His Hidden Heirs: A Billionaire’s Regret

The moment I stepped into Blackwood Tower, I made myself a promise: I would not flinch.

Five years ago, I walked out of this building with a bruised soul and a cardboard box holding the remnants of my dignity. Back then, I was Ava Blackwood—the naive orphan who believed a billionaire’s vows when he slipped a platinum band on my finger. I believed in fairy tales, right up until the morning Damian threw divorce papers across our table, branded me a gold-digger, and cast me into the street.

He hadn’t known I was pregnant. He hadn’t cared to ask why I was sick every morning.

Now, the woman reflected in the bronze lobby pillars bore no resemblance to that broken girl. My honey-blonde hair was dyed mocha, cut into a sharp lob grazing my collarbones. My tailored ivory suit hugged a posture hardened by solitary grit, and my heels clicked against polished marble with certainty.

I was Ava Winters now. Founder of Vows & Velvet, Manhattan’s premier boutique event firm. When the corporate inquiry arrived requesting a consultation with the CEO of Blackwood Enterprises for his wedding, taking it was madness.

Yet a quiet hunger guided my pen. A need to look the monster of my past in the eye and prove he hadn't destroyed me.

The private express elevator whisked me sixty floors above the city. When the doors parted, Damian’s receptionist looked up from a pristine desk.

"Ms. Winters? Mr. Blackwood is expecting you. Right through the double doors."

"Thank you."

I gripped my portfolio, drew a slow breath, and stepped inside.

The corner office was vast, framed by panoramic glass showing Manhattan like a conquered kingdom. Sunlight poured across dark walnut floors, but the air felt sub-zero. Behind a black granite desk sat a man reviewing a document. He hadn’t looked up.

Even after five years, the sight of him struck me like a physical blow.

Damian Blackwood had only grown more lethal with time. His jet-black hair was trimmed with precision, accentuating a jawline cut from granite. The harsh angles of his cheekbones and aristocratic nose were just as I remembered, but any former softness around his mouth was gone, replaced by an unyielding chill.

Stay steady, I told myself, digging my fingernails into my palms. You are invisible to him. You are just a vendor.

"Take a seat, Ms. Winters," he said without looking up, his voice the same deep baritone that once whispered promises against my skin. "I’ll be with you in thirty seconds."

"Of course, Mr. Blackwood."

I took an armchair opposite his desk.

He signed the document, capped his pen, and raised his head.

His eyes met mine.

They were piercing, stormy gray—unforgiving as winter frost. For one terrifying beat, oxygen evaporated from the room. My pulse thundered in my ears. I braced for the fury of the man who had accused me of selling corporate secrets.

Nothing happened.

Damian’s gaze swept over my face with the indifferent scrutiny of an executive reading quarterly reports. To Damian Blackwood, I was an absolute stranger.

"I’ve reviewed your portfolio," he began, leaning back into his leather chair. "Your designs are restrained. Elegant. None of the gaudy nonsense most planners push. That’s why you’re here."

"I appreciate that, Mr. Blackwood," I replied, amazed at the steadiness in my voice. "My firm prides itself on discretion. I understand you're looking for something extraordinary for your upcoming nuptials."

"Extraordinary in scale, yes," he said, cold as an audit report. "The press will call it the wedding of the year. Isabelle Laurent’s family expects eight hundred guests and absolute perfection. What they do not need is sentimentality."

The bride’s name didn't surprise me; Isabelle Laurent was old-money royalty, polished and ambitious. But Damian's clinical detachment gave me pause.

"No sentimentality?" I echoed lightly. "Most couples want a narrative that highlights their personal connection."

A bitter smirk touched his lips. "This isn't a love story, Ms. Winters. It’s an alliance between Blackwood Enterprises and Laurent Maritime. We require seamless logistics and optics that satisfy shareholders. Nothing more."

He turned a gold paperweight in his hand, glancing toward the window.

"I’ve only done the marriage thing once," he said carelessly, his drawl slicing straight into my ribs. "It was an unmitigated disaster. An impulsive mistake with someone who wanted my name and my money. I don't make the same mistake twice."

The air turned toxic in my lungs.

An impulsive mistake. A disaster.

Every drop of blood flared with fury. I remembered nursing him through midnight fevers and believing every vow he whispered in the dark. He had discarded me like trash, convinced I was a scheming thief.

A terrifying clarity settled over me, replacing my anxiety with an icy resolve.

He wanted a wedding planner? Fine. I would give him the wedding of the century, weave myself into his world, smile politely, and watch him build his empty empire. And when the truth detonated, his regret would be my reckoning.

"Understood," I said smoothly, sliding the contract across the granite. "No sentiment. Just perfection."

Damian signed in bold ink without reading the terms. He slid the folder back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at my face once more.

A crease formed between his dark brows. His gaze lingered on the curve of my mouth, then flickered to my eyes.

"Have we..." he began quietly, his voice losing its corporate edge. "Have we crossed paths before, Ms. Winters?"

My heart gave a violent kick, but my smile never wavered.

"Unless you attended the Met Gala opening three years ago, I doubt it, Mr. Blackwood. I keep a quiet circle."

He blinked, the momentary softness vanishing. "Right. Of course."

He stood, buttoning his jacket. "My assistant will coordinate regarding the first venue walkthrough."

"I look forward to it."

Damian walked me toward the private elevator bank. The silence between us was taut with tension. He stood beside me as the chime sounded, his broad frame casting a long shadow over mine.

Before the doors opened, his personal assistant hurried over with a tablet.

"Mr. Blackwood, excuse me," Marcus said. "The nanny called again. She needs confirmation on the twins' schedule for next week."

Damian’s jaw tightened. "Not now, Marcus. We’ll handle the boys' calendar later."

The world tilted beneath my feet.

Twins.

My breath caught, freezing every muscle in my body.

Five years. He had thrown me out alone and pregnant, claiming he wanted nothing to do with a family. And now, he had twins? Did he remarry in secret? Did he replace me the moment I walked out the door?

"Ms. Winters?" Damian’s voice broke through the roaring in my ears. He held the elevator door, staring with quiet curiosity. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm quite well," I forced out, stepping backward into the cab. "Just a long day. Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood."

The doors slid shut, severing the sight of him.

The second the elevator descended, my knees gave out. I pressed my back against the cold wall, my hands trembling violently against my portfolio.

He had no idea the two little girls calling me Mommy had his blood in their veins. And now, I had to find out why he suddenly had twins of his own—before my secret became his weapon.