The CEO's Runaway Wife and Secret Heir

Camisha's hand gripped the cold brass doorknob. Her knuckles turned white. She didn't breathe. If she didn't move, maybe he would leave. Maybe he was a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep.

"Open the door, Camisha," Hart's voice came through the wood. It wasn't loud. It was authoritative. It was the voice of a man who owned the building, the land, and the air she was breathing. "I know you're in there."

She unlocked the deadbolt. The click sounded like a bone snapping.

She opened the door just a crack. "Go away."

Hart didn't go away. He planted a leather oxford shoe in the gap and pushed. He didn't shove; he just applied steady, irresistible pressure. Camisha stumbled back.

Hart stepped into the small entryway. He filled the space. He smelled of rain and expensive sandalwood. He looked around the modest living room-the worn beige carpet, the second-hand sofa, the pile of laundry on the chair.

His lip curled. "Charming."

"Get out," Camisha said. Her voice shook, but she stood her ground. "You have no right to be here."

"I have every right." Hart reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded document. He tossed it onto the small dining table. "You violated your NDA. You stole confidential company data when you left. That's a federal crime, Camisha. I could have the police here in five minutes."

"I didn't steal anything," she lied. She had stolen insurance. Evidence of his family's tax evasion. But he couldn't know that yet.

"Don't lie to me." Hart took a step closer. The air between them crackled with tension. "Pack your bags. You're coming back to New York to sign the trust documents. Then you can rot in whatever hole you choose."

From the bedroom down the hall, a sound drifted out. A cough. Wet and heavy.

"Mommy?"

Hart froze. His head snapped toward the hallway. "Who is that?"

Camisha's stomach dropped to her feet. "No one."

"That didn't sound like no one." Hart moved toward the hallway.

"Stop!" Camisha threw herself in front of him. She grabbed the lapels of his wet coat. "He's my son. You can't go in there. He's sick. It's contagious."

Hart looked down at her hands on his chest. For a second, his eyes softened. He remembered her hands. He remembered how she used to organize his desk. Then the ice returned.

"Your son?" Hart's voice was laced with cynical disbelief. He looked from her defiant face back toward the door. The timeline was tight, but possible. The thought was a splinter of ice in his gut. He pushed past her.

"Hart, please!"

He opened the bedroom door.

The room was dark. The rocket ship nightlight cast long shadows. On the bed, a small lump moved.

Leo sat up. Camisha had rushed in just seconds before Hart, managing to pull a surgical mask over Leo's face.

"Mommy?" Leo rubbed his eyes. The mask covered his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were visible.

Gray eyes.

Hart stared at the boy. He felt a weird thrum in his chest, a vibration he couldn't name. He looked at the boy's eyes, then back at Camisha.

"Who is the father?" Hart demanded. The jealousy hit him out of nowhere. It was irrational. It was violent.

"An ex-boyfriend," Camisha said quickly. "He died. Before Leo was born."

"You move on quickly," Hart scoffed. "We were married three years ago."

"It was a contract, Hart. Not a marriage."

Hart looked back at the boy. The kid looked sickly. Weak. He felt a sudden urge to leave. He hated hospitals. He hated sickness.

He turned around and walked back to the living room. He pulled a black American Express card from his wallet and threw it on the floor.

"Get a nanny for the dead boyfriend's kid. I don't care. We leave at 6:00 AM."

"I can't leave him," Camisha said. She picked up the card and threw it back at him. It hit his chest and fluttered to the floor. "I'm not going."

Hart stared at the card on the dirty carpet. No one refused him.

He stepped forward, crowding her against the wall. He placed a hand on the wall beside her head. "Then I call the FBI. You go to prison for corporate espionage. And Child Protective Services takes the boy. Is that what you want?"

Camisha stopped breathing. He found the one lever she couldn't fight. If she went to jail, Leo went into the system. Without her, without his medication, he would die.

"Fine," she whispered. The fight drained out of her. "But he comes with me. He can't be left with anyone else."

Hart rolled his eyes. "Fine. Just keep him out of my sight."

He turned and walked out into the rain.

Camisha slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She reached into her pocket and clutched a crumpled piece of paper. It wasn't a tax document. It was a genetic report. Whitney Family Congenital Disorder.

He was taking them into the lion's den.