From Hidden Lover To His Boss: The Billionaire's Ultimate Regret

Bailey pushed open the door to her old bedroom and stopped. A thick layer of dust coated the desk, and the mattress was stripped bare, smelling faintly of neglect and stale air. She dropped her suitcase, a cynical smile touching her lips.

For a family so obsessed with high-society optics, the Morrows couldn't even be bothered to hire a maid to run a duster over the furniture. They despised her—that was no secret—but abandoning basic, surface-level hospitality just to prove a point? It was incredibly petty.

She refused to sleep in squalor. Grabbing a damp towel from her bag, she spent the next twenty minutes wiping down the surfaces. Only when the room met her standards did she grab her toiletry bag and step into the hallway to wash up.

She didn't make it far.

"Bailey! You're finally home!"

Jordin Morrow,her adopted sister, stood blocking the corridor. Dressed in a delicate silk slip, her blonde hair perfectly tousled, she looked less like a woman getting ready for bed and more like an actress hitting her mark for a camera crew. Her voice was high, sweet, and entirely manufactured.

Bailey didn't stop walking. "Move, Jordin. You're in the way."

"I was just so worried," Jordin continued, ignoring the dismissal and reaching out to grab Bailey's arm. "Mom said you've been staying out for days. People are starting to talk, you know? Rumor has it you've been... staying with a sponsor."

Bailey sidestepped the touch with practiced ease. "Still listening at keyholes, I see. Some things never change."

"Bailey! Is that any way to speak to your sister?" Ilene's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. The venom returned to her eyes the moment she saw Bailey, but it melted into a sickening sweetness when she turned to her youngest. "Jordin, sweetheart, did she wake you up with her racket?"

Bailey suppressed a dry laugh. It was Ilene's screeching that could wake the dead, yet the blame always landed on her.

"I'm fine, Mom," Jordin chirped, playing the martyr to perfection. "I just wanted to make sure Bailey was okay. She looks so... worn out."

Ilene raked her eyes over Bailey's simple clothes with blatant disgust. "She looks exactly like what she is. Bailey, stay in your room tomorrow morning. Jordin's fiancé is coming over for lunch. I won't have you embarrassing us in front of Mr. Randall with your presence or your reputation."

Bailey paused, her hand resting on the bathroom doorframe. She looked at the two of them—the doting mother and the two-faced sister. "Don't worry," she said coolly. "I have zero interest in your little family circus."

The next morning, Bailey stuck to her usual routine. She couldn't care less about the high-stakes lunch or the Morrows' VIP guest. Instead, she went for a grueling five-mile run, letting the sharp burn in her lungs and the rhythm of her footsteps ground her.

When she returned to the estate, she was flushed and glowing with sweat, her dark hair pulled back into a messy, high ponytail. Dressed in tight black leggings and a cropped athletic tank, she radiated a raw vitality that sharply contrasted with the suffocating, curated elegance of the Morrow household.

As she crossed the circular driveway, she noticed a sleek black Maybach parked near the entrance. The custom license plate was a string of eights. Ostentatious, powerful, and entirely too familiar.

She walked through the front doors, intending to head straight to the kitchen for water, but the heavy, oppressive silence spilling from the formal living room forced her to stop.

Sitting on the center velvet sofa, flanked by a fawning Bailey's father Richard and Ilene Morrow, was Dorr Randall. He looked exactly as intimidating as the financial magazines claimed—crisp white shirt, sharp, unforgiving features, and a cold authority that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the room. Jordin was tucked close to his side, her head tilted shyly, playing the innocent fiancée to the hilt.

Bailey stood in the archway, a water bottle in her hand, her damp skin catching the light of the foyer chandelier.

Dorr's gaze shifted. His eyes, usually as unreadable and flat as slate, locked onto hers. The reaction was microscopic—a sudden stillness, a slight tightening of his jaw—but for a man of his absolute control, it was a massive tell.

He knew exactly how she looked in those gym clothes. He knew the exact temperature of her skin, the way she breathed when she was exhausted. And here she was—the disgraceful sister of his bride-to-be.

"Bailey!" Ilene's horrified hiss shattered the quiet. She stared at her daughter's sweaty, athletic appearance as if Bailey had dragged a corpse onto the rug. "What are you doing? I told you to stay out of sight! How dare you show your face looking like that in front of our guest!"