Trapped In The Billionaire's Past

Xavier’s crutch clicked sharply as he strode through the lobby, each step driven by the surge of adrenaline he refused to show on his face. Rourke stood near the entrance, holding a woman by the arm — but she wasn’t resisting.

She was trembling.

Her coat was too light for the cold. Her hair — dark, unbrushed — clung to her face where tears had already stained the skin.

Xavier knew her before she even lifted her eyes.

“Elara,” he breathed.

Her gaze snapped to him — wild, shattered, furious. “You… You told me there was nothing left to find.”

The punch in her voice hit harder than any physical blow.

He dismissed the guards with a nod. As soon as they were out of earshot, Elara stepped forward and shoved him in the chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was alive?”

His pulse stuttered. “Elara—”

“You let me bury hope!” she cried. “You let me mourn my daughter — you made me believe she was dead.”

“No,” Xavier said, hands up, trying to calm her. “We don’t know anything for certain yet.”

He swallowed hard.

“I only said what the DNA and the investigation showed. I would never hide her from you.”

Elara’s voice cracked. “She looks just like Aria.”

“Yes,” Xavier admitted. “Too much like her.”

Her lip quivered, raw heartbreak spilling out. “Then why are you still calling her Isla?”

He closed his eyes briefly. Because every time he looked, he wanted to call her Aria. And that terrified him.

“Elara,” he said quietly, “I need time. I have my people checking everything — discreetly. If she is Aria… trauma may have erased memories. Forcing her could break her.”

Elara grasped his coat, desperate. “Let me see her.”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than he intended, and she flinched. He softened his voice.

“Please… if she doesn’t remember — if she’s living a normal life — barging in will only frighten her. She deserves peace while we find answers.”

Elara’s breathing shook. “I can’t lose her again.”

Xavier’s chest tightened. “I won’t let that happen.”

They stood in silence — grief hanging heavier than the winter air. Finally, he rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Go home. I’ll update you the second I know more.”

Her eyes, once vibrant, now looked like ruins. But she nodded — barely — and let Rourke escort her away. Only once she was gone did Xavier allow his mask to crack.

Hope. Fear. Guilt.

And under it all… something possessive and dangerous rising in him the longer he stayed near Isla. He turned back toward the elevator. He had questions — and only Isla could answer them.

Upstairs, Isla paced the living room, twisting her fingers until her knuckles ached. The camera in the hallway. The mysterious intruder. The words they asked for her. She thought to herself that nothing about this was normal.

When the door opened again, she jumped so hard Clara nearly dropped her coffee.

Xavier stepped inside — composed but tense.

“It’s handled,” he said.

Isla frowned. “Who was it?”

“A petty thief.” No hesitation. “The guards stopped him before he got far.”

A lie. Smooth. rehearsed.

But his eyes lingered too long on her face — searching.

“Are you sure?” Isla pressed.

“You’re safe,” he repeated, voice a gentle anchor. “I promise.”

His promises were dangerous. Because she wanted to believe every single one.

Clara stretched and yawned. “I’m off to work — try not to flirt with danger while I’m gone. Or do. Just tell me everything later.”

She winked and slipped out, leaving Isla and Xavier alone — silence wired with awareness.

Xavier took a slow, steady breath. “Have you eaten?”

Isla blinked. “Uh… no, not yet.”

His expression softened — but something calculating flickered beneath. “Do you cook?”

“Yes.” Her grandma had taught her — one of the few warm memories she still held onto. “Why?”

Xavier leaned on the counter, eyes warm in a way that made her heart misbehave. “I’d like to try something you make.”

“Me?” Isla stared. “You want… my cooking?”

He tilted his head, amused. “Is that so surprising?”

“Yes!” she said honestly. “You probably have chefs who make food that costs more than my rent.”

“That doesn’t mean it tastes better.” His voice dropped, sincere. “I want something real.”

Her cheeks — traitorous things — warmed.

“Okay,” she murmured. “What would you like?”

“Anything you’d make at home,” he said — and there it was again. That studying look. Like he was trying to solve her.

She nodded slowly. “Breakfast food then. Pancakes.”

His lips curved. “Perfect.”

Cooking grounded her — measuring, mixing, whisking — something familiar in a world that suddenly wasn’t. Xavier watched every movement like it mattered.

“How long have you been cooking?” he asked casually.

“Since I was twelve,” she said. “My grandmother taught me.”

He stilled — disappointment flickering across his face as if he expected a different answer.

“Did she teach you any special recipes?”

“One or two,” Isla shrugged, flipping a pancake.

“What about… jasmine-soy glaze?” The question was too specific.

Isla frowned. “What? No.”

Xavier’s expression reset, smooth and unreadable.

“Do you swim?”

“What languages do you speak?”

“Do you get migraines?”

“Ever been to Europe?”

“Do you remember being in a car accident?”

“How often do you dream?”

The questions came soft but relentless — like he was pushing at doors she didn’t know she had.

Isla tightened her grip on the spatula. “Why are you asking me all this?”

He paused — eyes locking with hers, voice gentle. “I want to understand you.”

Too beautiful a sentence to distrust… but the fear in her ribs didn’t agree.

She slid the finished food onto a plate, nerves buzzing. “Here.”

He sat, posture perfect even while recovering from injury. She set the plate in front of him — hands shaking more than she wanted him to notice.

Xavier met her eyes. “May I?”

“It’s just pancakes,” she muttered.

“It’s more than that.”

Isla swallowed, breath stuck somewhere high in her throat. Because the way he looked at the fork — the plate — her — it wasn’t hunger for food. It was hunger for truth. And she didn’t know what truth she had to give.

He lifted the bite to his mouth…

Isla stood frozen, her stomach twisting painfully. She had never cared this much about what someone thought of her cooking — but this wasn’t just someone. This was Xavier. A billionaire. A man who probably ate meals crafted by award-winning chefs on a daily basis.

She didn’t blink.

What she didn’t see was the tension in his shoulders — the tiny tell he couldn’t hide. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he was nervous too. His fingers tightened slightly around the fork, as if the taste of this one bite mattered far more than it should.

The fork reached his lips. He tasted it.

Silence hit the room — thick enough that Isla could hear her pulse pounding in her ears.

Two people. One bite. Both waiting.

The next second would decide whether she remained Isla… or became someone she didn’t remember.