The Billionaire's Secret Babies

Before I can decide how to broach the topic, or even what to ask Amy, the elevator doors ping open, and Cassius steps out.

“Finally,” he says, glancing between me and Amy.

“Mr. Anderson,” Amy greets him with a broad smile as she hands over my overnight bag, “I was just getting to know your charming new assistant. She’s quite lovely.” Amy grins up at him, and oh my god, is she pulling the same thing on him that she just did on me?

What a little mischievous matchmaker.

“Thanks so much for your help,” I say loudly, interrupting any potentially embarrassing announcement she was about to make. “See you tomorrow!”

Amy takes the hint, though not without winking at me as she leaves. “Enjoy your night,” she calls over her shoulder, one last parting shot as she leaves for the front door, and we step into the elevator together, the twins’ stroller between us.

“That took quite a long time,” Cassius says as the elevator leaps upward.

“Well, it takes a minute, packing for twins,” I counter, annoyed. I went through all this trouble, came all the way back here at the end of the night just to stay in the room he’s decided he must have me live out of, and he’s complaining about how long it took?

“You needn’t have worried,” he replies as we reach the top floor. I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he’s already striding away up the hall.

No matter. My question gets answered a minute later, when I roll the babies into the spare room.

Cassius has been busy while I was gone.

The room is full of stuff. A second crib, slightly larger than the first. Clothing, sized perfectly for the twins—everything from adorable little matching pajamas to going-out outfits—a dress for Lucie and a miniature suit and tie for Luca. There are play clothes, shoes, socks, a stack of diapers… Even some clothes sized a little larger, presumably for them to grow into.

I stand on the threshold, gaping, open-mouthed with shock. I don’t know what to do.

I never had a baby shower. Everything the twins own, I bought myself, because God knows my mother wouldn’t even consider buying them a single present. “Nobody helped me with you,” she said the day they were born, even though I know for a fact that’s a lie. My dad was right by her side every step of the way, taking care of everything—taking care of me and her, right up until the day he died.

Staring at this room feels like stepping into the surprise baby shower I never expected. Everything I need is here, and then some. My surprise only grows when I open the closet and find the old clothes I’d worn this morning gone. Brand new dresses, skirts, shirts and pajamas hang in their place. Even some jeans, which are laughably fancy. I guess that’s Cassius’s idea of casual pants.

More shocking, they’re all exactly my size. A shiver races down my spine, as I realize what that means—how closely Cassius must have been paying attention to my body.

I can’t help imagining his eyes all over me, devouring me, studying me. Figuring me out, better than I know myself.

Fuck.

Luca fusses quietly, which is the only thing that drags me out of my stupor. I unwrap the brand new diapers and change him, then Lucie, dressing them both in duckie pajamas with little footies that are too damn cute. I take my time, tickling them, playing with them, as we get ready. Moments like this, I can’t believe the twins are real—these are my babies, and this is my life. How did I get so lucky?

I feed them with formula I find in the empty kitchen, a better brand than the kind I was using. Once they’re both sleeping soundly, I tiptoe out of the room and to find Cassius.

His study is empty, and his bedroom door is wide open, but when I peek inside, ignoring a little thrill at the sight of his broad king-size bed, and all the thoughts that provokes about the things he could do to me in that bed, it’s empty.

I pace back to the kitchen and find him at the stove, stir-fry sizzling in a pan before him.

“What are you doing?” I ask, noticing how much food is in the pan.

“What does it look like?” he responds, his back to me, not meeting my eye. “Making dinner.”

“Why?” I spread my arms. “Why all of this?”

“You made breakfast,” he replies simply, dodging my question, pretending he thinks I’m only asking about dinner. “Can’t I do something nice for my new employee?”

“Thank you for dinner.” I raise an eyebrow. “But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I should just roll with this, take the dinner, not ask too many questions. But it’s all so damn confusing. The way he’s hot and cold on and off. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, after a long pause, during which he waits, patiently, watching me. “You don’t even like me much.”