Page 10 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“You can talk to me.”

“No,” he growled. “I want to talk to your mother.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled through my mouth. Of course. That was what this was really about.

He wanted something—he always wanted something.

And with his bastard son now old enough to be paraded around like an heir, I could guess—his timing was unmistakable.

It was time.

He was here to settle something—once and for all.

Divorce. Recognition. Legitimacy for his mistress and bastard son.

Whatever polite word he’d dreaded since he first walked out.

And it had finally arrived—at the worst possible time.

“No.” My hand came up, palm flat against his chest. The fabric of his suit was rough against my skin. I pushed, not hard, but enough to make him step back. “Whatever you want to say to her, you can say to me.”

I turned to Dave. Our eyes met, a silent exchange passing between us. I didn’t want the old woman disturbed—not today, not ever. But I also knew if we stayed here any longer, she’d sense something was wrong.

Dave wouldn’t lay a hand on him unless I said the word, but he had no problem escorting him out if it came to that.

“Get the car ready,” I grunted, not looking away from him. “You can join me in the car if you want, but you’re not staying.”

It was my way of compromising. Or giving him an exit before things got ugly. If the old bastard knew me at all, he’d take it.

“You shouldn’t talk to Dad like that.”

The voice was low, coarse, cracking with the strain of adolescence.

I turned toward the kid. My annoying teenager.

Last time I’d seen him, he was barely reaching my shoulder. Now, he stood almost eye-level with me.

His shoulders had filled out, and his jaw was trying to sharpen—and I hated it.

Hated that he’d inherited the same height, the same eyes, the same genes that made him look like me.

The idea of him growing taller, stronger, looking down at me one day—it made my skin crawl.

It wasn’t in my control—unless I hired someone to break his fucking legs.

“Get the fuck out now—while you can walk on your own legs.” My tone dropped low, lethal. I moved toward the door, ignoring the two pairs of eyes burning into my back. Their stares were empty threats.

Dave could handle an old man and a trembling boy on his own. I didn’t even have to lift a finger.

We soon reached the main entrance of the apartment. Clare stood by the car, brows raised at the sight of Dad. The driver opened the back door nearest to me. I gestured for that man to go first.

A man in suit emerged from the visitor parking bay. Clare’s instincts kicked in—she moved to block him until I lifted a hand. I recognized him immediately—my father’s driver and assistant.

Dad’s mistress never allowed female staff around him now. Not after the affair. She’d tried everything—older women, less attractive ones—but it didn’t matter. The old bastard didn’t have a type. His type was anything with legs and a pulse.

Muttering to his assistant, he slid into my car. The driver backed off right away.

“Not you.” I blocked the kid as he tried to follow. “This ride’s not for you.”