The CEO's Runaway Wife and Secret Heir

Chapter 2 2

Word Count: 844 | Released on: 09/02/2026

white. She didn't breathe. If she didn't move, maybe he would leave.

loud. It was authoritative. It was the voice of a man who owned the buil

olt. The click sounded

door just a c

in the gap and pushed. He didn't shove; he just applie

ain and expensive sandalwood. He looked around the modest living room-the

urled. "C

e shook, but she stood her ground

ssed it onto the small dining table. "You violated your NDA. You stole confidential company dat

d stolen insurance. Evidence of his family'

led with tension. "Pack your bags. You're coming back to New York to s

hall, a sound drifted ou

snapped toward the ha

h dropped to her

ke no one." Hart move

grabbed the lapels of his wet coat. "He's my son.

his eyes softened. He remembered her hands. He remembere

m her defiant face back toward the door. The timeline was tight, but pos

, ple

the bedr

ip nightlight cast long shadows.

st seconds before Hart, managing to

he mask covered his nose and mo

y e

in his chest, a vibration he couldn't name. He

The jealousy hit him out of nowher

ha said quickly. "He die

Hart scoffed. "We were

ract, Hart. No

d sickly. Weak. He felt a sudden urge to l

g room. He pulled a black American Express ca

boyfriend's kid. I don't c

the card and threw it back at him. It hit his c

rd on the dirty carpe

all beside her head. "Then I call the FBI. You go to prison for corporate es

ouldn't fight. If she went to jail, Leo went into the s

ned out of her. "But he comes with me

. "Fine. Just keep h

walked out i

her pocket and clutched a crumpled piece of paper. It wasn't a tax

them into th

Chapter End

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The CEO's Runaway Wife and Secret Heir

Qian Mo Mo Modern

“I was Hart Whitney's "contract wife" for three years before I vanished, taking nothing but a secret and a scar that would never heal. Now, the billionaire CEO had tracked me down to a rainy suburb in Seattle, ready to drag me back to New York just to get the signature he needed to unlock his family trust. But when he stormed into my small house, he didn't just find a runaway employee; he found a three-year-old boy with his exact gray eyes and a nervous habit of spinning a pen that was a mirror image of his own. "He's not yours," I lied, clutching my son to my chest as Hart looked at him with cold, cynical disbelief. He forced us onto his private jet, treating me like a corporate thief and my son like a scandalous mistake. In New York, his socialite fiancée, Isadora, tried to poison my son with a "gift" of hazelnut chocolate and publicly humiliated me by exposing the jagged burn scar on my back-the very scar I earned saving Hart's life in a fire three years ago, a heroic act Isadora had stolen credit for. I couldn't understand how a man so brilliant could be so blind. He believed a faked DNA test over the evidence of his own eyes. He let his fiancée torment the woman who had bled for him and the child who shared his soul, all while I sat in the corner of his office, invisible and broken. It wasn't until my son lay dying in a hospital bed, needing a blood transfusion so rare it only ran in the Whitney family, that the truth finally broke through Hart's icy exterior. As Hart watched his own blood flow into our son's veins, he finally realized he hadn't been hunting a traitor-he had been destroying the only people who ever truly loved him.”