing for disappointment. But this wasn’t Andrew.And that was the problem.James wasn’t anyone I knew how to expect.I heard the familiar thud of small feet against hardwood and turned just in time to catch Elena dragging Elijah by the hand.“Mommy,” she said, pointing out the window, “he’s here.”I followed her finger. A sleek black SUV pulled to the curb, the same one James had left in last night. He stepped out, dressed like a man torn between two

Melinda’s POVIt had been a long day.A good day, maybe. But long all the same.The twins were in bed, finally. Elena had demanded three stories, two glasses of water, and at least one dramatic reenactment of how “Daddy James” caught her when she tripped at school that afternoon. Elijah, quieter, had only asked if James would still be here next week.I told them yes.And I meant it.Now I sat at the edge of my bed, running my fingers over the spine of a notebook I hadn’t touched in months. The one I used before everything fell apart. When I still believed in love and legacy and permanence.I flipped it open.Inside were old plans. Designs I’d dreamed of launching when Andrew and I were still building the firm. Concepts for community centers, modern-day sanctuaries for women and children. Projects Andrew said were “not scalable.” Not profitable.But James hadn’t laughed when I showed him the sketch yesterday.He’d asked how much it would cost to build.That had stopped me.Because no o

James’s POVThe O’Connor estate sat perched on the edge of the Hudson River, gleaming like a trophy no one was allowed to touch. A fortress made of glass, steel, and ego. I hadn’t stepped foot inside in four years.Not since I told my father I’d never be his puppet.But this morning, I walked through the front gate like a man ready for war.The butler was new. Too young, too polished. He didn’t ask for my name—just stepped aside and opened the double doors with reverence, like he’d been trained to recognize power when it entered a room.I didn’t bother greeting him.This house had never been my home.Only my inheritance.I found my father in the winter study, seated behind a mahogany desk the size of a city bench. He wore his usual: gray wool, navy silk tie, silver cufflinks engraved with our initials.The same ones I used to admire as a boy.The same ones that meant nothing now.“James,” he said without looking up. “I expected you sooner.”“I was busy cleaning up your mess.”He looke

Melinda’s POVI hadn’t seen Andrew Holt in nearly seven months.Not in person.Not outside nightmares.And yet there he was, standing across the marble hallway of the Superior Court of California — same smug posture, same tailored suit stretched across a body that looked smaller than I remembered. Paler. Like whatever soul he had left had been bled out slowly, drip by drip.He was talking to his lawyer, but his eyes were on me.Watching.Like a wolf watches its injured prey — not out of pity, but patience.I turned away before he could smirk.Today wasn’t about him.Not entirely.Today was about protecting the twins.James stood beside me in a charcoal suit, no tie. His hands were folded calmly in front of him, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat off blacktop. He hadn’t asked questions when I told him Vanessa came by. He hadn’t spoken when I mentioned Andrew’s threats.He just looked at me and said, “Then I’ll come with you.”Now we stood shoulder to shoulder — tw

James’s POVSome battles aren’t fought in boardrooms.They’re fought in whispers. In data trails. In silence.I spent the next forty-eight hours dissecting every security log tied to Melinda’s firm. My people — ex-CIA, now private intelligence — moved fast and quiet. Within hours, they’d uncovered the breach. An internal backdoor. A mirrored drive copied offsite. And all of it traced to one location:Vanessa Holt’s personal assistant.I didn’t tell Melinda.Not yet.She needed air, not gasoline.Instead, I had the assistant followed. Phones tapped. Drives cloned. By the end of the second day, we had everything: email threads between Vanessa and Andrew, forged reports, timelines, payment slips.And one damning thread I hadn’t expected.From Vanessa“She played you, James. She knew who you were the second she saw you. Don’t let her rewrite history. She’s not innocent. She chose you. For your name. For your money. For leverage.”The message was three months old.And the implication was c