The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 13

Orion

My assistant appeared instantly, looking uncharacteristically pleased with himself. "Good afternoon, sir. I took the liberty of having the gifts delivered so you'd have time to make your selection."

"Selection for what?" I demanded. "I told you to prepare something for Dr. Reeves, not raid every luxury store in Manhattan!"

"Actually," came a familiar voice from behind me, "that would be my doing."

I turned to see my grandfather stroll into the office like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. But Bryce Blackwell looked nothing like a sixty-five-year-old patriarch of a business dynasty. He was wearing a burgundy velvet blazer over dark jeans, a silk scarf knotted at his throat, and enough cologne to announce his presence from three floors away. His silver hair was styled in a way that suggested he spent more time at the salon than most women, and his tan spoke of recent time on some Mediterranean yacht.

He looked like an aging rock star, not the grandfather of a Fortune 500 CEO.

"Grandfather," I said through gritted teeth. "What are you doing here?"

"Marcus called me when he realized he had no idea what women actually like," Bryce said with obvious amusement, settling into one of my leather chairs like he was holding court. "So naturally, I stepped in to educate you both. Consider it a public service."

"I didn't ask for—"

"Now, now," he waved a ring-adorned hand dismissively. "I know you're still hung up on this divorce business with that mystery wife of yours. And honestly, if you want to end that arrangement, I won't stop you. But—" He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I still believe she was your lucky charm. Married her, and boom! Your illness disappeared. Can't argue with results."

I felt my eye twitch. "That was medical treatment, not mystical intervention."

"Semantics." Bryce stood and began examining the gifts with obvious pride. "Speaking of which, I'm hosting my sixty-fifth birthday celebration in two weeks, and I'm planning to invite someone very special."

"Ryan's teacher?" I asked, though something in his tone suggested otherwise.

"Oh, you're interested in the teacher?" Bryce's eyes lit up with mischief. "Well then, we absolutely must invite her too! But actually, I was referring to your wife."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Don't bother. Hell, I don't even know her first name—just that she's a Hartwell. She's a complete fucking stranger. Why would you want to invite someone I've never even spoken to?"

"Because," Bryce said with a gleam in his eyes, "word has it she's quite a beauty. I'll send the invitation in your name, naturally. Think of it as an opportunity to finally meet the woman you married! And with Ryan's teacher there as well..." He grinned wickedly. "You'll have two lovely ladies to choose from. Surely one of them will catch your interest."

My face darkened. "Grandfather, I really don't need you playing matchmaker—"

"Nonsense!" Bryce interrupted cheerfully, moving to the gift mountain with renewed enthusiasm. "Now, about these presents. Each one tells a story, you see. This—" He picked up the Tiffany diamond tennis bracelet with theatrical reverence. "Classic, timeless, but perhaps a bit obvious. Perfect for a woman who appreciates traditional luxury but lacks imagination."

He picked up the Tiffany tennis bracelet with mock reverence. "Classic, timeless, but boring as hell. Perfect for trophy wives and women who peaked in college. No imagination whatsoever."

Setting it aside, he lifted a silk Hermès scarf, letting it flow through his fingers like liquid smoke. "This little beauty? Pure class without the flash. Perfect for the intellectual type—professors, doctors, women who read books without pictures. Quality over bling."

Moving to the perfume collection, he selected a bottle that looked like it belonged in a museum. "And this seductive little number? For the mysterious type. The woman who wants you thinking about her long after she's gone. Very dangerous territory."

"Grandfather," I said, my patience evaporating, "don't you have a company to help run? Or at least some age-appropriate hobbies? Maybe take up golf instead of studying women like they're your PhD thesis?"

Bryce threw back his head and laughed—rich, unrepentant, completely shameless. "Age-appropriate? My boy, worrying about such tedious concepts would give me wrinkles! I must preserve this magnificent specimen." He gestured to himself with zero irony. "Besides, I have a lovely young thing waiting for me who appreciates a man with experience."

My face darkened. "You know what? This is exactly why Dad bailed. He couldn't handle the constant circus—the parties, the parade of girlfriends, the complete inability to act like an adult."

For just a moment, something flickered across Bryce's face—a shadow of old pain, quickly buried under his practiced charm. He stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, his voice growing unexpectedly soft.

"The past is what it is, kid. Your father made his choices, I made mine. We can't rewrite that script." He squeezed my shoulder once, then the showman mask slipped back into place. "Now, I really must dash—my date gets cranky when I'm late, and cranky women are nobody's friend."

With that pronouncement, he headed toward the door, pausing only to wink at me over his shoulder. "Choose wisely, grandson. A woman's heart is won through thoughtfulness, not just money."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with a desk full of extravagant gifts.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the ridiculous display.

Thirty minutes later, still sitting behind my desk like an idiot, I finally grasped the absolutely insane reality of my situation.

This was insane. I could negotiate billion-dollar mergers, orchestrate hostile takeovers, and bring entire corporations to their knees. But somehow, choosing a gift for a woman I'd never met felt more complicated than restructuring the global economy.

I picked up the Tiffany diamond tennis bracelet first. Too obvious. Any gold-digger would expect diamonds. Then the Hermès Birkin bag—did teachers even carry purses that cost more than their annual salary? It seemed almost insulting.

The silk scarf felt like liquid under my fingertips, but I had no idea if she was the type of woman who wore scarves. Did child psychologists wear scarves? What the hell did I know about child psychologists?

But the perfume collection made my head spin for entirely different reasons. Twenty different bottles with descriptions that read like wine reviews written by poets on acid. "Sultry and mysterious." "Fresh and effervescent." "Timelessly elegant."

I found myself actually reading the marketing copy, growing more irritated by the second. Who wrote this nonsense? "A fragrance that captures the essence of a woman's deepest desires"—what the fuck did that even mean?

This was exactly why I avoided dating. Too many variables, too many ways to fuck it up, too much guesswork masquerading as romance.

I was about to tell Marcus to just pick something at random when I accidentally knocked over a box, sending a slender bottle rolling across my desk.

Chanel "Jardin de Roses" - Limited Edition.

I caught it before it hit the floor, and without thinking, I read the description: "The essence of a rose garden after morning rain, capturing the delicate beauty of dewdrops on petals and the fresh earth awakening to sunshine."

Ryan's words from yesterday hit me like a punch to the gut: "She smells like roses... like the garden after it rains."

Well, this couldn't possibly go wrong. I trusted my son's judgment more than any marketing department's.

I selected the perfume and buzzed Marcus. "Clear the rest of this away. And Marcus? Next time my grandfather decides to educate me about women, remind him I have a company to run."