The Billionaire's Contract: Protecting My Secret Son

Council stared at the phone screen. His reflection stared back-angry, trapped. He pressed the call button.

"Mr. Bartlett?" Her voice was shaky.

"You played this very well," Council said. He didn't bother with a greeting.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. You went to Hortense. You cried about your living conditions. You wanted me to move in? Fine. You win."

Addie gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. She was standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by Leo's toys. She had been about to beg him. She had been about to offer to renegotiate the prenup, to give up anything, just for him to show his face for five minutes.

And now he was accusing her of... winning?

"I didn't talk to your mother," Addie said. "But the social worker-"

"Save it," Council cut her off. "I'm coming tonight. I'm bringing luggage. But remember this, Addie: This is a war. It's not playing house."

The line went dead.

Addie lowered the phone. She blinked. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, hysterical and sharp.

"He's coming," she whispered. "He's actually coming."

She grabbed Leo and spun him around. "We're safe, Leo! We're safe!"

Leo giggled, not understanding, but happy because she was happy.

Council walked into the library of the Bartlett estate. Hortense was sipping tea.

"I heard you agreed," she said.

"I'll live there," Council said. He stood over her, casting a shadow, but he felt small. He always felt small around her. "But I will prove she is a fraud. I will prove she breached the NDA or the morality clause. And then I will divorce her."

Hortense smiled over the rim of her cup. "If you can find cause to void the marriage within three months, without hurting the stock price... I will sign over full voting control of the trust to you."

Council's eyes narrowed. "You're betting against her?"

"I'm betting on you, darling. I want to see if you have the stomach to destroy her."

"Deal."

Addie went into a frenzy. She grabbed a trash bag. She swept the clutter off the table. She scrubbed the bathroom sink until her arm ached.

She opened her closet. It was tiny. She pushed her clothes to one side, squeezing them until they were flat. She cleared half the rod.

Then she looked at the bed.

It was a double bed. The only bed.

She bit her lip. No. He wouldn't sleep there.

She ran to the linen closet and pulled out old sheets. She looked at the sofa. It was beige, lumpy, and stained with apple juice.

Perfect.

"Sir, are you sure about this?"

Marcus held up a Savile Row suit bag. "The press will be watching your arrival. You need to look like you're moving into a home, not deploying to a war zone."

"Fine," Council said, stripping off his jacket. "Pack the essentials. But no logos. No silk pajamas. If I'm going undercover in the slums, I need to blend in once I'm inside." He paused. "This is a tactical operation, Marcus. I need to see how she slips up in her natural habitat."

Night fell over Queens. It was a heavy, humid darkness.

A black sedan, not the Maybach, pulled up to the curb. Council stepped out. He was wearing dark trousers and a cashmere sweater, still looking out of place but less like a corporate raider. He carried a duffel bag.

He looked at the building. Brick. Graffiti near the door. A pile of garbage bags on the sidewalk waiting for collection.

The smell hit him. rotting fruit and exhaust.

He wrinkled his nose. He walked to the door. There was no doorman. No elevator.

He climbed the stairs. One flight. Two flights. The stairwell smelled of boiled cabbage and old cigarettes.

He reached the third floor. He stood in front of door 3B. The paint was peeling.

He took a deep breath. He felt like a soldier stepping onto a minefield.

He raised his hand and knocked.