Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Meet Your Son

Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Meet Your Son

Nert Kirschner

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I stood at the airport in a worn wool coat, shivering as I waited for the husband I hadn't seen in seven years. My dented 2014 Camry sat idling nearby, a pathetic contrast to the sleek private jets lining the tarmac of Teterboro. When the Gulfstream finally landed, Julian Sterling didn't emerge alone. He stepped off the plane holding the hand of Serena Pembrooke, the flawless socialite who had been his "business partner" in Zurich for nearly a decade. He looked at me with the cold assessment of a stranger, his eyes bypassing the luxury SUVs to lock onto my fading paint and cracked phone screen. Julian forced me to drive them, letting Serena claim the front seat while he watched me from the back like a hired chauffeur. When a minor traffic accident left me trembling in the middle of the FDR Drive, he didn't offer comfort; he took the wheel with a look of pure disappointment, treating me like an incompetent child. "A quiet place for a mind like yours to rot," he whispered, mocking the simple life I had built in Queens. The humiliation peaked at a high-society gala where Serena framed me for corporate espionage, accusing me of stealing code from Nebula-the very company I had built in secret. Julian stood by and watched as my reputation was shredded, his silence a deadlier weapon than Serena's lies. He even went ring shopping for the Sterling family heirloom while I was being investigated by the police. I couldn't understand how he could be so blind. He didn't know I was the lead architect of the AI firm he just invested in. Most importantly, he didn't know I was hiding his son-a six-year-old genius with Julian's eyes and a lethal talent for hacking. To settle the debt for the car, I sold my mother's last pearls and threw the check at his feet, finally ready to disappear from his world forever. But as I walked away into the rain, Julian's phone buzzed with a digitized threat from an anonymous source that stopped him cold. "Stay away from my mother," the voice warned. My son had just declared war on his father, and the secrets of the Aspen Scandal were finally about to explode, forcing Julian to realize that the wife he abandoned was the only person who could save his empire.

Chapter 1 1

The wind at Teterboro Airport didn't just blow; it bit. It chewed through the thin fabric of Elara's wool coat, finding the skin beneath and making her shiver violently. She leaned against the side of her 2014 Toyota Camry, tucking her hands deep into her pockets, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left. Her fingers brushed against the rough lining of the pocket where the stitching had come undone last week.

She checked her phone. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb fracture over the time. 4:12 PM. The flight was an hour late.

A ground crew member in a neon vest walked by, glancing at her car. His eyes lingered on the dent in the rear bumper and the fading paint. He didn't say anything, but the curl of his lip said enough. You don't belong here.

She knew. She had spent the last twenty minutes frantically scrubbing the backseat with industrial wet wipes, desperate to remove the sticky residue of spilled apple juice and the faint, lingering scent of a child. She prayed the overwhelming smell of lemon bleach would mask the reality of her life.

Then, the sound came. A low rumble that vibrated in her chest, growing into a deafening roar. The Gulfstream G650 descended from the grey sky, sleek and silver, a predator returning to its territory. The tires screeched against the tarmac, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris that forced Elara to squint.

She smoothed the front of her coat. It was a nervous tic. A useless attempt to look like Mrs. Julian Sterling instead of the woman who cleaned her own apartment.

The stairs lowered with a hydraulic hiss.

Elara held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm. Seven years. It had been seven years since she looked him in the eye.

But it wasn't Julian who stepped out first.

A woman emerged. She wore a cream-colored Chanel coat that looked like it had never seen a speck of dust. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, flawless bun. Serena Pembrooke.

Serena paused at the top of the stairs, turning back with a smile that could melt glaciers. She extended a gloved hand.

And then he appeared.

Julian Sterling took Serena's hand. The gesture was easy. Practiced. He guided her down the first few steps, his body angling toward her as if to shield her from the wind.

Elara felt the air leave her lungs. It wasn't a sharp pain. It was a dull, heavy ache, like swallowing a stone.

Julian reached the tarmac. He straightened his suit jacket-custom fit, dark navy-and lifted his head. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, scanned the area. They bypassed the luxury SUVs waiting for other clients. They bypassed the security detail.

They locked onto her.

The distance between them was fifty yards, but his gaze felt like a physical touch. Cold. Assessing. There was no smile. No widening of the eyes. He looked at her the way one looks at a stranger who has stepped onto their property.

Elara forced the corners of her mouth up. It felt tight, unnatural.

"Elara!" Serena's voice carried over the wind, high and sweet. She waved, the diamond bracelet on her wrist catching the dull light. "It's been forever!"

Two large men in black suits began unloading luggage. Louis Vuitton trunks. Hard-shell cases. There were four of them. Elara glanced at her trunk. It was already filled with a bag of groceries she hadn't had time to drop off.

Julian walked toward her. His stride was long, eating up the distance. He stopped three feet away. He didn't hug her. He didn't offer a hand. He just looked at the car, then at her face.

"You're late," he said. His voice was deeper than she remembered. Rougher.

"Traffic on the bridge," Elara said. Her voice wavered. She hated herself for it. "I'm sorry."

He raised a hand, cutting her off.

"It was my fault," Serena said, stepping up beside him. She looped her arm through his. The fabric of her expensive coat brushed against his suit. "I held us up in the cabin. Don't blame her, Julian."

Elara looked at Serena's arm. It looked right there. It looked permanent. She knew Serena had been pushed onto the board of Nebula by the other shareholders, a strategic move to undercut Julian's authority, yet here she was, clinging to him like a second skin. Why did he allow it?

"The luggage won't fit," Julian said, looking at the Toyota.

"I can call a car," Serena suggested. "My driver is on standby."

"No," Julian said. "We take this."

"But Julian-"

"Get in the car, Serena." It wasn't a request.

Serena paused, her eyes flickering to Elara. A small, victorious smile played on her lips. She walked to the passenger side-the front passenger side-and opened the door. She sat down, adjusting her coat, claiming the space.

Elara stood frozen. That was her seat. That was the wife's seat.

Julian looked at her. He didn't move to open her door. He just waited.

Elara walked to the driver's side. Her legs felt heavy. She got in, the smell of harsh chemical cleaner instantly warring with Serena's perfume-sandalwood and rose.

The back door opened. Julian folded his six-foot-two frame into the cramped back seat. His knees pressed against the back of her seat. She could feel the pressure of his legs through the cushion.

She turned the key. The engine sputtered once, twice, before catching with a wheeze.

In the rearview mirror, Julian's eyes met hers. He didn't look away.

"Drive," he said.

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The promotion came with a dream office, a Seattle skyline view, and a salary that made my eyes water. But it also came with Mrs. Jenkins, my personal assistant of five years, and the difficult conversation I had to have with her. When I told her I was relocating and she' d have three months' severance, her warm smile froze. "A recommendation and severance won' t be enough, Sarah," she declared, her voice flat, demanding a lifetime pension or my multi-million dollar condo. I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but her dead-serious expression sent a chill down my spine. She then morphed into a full-blown manipulator, blaming me for "ruining" her life and threatening to spread rumors in our tight-knit community. The fight escalated from extortion to outright betrayal when her daughter, Emily, aided by a supposedly incarcerated ex-cop, illegally occupied my condo with a forged lease. The police, thanks to the corrupt officer' s connections, shockingly classified it as a civil matter. I felt outrage and disbelief that I was being targeted and dismissed, my property snatched by a family I had once trusted. The unsettling truth hit me when I saw the "jailed" ex-cop, Kevin, laughing with Mrs. Jenkins and Emily in front of a real estate office, overhearing their plot to forge documents and steal my condo outright. My rage turned to icy resolve; they had underestimated me. I immediately contacted the FBI' s Public Corruption Unit, armed with concrete proof of their conspiracy, knowing this was no longer a petty dispute but a federal crime. My decision to fight back was made.

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"Let's get married," Mia declares, her voice trembling despite her defiant gaze into Stefan's guarded brown eyes. She needs this, even if he seems untouchable. Stefan raises a skeptical brow. "And why would I do that?" His voice was low, like a warning, and it made her shiver even though she tried not to show it. "We both have one thing in common," Mia continues, her gaze unwavering. "Shitty fathers. They want to take what's ours and give it to who they think deserves it." A pointed pause hangs in the air. "The only difference between us is that you're an illegitimate child, and I'm not." Stefan studies her, the heiress in her designer armor, the fire in her eyes that matches the burn of his own rage. "That's your solution? A wedding band as a weapon?" He said ignoring the part where she just referred to him as an illegitimate child. "The only weapon they won't see coming." She steps closer, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, gunpowder and jasmine. "Our fathers stole our birthrights. The sole reason they betrayed us. We join forces, create our own empire that'll bring down theirs." A beat of silence. Then, Stefan's mouth curves into something sharp. "One condition," he murmurs, closing the distance. "No divorces. No surrenders. If we're doing this, it's for life" "Deal" Mia said without missing a beat. Her father wants to destroy her life. She wouldn't give him the pleasure, she would destroy her life as she seems fit. ................ Two shattered heirs. One deadly vow. A marriage built on revenge. Mia Meyers was born to rule her father's empire (so she thought), until he named his bastard son heir instead. Stefan Sterling knows the sting of betrayal too. His father discarded him like trash. Now the rivals' disgraced children have a poisonous proposal: Marry for vengeance. Crush their fathers' legacies. Never speak of divorce. Whoever cracks first loses everything. Can these two rivals, united by their vengeful hearts, pull off a marriage of convenience to reclaim what they believe is rightfully theirs? Or will their fathers' animosity, and their own complicated pasts tear their fragile alliance apart?

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