Page 50 of Adonis: The Cost of a Billionaire's Heart
“Fuck!” I screamed out just as my phone pinged with an email from a tabloid offering money for my “exclusive story.” I deleted it, disgusted.
Chill, Sim. No judge in their right mind would give a convicted murderer full custody of his child.
Another ping—a text from Adonis—just two words.
Adonis:
I’m sorry.
I threw the phone across the fucking room.
Mason shuffled out of his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Mommy? What was that noise?”
I pulled him into my arms, burying my face in the warm crook of his neck. “It was nothing, Mase. I missed you so much,” I told him, which wasn’t a lie.
His small fingers touched my wet cheeks. “Are you crying?”
“Just happy tears,” I lied. “Do you want to see what I brought you back from Chicago?”
“Yeah!”
For the rest of the evening, I listened to Mason chatter about his new toy, which I’d picked up before we left Chicago, and how much fun he had with Maya and Mr. H at his house. I forced myself to focus on him, on the immediate needs—attention, nourishment, and comfort. Not on the whispered flatteries from the plane and the night before. Not on the coldness in Adonis’s eyes when he officially ended our arrangement. Not on the world crashing down around me, and the possibility of my son’s father trying to take him from me.
Then, there was another knock at the door. My heart leapt traitorously before I reminded myself it wouldn’t be him. Probably just another visit from Mrs. Wilson or some reporter or paparazzi freak who’d managed to make their way through the code-controlled entrance or something. I crept up to the door and peered through the peephole. It was a courier with a large envelope and a package.
“Delivery for you, ma’am. Needs a signature.”
I cautiously undid the chain lock and scribbled my name before taking the packages and locking the door again. I drifted into the kitchen and set the box down on the counter before opening the envelope. Inside was a stack of papers—medical bills from Mason’s recent hospital stay. Each one stamped “PAID IN FULL” along with a health insurance card with Mason’s new policy information.
There was no note. No explanation. Just the bills and the promise of a full year’s insurance for Mason. My knees gave out. I slid to the floor, papers scattered around me. The total was more than I made in six months. Inside the other box was a LEGO rocket kit with a simple note attached: To Mason, From Mr. H.
And for some reason, that caused a pang in my chest that hurt more than anything else. Not because I didn’t appreciate it—I did, desperately—but because it felt like a goodbye, like a parting gift or a way to clear his conscience or gain a write-off on his taxes.
A fresh wave of tears came, and that time, I didn’t fight them. I let myself break, just for a minute, while Mason was distracted by the cartoons on TV. I cried for the foolish hope I’d allowed myself to feel, for the warmth of belonging I’d tasted in his arms, for the humiliation of being discarded so easily by him and eaten alive by the press and nobodies on the internet.
When the tears ran dry, I gathered the papers and put them in my desk drawer. Then I washed my face, fixed my running mascara, and sat beside my son on the couch.
“Who was at the door, Mommy?”
“Just someone delivering papers,” I answered, stroking his curls. “They left a little something for you too.”
He leaned against me, warm and trusting. “Really? What is it?”
“It’s on the counter. Go see!”
He excitedly raced to the kitchen counter and climbed up into the swivel chair to see the LEGO rocket kit. His eyes lit up like diamonds. “Wow! Is this for me?”
“Yup. It’s for you.”
“Who got it for me?”
I sighed. “Mr. H. Do you like it?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yeah! I do!”
“What do you think about pizza tonight, baby boy?”
“Yeah! Pizza!” he cheered.
