One Night With The Unstable Billionaire

The storm had blown itself out sometime in the small hours. A thin blade of pale morning light slipped through the gap in the blackout curtains, cutting across the bedroom floor. Arla's eyes snapped open. The hyper-vigilance burned into her by everything that had come before—and by memories of a life already lived—ripped her out of sleep before her body had fully registered consciousness. She turned her head. Caden was curled against her side, his small hands gripping the fabric of her shirt, his breathing soft and even. Alive. Still alive. She carefully untangled herself from him and slid her legs over the edge of the bed. Before her feet touched the floor, a violent pounding shook the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. "Arla! You vicious little—get out here right now!" The voice belonged to Beatrice Sargent. Blair's mother. Arla's adoptive nightmare. On the bed, Caden jolted awake. His eyes went wide with a panic no child should know. He scrambled backward, pulling the duvet over his head, his small body shaking beneath the covers. Seeing him like that—reduced to trembling by a voice in the hallway—made something inside Arla go very still and very cold. She leaned over the bed, wrapping her arms around the quivering lump of blankets. She rubbed slow circles on his back through the thick fabric. "It's alright, baby. It's just noise. Mommy is going to make the noise stop." Caden peered out from under the blanket, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge. Arla kissed his forehead. She lifted him from the bed and carried him to the velvet armchair in the far corner—the spot furthest from the door, tucked behind the heavy armoire. She walked to the vanity mirror. Her reflection stared back: pale skin, shadows beneath her eyes, but something fundamentally different in the set of her jaw. The terrified girl she had been was gone. In her place was something harder. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and secured it with a wooden pin. The pounding grew more frantic. Beatrice had graduated from fists to feet. "Open this door! You ruined my daughter's face! Butler! Get the master key!" At the word 'key,' Arla allowed herself a small, cold breath of something that was not quite amusement. There would be no hiding today. She was finished with hiding. She walked to the wet bar in the corner of the suite, where a high-end espresso machine sat on the marble counter. She loaded a pod, hit the brew button, and watched as the machine whirred to life, pouring steaming black coffee into a heavy ceramic mug. Steam curled off the dark surface, softening the edges of her reflection. She carried the mug to the door and stood just inches from the wood. Her right hand wrapped around the brass doorknob. From the other side came the metallic scrape of a master key sliding into the lock. Click. The door pushed inward. Arla tightened her grip and yanked it wide. Beatrice, who had been leaning her full weight against the wood, stumbled forward, arms flailing. Arla did not hesitate. With a smooth, deliberate motion, she tipped the mug forward. The scalding coffee arced through the air and splashed across Beatrice's face and the collar of her expensive silk blouse. Beatrice's shriek tore through the hallway. She threw her hands up, stumbling backward, her face already flushing an angry red. Arla stood in the doorway, the empty mug still in her hand. She looked at the woman writhing against the wall and felt nothing at all. "Good morning," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost pleasant. "I hope the coffee wakes you up."