The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 6

Aveline

"Dr. Reeves? Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

I forced my expression back to neutral professionalism. "I'm fine. Just reviewing the case details. This level of withdrawal in a child this young—it's concerning."

"Exactly why we need someone with your expertise," Foster said, clearly pleased with my assessment. "The father is... well, let's just say he's someone you absolutely do not want to cross. Very powerful family, very dangerous when provoked."

I stared down at the photo again, noting how the emergency contact was listed as "Bryce Blackwell (Grandfather)." The mother's information was completely blank—not even "deceased," just... nothing.

"What's the family situation like?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

Foster's expression grew conspirative, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "No one knows, really. It's the most forbidden topic in Manhattan social circles. The child just... appeared about five years ago. No pregnancy announcements, no mother in sight, no explanation. Some people whisper that he's adopted, others think there was a surrogate arrangement gone wrong. There are even rumors that he's not Orion's biological child at all."

She leaned closer, clearly relishing the gossip despite her obvious fear. "But here's the thing—anyone who's ever tried to investigate or even speculate too openly about it has faced... consequences. Business deals fall through, social invitations dry up, careers mysteriously stall. The Blackwell family doesn't just have money, Dr. Reeves. They have the kind of power that can make people disappear from society entirely."

A chill ran down my spine. "And the child's mother?"

"Complete mystery. No death certificate, no divorce records, no trace of her existence whatsoever. It's like she was erased from history. The only thing anyone knows for certain is that if you value your livelihood, you don't ask questions about Ryan Blackwell's origins."

I looked down at the photo again—at those serious dark eyes and that too-mature expression. "Regardless of who his mother was or what happened to her, any child who's lost a parent deserves compassion. Loss like that leaves scars, especially at such a young age."

Foster's expression softened with genuine admiration. "You know, Dr. Reeves, we really found the right person for this job. You're so young, yet you have such deep empathy for these children. That kind of understanding can't be taught."

I gave her a smile that felt more bitter than sweet. "How could I not have empathy for children?"

The words came out quieter than I'd intended. Because I knew exactly what it felt like to lose something precious, to have a tiny life slip away before it had even really begun. The memory surfaced unbidden—Zurich, many years ago. The brief, reckless affair that had ended in heartbreak and loss. The tiny life that had flickered out at twelve weeks, taking a piece of my heart with it.

Maybe that's why cases like this always affected me so deeply. Why I could look at a motherless child and feel that familiar ache in my chest, the echo of my own loss.

"I'd like to meet him," I said, closing the file. "When can we arrange an introduction?"

"As I mentioned, some exceptional children require exceptional care," Foster said, leaning back in her chair. "His father specifically requested that we send our very best therapist for one-on-one guidance. That's why we'll be arranging home visits for you. The child is quite resistant to new environments, and frankly, Mr. Blackwell isn't the type of man you keep waiting."

We spent another ten minutes discussing logistics and treatment approaches, and by the time I left Foster's office, I'd almost convinced myself I could handle this professionally.

Until I walked past the faculty lounge.

Catherine Mills was there, having apparently recovered from her earlier humiliation. She was holding court with a small group of teachers, her voice carrying clearly into the hallway.

"—well, well, look who's already snagged the most lucrative family in Manhattan. Quite the strategic move for someone who just arrived."

"Very clever," another teacher chimed in. "First day and she's already got the Blackwell account. That's got to be worth what, a hundred thousand in private consultation fees?"

I paused in the doorway, letting my presence register gradually.

"Oh, Dr. Reeves," Catherine said with saccharine sweetness, not missing a beat. "We were just admiring your... business acumen. Managing to secure the Blackwell family on your very first day. How fortunate."

"I'm sorry," I said, genuinely confused. "I don't understand what you mean by 'securing' anyone. I was assigned a case based on professional need."

Catherine exchanged glances with her colleagues, barely suppressing a laugh. "Oh, you sweet, naive thing. You really don't know who the Blackwells are, do you?"

"Should I?" I replied evenly. "I don't make treatment decisions based on a family's financial status."

This time Catherine did laugh, a sharp, incredulous sound. "Ladies, she doesn't know. Our dear colleague doesn't realize she's just been handed the golden ticket."

One of the other teachers leaned forward eagerly. "The Blackwell empire controls virtually every industry you can think of—electronics, finance, pharmaceuticals, chemicals. They have operations spanning the globe."

"There's a saying in this city," Catherine continued with relish, "that from the moment you're born until the day you die, you're touching something the Blackwells own. The phone in your pocket, the computer you work on, the medicine you take—it all traces back to them somehow."

Another teacher nodded enthusiastically. "They're not just wealthy, Dr. Reeves. They're practically an economic dynasty. One family controlling that much power... it's almost frightening."

"And you," Catherine's eyes glittered with malice, "just got access to the heir apparent's child. How convenient for someone looking to climb the social ladder."

I felt my professional smile turn razor-sharp. "I see. So your interest in child psychology suddenly makes more sense. You're not here to teach—you're here to network with wealthy parents. That explains the... aspirational accessories."

My gaze dropped meaningfully to Catherine's ring.

"Excuse me?" Catherine's voice rose an octave.

"Well, it's understandable," I continued conversationally. "When your goal is impressing billionaires, you'd want to look the part. Even if it means wearing imitation jewelry and hoping no one notices."

Catherine flushed red, her hand instinctively covering the ring. "This is a family heirloom! A genuine Art Deco piece passed down from my grandmother!"

"Is it?" I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a professional, analytical tone. "Because the gold alloy is clearly modern—you can tell by the way it catches the light. And that emerald..." I tilted my head, studying it with the eye of someone who'd spent years perfecting such designs. "Natural emeralds of that size would have inclusions visible to the naked eye. That stone is flawless, which means it's either synthetic or glass."

The other teachers were staring now, the tension in the room palpable.

"The setting technique is also wrong for the period," I continued relentlessly. "1920s Art Deco used entirely different prong work. This is machine-made, probably within the last five years. A very good reproduction, I'll grant you, but definitely not authentic."

Catherine's face had gone from red to white, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"But as I said," I finished with a gentle smile, "it's lovely. Very... aspirational."