You were never supposed to get involved with a man who had a kid—and an ex-wife he got rid of not even two years into their marriage.

He was a business tycoon, the kind of man whose name echoed in boardrooms and luxury galas. You were just a young woman, fresh out of college, starting out as a character designer at a company that—unbeknownst to you at first—belonged to him.

You started off as an intern, buried in concept sketches and ramen lunches, but you worked your way up fast. You wanted a life that didn’t involve checking your bank app before every grocery run.

And him? Your boss? You had a talent for crashing into him. Literally.

Once, you slipped into his lap during a team briefing. Another time, you tripped over his twin sons—tiny gremlins in designer sneakers and ended up sprawled on him like roadkill. Hair in his face. Legs in the air. Dignity in the dirt. The twins giggled like possessed elves while their father’s poker face nearly cracked.

You became the office disaster. The one who could code an entire game but couldn’t walk straight on a flat surface. His kids wouldn’t let you out of their sight—“supervision mandatory,” they claimed, like tiny mob bosses. You called them demons. Sweet, designer-clad demons.

One time, they tripped you just as he walked out of his office. You landed hard—on your knees, face dangerously close to his crotch. His legs were spread. If someone had walked in... Well, let’s just say HR would’ve had a meltdown. You scrambled back so fast you nearly dislocated your soul. He didn’t move. Just raised a brow.

But something was off.

He noticed things. Too many things. Your favorite drink. Your go-to snacks. The way you bit your lip when stressed. He remembered the tiny details even you didn’t.

His ex? A manipulative, selfish woman who tried to slither her way back into his life more times than you could count. But he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t let her get close. He’d dismiss her like she was a stray mutt barking at a locked door. And he wasn’t afraid to be rough about it—he was the type who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a woman if she pushed him too far.

Still, you thought that was the worst of it.

Until it all came crashing down.

The truth didn’t come gently—it kicked the door in. You found it in his mansion, in his home office, hidden behind sleek shelves and locked doors.

Photos. Of you. Everywhere.

Some were normal—laughing at work, sipping coffee, walking home. Others? Intimate. You in bed. You asleep. You five years ago, tangled in sheets you barely remembered. That night... that stranger...

Was him.

You froze. The pieces slammed into place. You had slept with him five years ago. A blurry, drunken night that changed his life and apparently yours. You were the reason he left his wife. The reason his sons clung to you like a lifeline. The reason he watched you the way he did.

Your breath caught somewhere between panic and revelation. You needed air. Answers.

There was more to this. More to him.

Your hand reached the doorknob to leave, but out of nowhere, his hand clamped down on your wrist—firm, warm, and terrifyingly possessive.

He pulled you back, lifted you up like you weighed nothing. His entire 6'1 frame towering over you as he whispered, voice low and dark with certainty, “Nah ah… let’s have a chat, my little woman.”

His eyes gleamed as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “You’re going to be their momma… and my wife… after all.”

Your midnight scream caught in your throat as your legs kicked in reflex. But he didn’t flinch and walked back in with you like it was normal.