The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 12

Orion

I woke up early the next morning, earlier than usual, but for the first time in months I felt genuinely rested. Last night had been the best sleep I'd had in weeks, and for good reason—I'd spent the evening on the phone with Principal Foster, ensuring that Dr. Reeves would be assigned as Ryan's exclusive long-term teacher. We'd arranged for her to visit this morning at nine.

And the more I thought about this teacher, the more I wanted to understand what made her so effective. Perhaps she could help me bridge the gap that had somehow grown between my son and me over the years.

Today would be different—I would be there to greet her personally, hoping to learn from the woman who'd given my son something I'd been unable to provide: pure, uncomplicated joy. The decision had been firm in my mind from dawn.

I picked up my phone and called Marcus.

"Marcus," I said when my assistant picked up on the first ring. "Clear my morning schedule. I'll be in the office after lunch."

"Sir? Is everything alright? You have the Morrison meeting at nine, and the Shanghai conference call at—"

"Reschedule it all." I was already heading toward Ryan's room, anticipation thrumming through my veins. "Family matter. And Marcus? That gift situation we discussed—put some effort into it. No budget constraints."

After I hung up, I took extra care getting ready. Freshly pressed shirt, tie that wasn't strictly necessary for a day at home, cologne that Ryan always said smelled "nice like Daddy should." If this Dr. Reeves was important enough to transform my son overnight, she deserved to meet us at our best.

I knocked on Ryan's door but got no response. "Ryan? Are you awake?"

Silence.

I tried the handle—locked. Of course. This was more typical behavior from my son.

"Ryan, it's Daddy. Can you open the door?"

"Go away," came the muffled reply from inside. "I'm not hungry and I don't want to do lessons."

I sighed, leaning against the doorframe. This was the Ryan I was used to—the one who shut everyone out, even me.

"I'm not here about lessons, buddy. I wanted to ask if you'd like to get dressed up today. Dr. Reeves is coming to visit."

The silence that followed was different—expectant rather than dismissive. Then I heard the soft patter of bare feet on hardwood, and the lock clicked open.

Ryan's face appeared in the gap, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles, but his eyes suddenly bright and alert.

"Really? Miss Aveline is coming today?"

"That's right. Want to look our best for her?"

For the next hour, we went through the unusual ritual of getting ready together. Ryan chose his favorite navy blazer—the one that made him look like a miniature businessman—while I helped him comb his hair. He chattered more than I'd heard him speak in months, telling me about "music conversations" and how Dr. Reeves understood that some piano keys had feelings.

By eight o'clock, we were both impeccably dressed and sitting side by side on the main living room sofa, two figures in matching navy blazers waiting with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for Christmas morning.

I'd never done anything like this before—deliberately clearing my schedule to wait for someone, sitting quietly with my son without the distraction of work. But there was something oddly peaceful about it.

Ryan sat close enough that our shoulders almost touched, and for once, he didn't seem uncomfortable with my proximity. If anything, he seemed to draw comfort from it.

"She'll be here soon," he said quietly, swinging his legs from the sofa.

"She will," I agreed, though I found myself checking my watch more frequently than necessary.

That's when Mitchell appeared from the kitchen, carrying a silver breakfast tray laden with fresh pastries, perfectly cut fruit, and what looked like eggs Benedict prepared to restaurant standards. But when he saw us sitting there in our matching blazers, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A slow grin spread across his face, then he actually started chuckling.

"Sir," he said, setting down the tray carefully. "I'm afraid I have some rather embarrassing news."

My stomach dropped. "What's wrong? Is Dr. Reeves not coming?"

Mitchell rubbed his forehead, looking genuinely apologetic. "Sir, I'm afraid Dr. Reeves just called with her apologies. She's had an unexpected personal emergency come up and needs to postpone until tomorrow morning."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I'd rearranged my entire day, gotten Ryan's hopes up, and we were sitting here waiting for someone who wasn't even supposed to arrive for twenty-four hours.

Ryan's face crumpled immediately. "Tomorrow? But I don't want to wait until tomorrow!" His voice wavered dangerously close to tears. "That's too long! That's forever!"

He slid off the sofa with the dramatic despair only a five-year-old could muster.

"I guess I'll just go play with my toys then," he said sadly, shuffling toward the stairs with his head hanging low. "Maybe the day will go faster if I'm not thinking about it."

"Of course, young master," Mitchell said gently. "I'll bring your breakfast to your room."

Ryan trudged toward the stairs, his small shoulders slumped with the weight of crushing disappointment. I watched him go, feeling like an idiot. So much for father-son bonding over our shared anticipation.

"I'll... I'll head to the office then," I muttered, already loosening my tie.

By the time I arrived at Blackwell Industries' Manhattan headquarters, my mood had soured considerably. The forty-story glass and steel tower gleamed in the morning sunlight, its imposing facade reflecting my empire back at me. The lobby was all marble and chrome, with the Blackwell logo etched in gold behind the reception desk.

Employees scattered like startled birds when they saw me stride through the lobby, their heads bowing in respectful acknowledgment before they hurried away. Usually, their deference gave me satisfaction. Today, it just felt empty.

But as I waited for the private elevator to the executive floors, I noticed something odd. Groups of female employees were clustered around the reception desk and by the coffee station, their voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers when they spotted me.

"—who do you think she is?"

"—never seen him send flowers before—"

"—must be someone really special—"

"—finally found someone who caught his attention—"

I caught fragments of their conversation, and my jaw tightened. Word had clearly gotten out about the gift shopping, though how they'd connected it to a woman was beyond me.

"—lucky girl, whoever she is—"

"—about time our CEO figured out there's more to life than quarterly reports—"

By the time I reached my office, their barely contained amusement and speculation had begun to grate on my nerves seriously.

I pushed through the double doors to my corner office and stopped dead.

My desk—my massive mahogany desk that usually held only my computer, a few important documents, and a crystal paperweight—was completely buried under an avalanche of gift boxes. Tiffany blue boxes, Cartier red leather cases, Hermès orange packages, and what looked like enough designer shopping bags to stock a small boutique.

"Marcus!" I bellowed.