The Billionaire Who Thought I Was Nothing

The first thing I did when morning came was reach for my phone.

Still nothing.

No missed calls.

No messages.

No apology.

My son stirred softly in my arms, his tiny fingers curling around my shirt as if he could feel the fear rising in my chest. He yawned and blinked, the same wide eyes that belonged to his father, only softer, gentler, untouched by arrogance or cruelty. I held him closer, rocking gently, trying to convince myself that he was the only thing I could rely on.

I hadn’t slept. Not a single hour. The baby’s soft breathing had been the only sound that kept me tethered to reality. My mind had gone over everything a thousand times. Had he left in anger? Was there an accident? Or… was this intentional?

Lucien had taken my cards months ago, saying it was “easier” if he handled finances. At first, it had felt like freedom, a convenience. But now, that same convenience had become a cage. I opened my bag, heart trembling, praying for at least a little money. A single bill, a coin, anything.

Nothing.

Not even enough to buy diapers. Not enough to feed the baby the way he needed.

I walked slowly to the kitchen, staring at the nearly empty refrigerator. My hands trembled as I touched the cold metal, imagining the meals I could make if only there were ingredients, or money, or anything at all.

I tried calling Lucien’s number.

“The number you have dialed is unavailable.”

The words echoed in my head, repeating over and over.

I sank to the floor, my legs giving way beneath me. I pressed Noah tightly against my chest, feeling the warmth of his tiny body, the steady pulse of his heart. I whispered into the hollow space of our apartment, “How am I supposed to do this?”

There was no answer.

I thought about my mother, about asking for help, but I knew she could barely keep herself afloat. I thought about the modeling gigs, the acting jobs, the tiny pockets of income I had once considered enough. He had taken all of it—or at least, controlled all of it.

The weight of reality pressed down on me like a storm I couldn’t outrun. I had no money. No support. No plan. Just a newborn in my arms and the silence of a man who had once promised to protect me.

For a long while, I just sat there, holding him, rocking gently. The minutes stretched into hours. Every creak of the floor sounded louder. Every shadow in the apartment seemed to remind me of what I had lost. My son stirred again, yawning, curling his tiny fingers around mine, and I realized he didn’t know, he didn’t need to know—the enormity of what had happened.

And I decided, then, between the tremors of fear and exhaustion, that I would not allow my son to feel abandoned—not even for a second.

Even if it meant carrying the weight of the world myself.

I swallowed hard, inhaled the cold morning air through the cracked window, and whispered, almost to myself, “We’ll figure this out. Somehow, we’ll figure this out.”

No answer came.

But for the first time in that long, lonely morning, I felt a spark of determination.

Because I didn’t have a choice. And this child, my son, deserved better than despair.