Billionaire Mom’s Revenge: Hurt My Daughter, Lose Everything

Delphine's POV

My daughter is fighting for her life in the ICU. The mother of the boy who put her there just offered me two million dollars and an NDA.

To prove she’s untouchable, she flaunted an ultra-exclusive black card.

But she made one fatal mistake.

I recognize that card. I designed it. Because she is my husband’s mistress—and she’s using my money to cover up my daughter’s tragedy.

She wanted to buy my silence. Now, I’m buying her son’s life.

——

By the time I reached the hospital, my legs could barely hold me up.

My daughter, Linnea, is ten years old. Desmond and I waited five long years after our wedding before she finally came to us. She is the most precious thing I have ever held in my hands.

The boy who did it was Colt Sorrel. Four years older than Linnea. Fourteen.

My daughter lay in the ICU wrapped in bandages from head to toe, perfectly still, perfectly silent, aware of nothing.

The school showed me photographs from the scene. Linnea had fallen several yards from the top of the bleachers, and she hadn't fallen alone. A girl from her class, Goldie Brennan, had been dragged down with her. In the pictures, the girl's arms and legs were bent at angles that limbs should never bend, and most of her white uniform blouse had turned red.

The doctor told me Linnea had come within a breath of dying. Goldie had suffered a traumatic brain injury. Her condition was critical, and she wasn't out of danger either.

I kept vigil by my daughter's bed for three days. On the third day, her homeroom teacher called. The parent of the boy responsible wanted to meet.

When I arrived at Bellmont Academy, a woman dripping in jewelry was lounging on the sofa in the conference room, scrolling on her phone. She barely lifted her eyes.

"You must be Linnea's mom. Sit."

Without another word, she pushed a folder across the table toward me: a statement describing the incident as an accident during horseplay, with a thick nondisclosure agreement attached.

"Let's not waste each other's time. Sign it. We call it kids messing around, somebody slipped, and the whole thing gets sealed. I'm not letting this follow my son around, and I'm certainly not letting him get expelled."

She was so arrogant. So sure this was simply how the world worked.

A crushing wave of fury nearly burned away the last of my self-control. The image of my daughter covered in blood kept flashing behind my eyes.

I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. My hands were already shaking. I tore her so-called agreement to pieces and hurled them at her face.

"Your son tried to kill my child. You're dreaming!"

I lunged at her before I knew I'd moved. I wanted to tear her apart the way I'd torn the paper. How dare the people who did this sit there looking down on us?

But Ms. Gwendolyn Pike, Linnea's teacher, caught my arm and held me back. It was as if every adult in that room had gone blind.

"Linnea's mom, please, calm down. Colt's mother came here in good faith to ask for your understanding. The new field house was their family's donation. Blowing this up won't do the school any good, and it won't do your daughter any good either."

Bianca Sorrel brushed the scraps of paper from her cheek with two fingers. Her eyes were cold and mocking.

"I did my homework. Your girl's outfits cost what, fifty bucks tops? No designer labels. You people work for a living, right? Just average folks."

"It was an accident between children. I'll cover the medical bills and add two million dollars. How about it?"

"Two million is lottery money for people like you. Even if you scraped together ten grand a year, it would take you two centuries to save that. Your kid has one accident, and you walk away set for life. Consider this a gift. Take the win and don't push your luck."

I stared at her with a bottomless, murderous hatred. My whole body shook as I screamed.

"Your son is a bully! He pushed two girls off the bleachers, and they're both lying in the ICU! He should spend the rest of his life paying for what he did!"

Bianca arched a theatrical eyebrow, then let out a little laugh.

"Money doesn't just talk. It silences. Why do you think there hasn't been a single whisper about this online? Because I"—she lifted a hand, palm down, and pressed it slowly toward the table—"buried it. The school's already been handled."

Then she held up that black card again, savoring every second.

"Do you know what this is? The most exclusive card on the planet. You need a nine-figure net worth just to be invited. Numbers you people can't even imagine."

I stared at the peony etched into the metal. My heart, already cut to ribbons, dropped like a stone.

That was the supplementary card I had given my husband. My husband, who had married into my family and lived on my family's money.

And now his mistress was using the card I gave him to buy her way out of justice for my daughter.

Memories snapped into focus. A month ago, Desmond had asked to use company funds to donate a new field house to a private school. I'd approved it, and the donation went through without a hitch. Three days ago, the head of our PR department mentioned that Desmond wanted to suppress media coverage of some school incident. I'd been at my daughter's bedside, too wrecked to care, and I'd let it go.

That hot, metallic taste rose in my throat again. Again, I swallowed it. When I spoke, my voice was ice.

"Then what's your son's life worth? Name a number. I'll buy it."