The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 125

Aveline

The Porsche 911 purred beneath me like a satisfied cat as I navigated through Manhattan's evening traffic. I'd lowered the windows despite the cool air, letting the city's energy wash over me as the engine's throaty growl announced my presence to every pedestrian and driver I passed.

At a red light, I caught the envious stares of other drivers, the appreciative glances from pedestrians on the sidewalk. But what filled me with the most satisfaction wasn't the car or the attention—it was the memory of Orion's face when I'd calmly diagnosed his effect on me as a medical condition.

*Touch starvation syndrome.* I almost laughed out loud remembering how his smug confidence had deflated like a punctured balloon when I'd reduced him to a "male specimen." Sometimes the most powerful thing you could do was simply tell the truth—or at least a version of it that left everyone else scrambling to catch up.

The light turned green, and I pressed the accelerator, feeling the car respond with eager precision. This was what freedom felt like. Not just the luxury vehicle, but the power that came from refusing to play by other people's rules.

By the time I pulled into our driveway, I was in the best mood I'd been in for weeks.

That feeling lasted exactly thirty seconds.

The moment I stepped through our front door, the atmosphere hit me like a wall of tension. Richard and Monica were sitting in the living room, and the warm, fake smiles they'd been wearing for the past few days had completely vanished. Instead, they gave me the kind of cold, dismissive nods they used to reserve for me before Vivian's pregnancy had forced them to play nice.

I almost smiled. Yesterday's car distribution had clearly exhausted their patience for pretending to like me.

"Aveline, sweetheart!" Grandma Eleanor's voice cut through the gloom like sunshine. She appeared in the hallway, her face lighting up with genuine joy at the sight of me. "You're home! Come, let's go to my room. I've made something special for dinner."

She started to guide me toward her private sitting area, but Richard's voice stopped us.

"Actually, Mom, we're all eating together tonight. Family dinner." His tone carried just enough authority to make it sound like a command rather than a suggestion. "Like the old days."

I caught the meaningful look he exchanged with Monica. Whatever they were planning, they needed an audience for it.

"Of course," I said pleasantly. "How lovely."

The dining table had been set with our everyday dishes and what could charitably be called a meal. A bowl of wilted lettuce with a few sad cherry tomatoes, some grilled chicken that looked like it had been cooked until all flavor had been surgically removed, and plain steamed vegetables that hadn't seen seasoning in their entire existence.

It was aggressively modest food—the kind of meal designed to make a point.

"I know it's not much," Monica said as I took my seat, her voice dripping with false apologetic tones. "But with the economy being so difficult these days, we have to be careful with every penny."

"Of course, you probably wouldn't understand," Richard added with a pointed look at me. "Not everyone can just snap their fingers and have luxury cars delivered to their doorstep."

Before I could respond, Grandma Eleanor held up a hand.

"Just wait here for a moment, darling," she said to me, her voice warm but with an edge that suggested she'd heard quite enough. "I'll be right back."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone at the table with Richard, Monica, and a freshly emerged Vivian, who had positioned herself carefully to display her small bump.

A few minutes later, Grandma Eleanor returned carrying an elegant tray that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant. Truffle-scented soup in a delicate porcelain bowl, perfectly prepared sea bass with lemon butter sauce, roasted vegetables that actually looked appetizing, and what appeared to be a individual chocolate tart for dessert.

She set the entire feast in front of me with obvious pride.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "Now that's a proper dinner."

Vivian's eyes went wide, practically glowing with hunger and envy as she stared at the gourmet spread.

"Oh wow, Grandma Eleanor!" she said with exaggerated enthusiasm. "This looks incredible! Are we all sharing? I mean, there's so much food, and it smells absolutely divine!"

She started to reach across the table toward my plate, but Grandma Eleanor's voice stopped her cold.

"I'm afraid not, dear," she said with icy politeness. "You're pregnant. All that rich sauce and truffle oil isn't good for expectant mothers. Too much sodium and fat. You should stick to simple, plain foods for the baby's sake."

The rejection was delivered with such clinical authority that Vivian couldn't argue without seeming to care more about gourmet food than her unborn child's health.

I watched Vivian's face cycle through emotions—confusion, disappointment, and finally barely suppressed rage. Her hand tightened around her fork until her knuckles went white, and she began stabbing at her sad salad with unnecessary violence.

The message was crystal clear: we might all be sitting at the same table, but we were definitely not sharing the same meal. The boundary couldn't have been more obvious if Grandma Eleanor had drawn a line down the middle of the table with chalk.

"This is delicious, Grandma," I said, taking a appreciative bite of the sea bass. "You really outdid yourself."

The contrast was devastating. While I enjoyed what was essentially a private restaurant experience, the rest of the family picked at their institutional-quality dinner in tense silence.

After several minutes of watching Vivian glower at my plate while mechanically chewing lettuce, Richard finally cleared his throat.

"Mom," he began, his voice taking on the careful tone of someone preparing to deliver bad news. "I need to talk to you about something important. About the company."

Grandma Eleanor continued eating her simple salad with dignified composure. "What about it, Richard?"

"It's in trouble, Mom. Serious trouble." He launched into what was clearly a prepared speech about market downturns, lost clients, and cash flow problems. Every word was crafted to paint himself as a victim of circumstances beyond his control.

I found myself fighting back a smile. The company Richard was describing as his life's work had actually been built from nothing by my grandmother and her late husband. Under their management, it had thrived for decades. The fact that Richard had managed to run it into the ground in just a few years was almost impressive in its incompetence.

"Richard's been working so hard," Monica chimed in, dabbing at completely dry eyes with her napkin. "He barely sleeps anymore, he's so worried about saving everyone's jobs."

"The thing is, Mom," Richard continued, building toward his climax, "there might be a way to save it. But it would require... some difficult decisions."

Here it comes, I thought.

"If you could transfer some of your original stock shares to me—just temporarily, as collateral for a emergency loan—we could keep the doors open. Otherwise..." He spread his hands helplessly. "We're looking at bankruptcy by next month."