The Ultimate Billionaire Romance Bundle

I stood barefoot on the soaked floor, the hem of my pajama pants clinging to my ankles.

Watching water slide down the wall in shivering silver lines.

It was midnight, the city outside humming with life, and inside, I was alone—standing in my own private flood.

The paint above my head sagged like the ceiling was breathing.

When I touched it, it broke open with a wet gasp, cold water rushing down my arm, into my hair, down my spine.

I screamed before I could stop myself.

Then I started laughing.

The kind of laugh that hurts on the way out.

It felt like the final straw in a life made of them.

Rent due. Job gone.

Insurance rep on speakerphone saying words that didn’t sound real—“uncovered damage,” “acts of negligence,” “personal responsibility.”

Every phrase sounded like blame.

By dawn, I’d stopped trying to fix it.

I shoved clothes into a duffel, locked the door, and left the key under the mat.

I didn’t even look back.

The bus to my hometown was half-empty, the air thick with the smell of wet coats and burnt coffee.

I pressed my forehead against the glass and watched the skyline dissolve into fog.

There’s something humiliating about returning to the place you swore you’d never see again.

It feels like the past is waiting at the station with its arms crossed, ready to say I told you so.

When the bus hissed to a stop, I stepped into a town that hadn’t changed at all.

Same quiet streets. Same broken streetlight outside the diner.

It felt smaller now, like I’d outgrown it without realizing it.

The hotel was the kind of place that still had brass keys and floral carpet.

The front desk clerk smiled in that way people do when they pity you but don’t want to show it.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said softly. “We’re full tonight. There’s a wedding in town.”

Her voice faded. My ears were ringing.

I just needed somewhere—anywhere—to sit.

That’s when I saw her.

A little girl, maybe five or six, wandering through the lobby with a photo clutched in her tiny hands.

Her curls framed her face in wild, dark spirals, damp from the rain.

She was whispering to strangers, her voice thin, hopeful.

Each time someone shook their head, she moved to the next.

When she reached me, she stopped.

Her eyes were the palest blue—like the last streak of winter sky.

“Mommy?” she whispered.

I blinked, certain I’d misheard her.

Then she held out the photograph.

My breath hitched.

It was me.

My high school yearbook photo—the one with the lopsided smile and the necklace I’d borrowed from my sister and never gave back.

My hand trembled as I took it.

Before I could speak, a deep, steady voice came from behind her.

“Time to go, sweetie. It’s getting late.”

He was tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp suit.

The kind of man who looked like he didn’t ask for attention—he just took up space until you gave it to him.

Rain slicked his dark hair, and his tie hung loose, undone, like he’d had a long day and was still pretending it hadn’t gotten to him.

He reached for her, but she twisted in his arms, pointing back at me.

“Wait, Daddy… I found her.”

The room went still.

His gaze followed her hand, his expression unguarded for just a second.

When our eyes met, something inside me jolted.

Recognition? Shock? Maybe both.

He froze, color draining from his face.

“Solenne?” he said quietly, the name barely holding together on his breath.

And my world tilted.

Because I hadn’t heard my sister’s name in years...