The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 106

Orion

The cool evening air hit my face as I stepped out of the coffee shop, and for the first time in hours, I felt like I could actually breathe. My mind was still reeling from the realization, but underneath the shock was something else—a warmth spreading through my chest that I barely dared to acknowledge.

Aveline. My wife. The woman I'd been falling for was already mine.

The irony was almost laughable, if it weren't so complicated.

I pulled out my phone, my first instinct to call her, to hear her voice, to somehow begin untangling this mess. The phone rang once, twice... then went straight to voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Aveline. I can't take your call right now, but—"

I hung up and tried again. Still off. She was probably still angry about seeing me with Sera, maybe even more hurt than I'd realized. The thought made my chest tighten with guilt.

I leaned against the brick wall, running a hand through my hair. Before I could even begin to explain this to her—before I could figure out how to tell her that her mystery husband was sitting right in front of her all along—I needed to know the whole story.

There was only one person who could give me those answers.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for.

"Theodore Walsh speaking."

"Walsh. It's Orion Blackwell. I need to see you tonight."

There was a pause on the other end. "Well, well. The prodigal heir returns. I assume this is about your latest scandal? The tabloids have been particularly creative with their headlines lately."

"Not over the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?"

"The Crimson Room. Downtown. Nine o'clock." His voice carried that same calculated smoothness I remembered. "I'll be the one not looking surprised to see you."

---

The Crimson Room was exactly the kind of place Walsh would choose—dimly lit, expensive, and discrete. The kind of establishment where powerful people made deals they'd rather not discuss in daylight. I pushed through the heavy oak doors at exactly nine, scanning the room full of suits and shadows.

I needn't have bothered looking. Before I'd taken three steps inside, a familiar voice called out from a corner booth.

"Orion. Six years, and you're still as sharp as ever. Though I have to say, the only thing that's changed is you look healthy as a horse now instead of that dying man confined to a hospital bed."

I turned to see Theodore Walsh rising from his seat, a knowing smile playing at his lips. He looked different—more expensive suit, grayer hair, but those calculating eyes were exactly the same. Success had been kind to him, I had to admit. The last I'd heard, he'd built his practice into one of New York's most influential law firms.

"Walsh." I slid into the booth across from him. "I want to ask you about something that happened six years ago."

He signaled the bartender for another round without asking what I wanted. "I have to say, I'm surprised. When you called, I assumed you needed help with some corporate warfare or perhaps that romantic entanglement with your son's teacher the papers keep speculating about." He leaned back, studying me with amusement. "I never imagined you'd be interested in revisiting ancient history. Six years is a long time to suddenly develop curiosity about what I'd consider... a minor transaction."

I felt my jaw clench. "Minor transaction? You arranged for someone to purchase a woman—to forge marriage documents without the groom even being present. That's what you call minor?"

Walsh's smile widened as he lifted his glass. "Careful now, Orion. Let's not rewrite history. Your grandfather was the architect of that particular arrangement. I merely... facilitated the paperwork. Are you really going to sit there and question my ethics after all this time?"

I took a steadying breath. He was right, and we both knew it. "I'm not here to assign blame. I need information. The woman from six years ago—what was her name?"

Walsh took a long sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. "Six years ago... by all rights, I should have forgotten the details of such an old case. But that woman..." He paused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "There was something about her eyes when she signed those papers. Such defiance, such... dignity in defeat. The way she held her chin up even as her world crumbled around her. I remember thinking she was the type who would never let life bury her completely."

He set down his glass with deliberate care. "Aveline Hartwell. Though I understand she was adopted, so that might not be her birth name. I never did learn what her original surname was."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Even though I'd already been certain, hearing her exact name spoken aloud still felt like a punch to the gut.

"Tell me more," I managed, reaching for my own glass with unsteady hands.

"Not much more to tell. She was young, desperate—her adoptive family was in serious financial trouble, from what I gathered. The kind of debt that destroys lives." Walsh studied my expression with professional interest. "The transaction was handled quickly, efficiently. She signed, we processed the paperwork, and that was that."

"And then?"

"Then you had me deliver your message, of course." Walsh's tone remained casual, but I caught the hint of judgment in his voice. "Though I must say, even for someone in my profession, it felt unnecessarily cruel."

My blood ran cold. "What message?"

"Surely you remember? You were quite specific about the wording. You said, and I quote: 'Tell her she'll never meet Mr. Sterling—he finds the whole concept rather... beneath him.'"

The whiskey turned to acid in my mouth. I stared at Walsh, horrified. "I said that? I mean, I remember complaining to my grandfather about the whole arrangement, but I never thought..."

"Word for word. You were quite insistent that she understand her place in all this." Walsh tilted his head, genuine curiosity replacing his earlier amusement. "Don't tell me you've forgotten? You were quite ill at the time, I remember. Something about experimental treatments..."

I was ill. Desperately, hopelessly ill, pumped full of drugs and radiation, barely human most days. But that was no excuse—no excuse for the cruelty of those words, for the message that must have crushed whatever dignity she'd managed to preserve.

I drained my glass in one burning gulp, then immediately signaled for another.

"Well," Walsh continued, clearly enjoying my discomfort, "I delivered your message, she nodded once—didn't cry, didn't rage, just... nodded—and that was the last I saw of her. Efficient, clean, forgotten." He paused. "Or so I thought."

I stared up at the tin ceiling, trying to process everything. Aveline's reluctance to talk about her family suddenly made perfect sense. She might still be searching for her biological parents—the Reeves, most likely—while carrying the burden of what her adoptive family had done to her. What I had done to her.

"You're drinking rather heavily for someone just asking casual questions," Walsh observed. "Having second thoughts about how you handled things?"

Second thoughts. As if the guilt crushing my chest could be dismissed so easily.

"I need you to do something for me," I said finally, setting down my empty glass and meeting his eyes. "Find her biological parents. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs—I want them found."

Walsh raised an eyebrow, then stood up, straightening his expensive jacket. "I have to admit, Orion, I never expected you to develop such... profound feelings for a wife you'd never met. But I'll handle it. Consider it done."

He paused at the edge of the booth, that calculating smile returning. "It's been illuminating catching up with you. Until next time."