The Billionaire's Secret Babies

Looking at Cassius now, I can’t think that of him. I can’t believe he’d abandon me so callously.

But then again, we hardly know each other. This relationship is so new, so fragile. Maybe he wants someone else, someone uncomplicated, without babies in tow. I couldn’t blame him for that.

And maybe he doesn’t want to settle down at all yet. Maybe he still wants to play the field.

I force myself to square my shoulders and step into the room. I’m having fun with him, but I cannot let my guard down. I can’t let him in. Not yet. For the twins’ sake, I need to know him much better before I fully open up.

“Cassius,” I murmur.

He looks up at me, a happy, contented smile on his face. Luca and Lucie coo in his arms, and he squeezes them both gently. “Good morning,” he says, smiling.

“I hate to interrupt…” I glance at the twins, unable to stop myself from smiling too. I’ve never seen the babies take to someone else so easily. Normally I’m the only one they don’t cry for. “But, you’ve got that meeting downtown in half an hour…”

“Ah, shit.” He grimaces. Then glances at the babies. “I mean, poop.”

I stifle a laugh. “Don’t worry. I don’t think they’re quite old enough to understand swears yet.”

He grins. “Well, it’s good to get into practice now. For when they are old enough.”

My heart leaps again. Another promise. Another statement that says he means to stick around. To be here when they are older. “Fair point,” I say, which is the only thing I can manage to say around the sudden lump in my throat.

He seems to sense I’m feeling something. He stands and gently places Luca and Lucie back into their crib, then steps over to wrap his arms around me. “You all right?” he murmurs into my hair.

I nod against his chest, squeezing him back tightly. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

He pauses for a moment, gazing down at me. I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me, but he’s not going to push the issue. He leans in to kiss me gently, and then squeezes my shoulders one last time. “I’ll be home after the meeting,” he promises. “You and the kids and I need some quality park time this afternoon.”

I grin. “Deal.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my babies, uncertain once more. Am I just being paranoid? Is it just my past experiences with men making me expect the worst?

Or am I right to worry, because these babies are my everything? They deserve the best, and they deserve for me to stay vigilant, and not get them tangled up in my heartbreak.

I feed them and get them settled in for their mid-morning nap. But I’m still feeling restless, disjointed. I finish the filing for Cassius, and get his next month of meetings entirely booked. Then I wander around the house, looking for things to tidy. It’s how I handle feeling stressed or unmoored. Cleaning puts me into a better mindset, makes me feel productive, instead of just anxious.

I start in the living room, put away all the clothes I’ve left strewn around, and the baby toys and supplies. Then I move to the kitchen, and finish washing up from breakfast.

There’s a stack of old mail and papers on top of the fridge, which has been there since I started staying here a few weeks ago. It’s an eyesore, messing up the otherwise neat and tidy kitchen. I pull the stack down and start to sort it into piles—obvious junk mail to be tossed, possibly important mail from credit card companies.

Then I reach a file at the bottom of the stack. A blue and white folder, stamped with the logo for A New Chance.

I recognize it at once, because it’s the same fertility clinic I used. The place where I conceived the twins. The company that gave me the best thing in my life.

Curious, I flip it open. Why is this here?

Then I freeze on the first page.

There’s a standard application form for Cassius, complete with a photo of him looking devastatingly handsome, and his personal information completed. But beside it, on the other side of the folder, is someone else’s application.

A woman.

She’s gorgeous. Long blonde curls, blue eyes, high cheekbones. A model type, you can tell just from her headshot. Claire Donoghue, says her name on the personal information profile, and under her address is an address I don’t recognize. A street in a small town, less than an hour drive from Austin. But when I glance over at the other form, at Cassius’s form, it’s got the same address on it.

I think about the clothing in the spare room. About the money Cassius has. About the work trips he takes overnight to Dallas, supposedly.

My stomach churns in horror.