The Billionaire's Cruelty, My Secret Daughter

The I-95 highway was a blur of grey concrete and red taillights.

Seraphina sat in the back of the SUV, her body rigid. The driver, Charles, was a man she had known for two years. He had driven her to charity galas, to the ballet, to the Hamptons. Now, he stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the road, treating her like invisible cargo.

A wave of bile rose in her throat. It was sudden and violent. The smell of the leather seats, usually comforting, now smelled like dead animal skin and chemical cleaner.

She swallowed hard, forcing the sickness down. She couldn't show weakness. Not to Charles. Not to anyone who reported back to Julian. If she vomited now, Charles would tell Julian she was sick. Julian would assume it was guilt, or nerves. He would never guess the truth.

She dug her fingernails into her palms until crescent moons of pain distracted her from the roiling in her stomach. Don't throw up. Don't throw up.

"Charles," she rasped, her voice tight. "Could you crack a window? It's stifling."

"Climate control is set to seventy-two, Ms. Sterling," Charles said robotically. He didn't lower the window.

Ms. Sterling. Not Mrs. Vanderbilt. The demotion had already happened.

She leaned her forehead against the cold glass, closing her eyes. She focused on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She counted the seconds. The nausea came in waves, syncing with the rhythm of the windshield wipers.

Swish. Swish. Nausea. Swish. Swish. Panic.

She did the math in her head again, praying she was wrong. The stress. The nausea. The date.

Her period tracking app. She had checked it in the bathroom before the chaos ensued.

48 days late.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of her grief. But she couldn't check her phone now. Charles might see the screen in the rearview mirror. She had to wait.

The ride felt like an eternity. Finally, the scenery changed. Gone were the skyscrapers and the manicured lawns.

This was Kensington, Philadelphia.

The streets were lined with tents. People stood on corners, bent over in the "fentanyl fold," defying gravity in their drug-induced stupor. Trash littered the gutters. The air smelled of decay.

Charles pulled the SUV up to a curb in front of a row house that looked like it had been punched in the face. The windows were barred. The brick was crumbling.

He got out, opened the trunk, and set her two suitcases on the sidewalk.

"This is the address provided by the legal team," Charles said. He didn't offer to carry them up the steps. "Good luck, Ms. Sterling. Mr. Vanderbilt said do not return."

He got back in the car. The locks clicked.

The SUV pulled away, splashing dirty puddle water onto her Gucci loafers.

Seraphina waited until the taillights faded into the gloom. Only then did she let out the breath she had been holding. She doubled over, dry heaving onto the wet pavement, her body finally expelling the stress of the journey.

When the spasms passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was alone.

She dragged her suitcases into the nearest open convenience store, the wheels clattering on the broken sidewalk. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, she looked like a ghost—pale skin, dark circles, a silk blouse stained with rain.

She bought a bottle of water and a pregnancy test from the shelf. The clerk, a man behind bulletproof glass, didn't even look up from his phone.

She found a public restroom in a park across the street. It was filthy, smelling of bleach and stale urine.

Three minutes. That was all it took to change the world.

She sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at the plastic stick.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

Seraphina stared at the test. A baby. Julian's baby.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. He had kicked her out for killing an heir, while she was carrying one.

She pulled out her phone. She dialed Julian's private number. Her thumb hovered over the contact name: My Love.

It rang once. Twice.

In a penthouse in Manhattan, Julian looked at his phone. He was pouring another drink. Elena was in the hospital wing, sedated. The screen lit up with Seraphina.

His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. She was calling to beg. To lie. To spin another web.

He pressed the red button.

In the park, the call went to voicemail. Seraphina's heart hammered against her ribs. She redialed.

Ring. Ring. Click.

"The number you are trying to reach is not available."

He had blocked her.

Panic turned to desperation. She opened her text messages. Her fingers flew across the screen.

Julian, please. You have to listen. It's not about Elena. It's not about me. I'm p-

Message Send Failure. User has blocked you.

She stared at the red exclamation mark. The digital wall was higher than the gates of Silver Sands.

She curled up on the park bench, pulling her knees to her chest, shielding her stomach from the cold wind.

"I'm all you have now," she whispered to the darkness. "I'm all you have."