Billionaire’s V1rgin Ex-Wife
His tone, when he finally spoke, was deceptively casual.
“Cello,” he said, “your birthday’s in August, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the boy replied brightly. “August tenth.”
Alexander’s mouth twitched faintly. “Not far from mine. I’m a May birthday.”
He paused, then added with studied nonchalance, “You happen to have your passport on you?”
Without hesitation, Cello reached for his small backpack. “Yes, here!” he said, producing two slim burgundy booklets. “Mine—and Mummy’s.”
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