My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

Anderson's finger was halfway under the envelope flap when his phone screamed. The sound jolted through him like electricity. He fumbled the device from his pocket, nearly dropping it. The screen glowed with a name he hadn't expected to see today. Beatrice Calhoun. His mother. The ringtone cut through the apartment's silence. Anderson watched the name pulse, feeling his heart rate spike. If she knew-if Elianna had contacted her first, if she was calling to- He swiped answer. "Andy?" His mother's voice flooded the speaker, bright and irritable and alive. "Are you there? The connection's terrible, you know how Florida is, everything's terrible here, the humidity, the neighbors, did I tell you about the neighbors?" Anderson's free hand found his mouth. He bit down on his knuckle, hard enough to leave marks. "No," he managed. The word came out steady. Miraculously steady. "What about them?" "Their dog. Every morning, five AM, barking. I've called the association three times. Three times, Andy. They do nothing." She paused. "You sound strange. Are you sick?" "Just tired." He pressed his forehead against his palm, feeling sweat gather at his hairline. "Early meeting." "Work, work, work." His mother's sigh carried static. "Your sister never calls anymore. Has she contacted you?" Anderson's fingers spasmed around the phone. "No." "Typical. Too busy being important." Another pause, longer this time. "Well. I won't keep you. Take your vitamins." "I will." "Love you, Andy." "Love you too, Mom." The line went dead. Anderson let the phone fall to the carpet. It landed face-down, silent. He sat motionless, staring at the wall, feeling the lie settle into his bones like sediment. He couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not with her blood pressure, her arrhythmia, her doctor's warnings about stress. He would have to carry this alone. For now. For however long he could manage. His eyes found the envelope. No more delays. No more interruptions. Anderson ripped the flap open. The glue gave with a sound like tearing skin. He upended the envelope, and papers spilled across his coffee table. A handwritten letter on top. Legal documents beneath. He picked up the letter first. The handwriting was unmistakable. Elianna's penmanship had always been aggressive, each letter stabbed into the paper like an accusation. The first line had no greeting. Forgive my cowardice. I couldn't face the aftermath. Anderson's vision blurred. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, smearing more oil across his face, and kept reading. I know you hate me. You have every right. But I'm asking anyway, because you're the only one I trust. His name is Elon. He's fifteen, and he's the only thing I've done that matters. I'm leaving him to you. Not because you owe me. Because you'll protect him. Even from me. Especially from me. Anderson turned the page. His hand was shaking badly now, making the paper rustle. The next paragraph stopped him cold. The trust is substantial. Three hundred million dollars. It belongs to Elon. All of it. He'll need guidance. He'll need someone to teach him that money isn't armor. Three hundred million. Anderson read the number three times, waiting for it to make sense. Elianna had been successful, but not this successful. Not unless- He thought of the mergers she'd mentioned, the deals she'd closed while their father died alone. The math started to add up in ways that made him nauseous. He forced himself to continue. For your service as guardian, I've allocated three million dollars and the Manhattan apartment. Consider it a stipend. I know you'll refuse more. I know you'll be angry. Take it anyway. For him. Three million. Anderson laughed. The sound cracked in his throat, ugly and broken. Three million dollars to raise a stranger's child. Three million to buy his silence, his compliance, his life. He was still laughing when he reached the final paragraph. The handwriting changed here, deteriorating. The letters sprawled, pressed so hard they nearly tore the paper. DO NOT INVESTIGATE MY DEATH. Accept what I've given you. Protect my son. Forget I existed. The warning hit him like a physical blow. Anderson set the letter down, suddenly aware of the sweat cooling on his spine. The words reeked of fear. Of desperation. Of secrets that had followed his sister to the grave. He reached for the legal documents. Kasper Hayes, Attorney at Law. The letterhead was embossed, expensive. The papers inside detailed guardianship transfer procedures, trust fund management structures, clauses and sub-clauses in language designed to obscure meaning. One page stood out. A single sheet, separate from the others. Sign here, it instructed, above a blank line. Upon execution, three million dollars will be transferred to designated account. Anderson stared at the line. His signature would commit him to years of responsibility for a child he'd never met. Years of living in the shadow of his sister's final manipulation. He stood. Paced to the window. The Manhattan skyline stretched before him, indifferent to his crisis. Somewhere out there, a fifteen-year-old boy was waking up to the news that his mother was dead. That a stranger held his future in his hands. Anderson thought of the letter. You're the only one I trust. Fifteen years of silence. Fifteen years of hostility. And still, at the end, she'd reached for him. He turned back to the coffee table. Picked up the envelope. Gathered the scattered papers and slid them back inside, careful not to crease the corners. The decision wasn't made. Not really. But his feet were already moving toward the bedroom, toward his closet, toward the suit he wore when he needed armor. He would meet the lawyer. He would see the boy. He would find out what kind of woman his sister had become, and what kind of monster had driven her to leave such a desperate warning.