The Escort I Dumped Was a Billionaire

Violette's POV

"Isabel is pregnant. You need to find her the best staff, the best accommodations—everything she needs until she delivers."

My husband, dead for three years, had suddenly returned. And the first thing he did was ask me to take care of his mistress.

I sat on the sofa, studying the man before me. Tall and lean, with refined features that had acquired a sharper, more mature edge since I'd last seen him. Beside him stood a woman in a dress, blonde and blue-eyed, one hand protectively cradling the swell of her belly—four or five months along, at least.

It was a cool autumn day, yet I felt heat rising in my chest, sweat prickling along my skin.

The Morrison and Grant families had been allies for generations. Three years ago, when the Grants faced a sudden liquidity crisis and needed the Morrisons' help to survive, my father had made one condition: a marriage alliance between our families.

On our wedding day, all of Oakland had been watching.

But William had fled the ceremony. He'd crashed his car on the coastal highway and plunged into St. George Bay—car and all. After that, he'd never come back.

The police had ruled it a probable death based on the evidence.

Yet here he stood, alive and well, with a pregnant woman at his side.

My mind buzzed.

He was back. But what was I supposed to do about the man I'd been keeping on the side?

The thought made my irritation spike. I dug my nails into my palm.

William must have mistaken my silence for grief. His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

"Violette, our marriage never had any emotional foundation. If your father hadn't proposed the alliance, I never would have agreed to it in the first place."

He turned to the woman beside him, and those cold gray eyes softened into a tenderness I'd never seen directed at me.

"But Isabel is different. She's been with me all these years. So I'm advising you to be gracious about this. As long as you take good care of Isabel, I promise—the title of Mrs. Grant will still be yours."

Isabel tugged gently at William's sleeve, her voice soft and pleading. "William, don't say it like that. Miss Morrison must be heartbroken."

She turned to me, her gaze dewy and timid.

"Miss Morrison, I'm so sorry. This was all an accident. I never wanted to take your place. I know I'm not worthy of William. All I want now is to deliver this baby safely."

She stroked her belly, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Of course, if you really can't accept me… I can leave."

"Leave? What are you talking about?"

William's alarm was immediate. When he looked back at me, his gaze was as cold as Loster Lake in winter.

"She doesn't get to make decisions in this house!"

The two of them played off each other so seamlessly I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

I blinked, then let out a short laugh.

Yes, I'd been keeping a man on the side. But why should I feel guilty? After all, William had managed to get someone pregnant.

He'd been out there keeping a woman and raising a child—was I supposed to live like a widow for him?

"You're right. Why should you leave?"

I leaned back against the sofa, my tone lazy and indifferent. "I've been complaining about how quiet this house is. Another person means more excitement. Although…"

I paused, the smile at the corner of my eyes deepening. "If I'm hiring staff and arranging the best private hospital, then when this baby is born, shouldn't it call me 'Mom'?"

Isabel's face went pale.

"Violette!"

William pulled her behind him, his expression dark as a storm.

"This child will have nothing to do with you!"

"Mm." I looked at him almost pityingly. "I'm trying to help you, darling. Otherwise, how are you going to explain this baby to Grandfather?"

I stood up from the sofa and walked toward the door without sparing them another glance.

"I have plans tonight. I won't be keeping you company."

Perhaps my nonchalance unsettled her, because Isabel hurried after me.

"Miss Morrison!"

Before I could turn around, I heard a thud.

Isabel had dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her delicate face.

"Miss Morrison, are you going to tell Old Mr. Grant? We didn't mean for this to happen. If you're angry, take it out on me—not William. He's had such a hard time these past years."

"Isabel, get up!"

William tried to pull her to her feet, but she stubbornly remained kneeling, looking like a fallen saint from an oil painting, pitifully begging for my mercy.

"No. If Miss Morrison won't forgive us, I won't get up!"

"Why are you kneeling to her?" William's voice was sharp with anger and distress. "You're the one who stayed by my side all these years. You helped me through the hardest times. Why should you apologize to her?"

He glared at me with open hostility.

"Violette, go ahead and tell Grandfather if you want. But I'm telling you—even if Isabel weren't here, I still wouldn't spare you a second glance!"

I raised an eyebrow.

What had I even done?

Still, watching this farce unfold before me, I felt nothing but bitter amusement.

I had liked William once. Loved him, even.

In high school, a group of thugs had cornered me. William had saved me.

After that, all my thoughts had revolved around that boy.

My father knew how I felt. That's why he'd proposed the marriage alliance when the Grants were at their most desperate.

I thought I'd gotten what I wanted.

Instead, he'd run on our wedding day. After that, all of Oakland knew that Violette Morrison was the bride her groom had abandoned.

He kept saying that Isabel had been with him through the hardest times.

But if I hadn't shouldered the pressure these past three years, if I hadn't held his family business together, would the Grants even exist today?

It hurt. Of course it hurt. But I'd learned the truth three years ago.

Some hearts can't be warmed, no matter how hard you try.

I turned and left.

Half an hour later, I arrived at the apartment.

The moment I opened the door, a strong hand yanked me inside.

The world spun. My back hit the door hard, and a man's tall frame pressed against me, the familiar scent of cedarwood flooding my senses.

"Took you long enough."

The lighting was dim. I couldn't make out his face clearly, but I could feel the heat radiating from him.

My breath hitched. Before I could speak, his mouth was on mine.

Urgent and possessive, as if he wanted to fill every hollow space these past days had left behind.

I hooked my arms around his neck and kissed him back just as fiercely.

Feeling my response, he deepened the kiss, his long fingers sliding up to cup my breast, kneading with practiced ease.

My eyes went hazy. I bit down lightly on his Adam's apple.

"You're terrible."

"I learned from you."

Leon Blackwood let out a low laugh, scooping me up effortlessly and striding toward the bedroom.

My back sank into the soft mattress. The warm yellow lamp at the bedside illuminated his handsome face.

High cheekbones, deep-set eyes. When he pulled off his shirt, he revealed a sculpted chest and defined abs, his entire body radiating an innate nobility laced with raw wildness.

Three years ago, after William had fled our wedding, I'd gotten blackout drunk at a bar.

Later, I'd picked up a male model to blow off steam. Handsome face, great body, sexually compatible.

I knew what we were to each other. So did he. He never asked about my identity, and I never pried into his past.

Somehow, we'd kept this arrangement going for three years.

I whistled softly, running my hands shamelessly over his abs.

"Been waiting long?"

Leon leaned down, catching my hand and guiding it lower. His eyes were predatory, like a leopard stalking its prey—dangerous and intoxicating.

"What do you think?"

My fingers brushed against searing heat. My voice turned soft and reckless. "How about we try something new tonight?"

Leon's breath turned ragged, his head tilting back as a rough exhale escaped him.

When he looked down again, the desire in his eyes was almost feral.

"You said it."

His kiss descended again, fiercer and more urgent than before, as if he wanted to devour me whole.

The air grew thick with humid warmth.

From the bedroom to the bathroom, I called for breaks several times, but he always found a way to pull me back under.

By the time we finally stopped, I was too exhausted to move a single finger.

I counted the condoms scattered on the floor and cursed under my breath. Summoning what little strength I had left, I kicked at the man beside me.

"Five. That's enough, isn't it?"

Leon lay on his side next to me, his hand tracing idle patterns along my bare back.

"Who told you to stay away so long?"

His voice was low and cool, tinged with reproach.

"You'd better take responsibility for me."

I shoved his hand away irritably and sat up, reaching for a menthol cigarette on the nightstand.

Smoke curled lazily from my fingertips. After a long silence, I spoke.

"Let's break up. My husband came back."