The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 7

Aveline

The next morning, I arrived at the designated address exactly on time, prepared for what I assumed would be another affluent Manhattan residence. After all, I'd seen my share of wealth during my years abroad—Swiss chalets worth millions, Parisian penthouses that housed European aristocracy, Geneva estates that had belonged to banking dynasties for centuries.

But nothing had prepared me for this.

The Blackwell estate sprawled across what had to be twenty-five acres of prime Manhattan real estate, a feat that seemed almost impossible in a city where square footage cost more than most people's annual salaries. As my taxi wound through the private drive, past manicured gardens and pristine lawns, I found myself calculating the astronomical value of this single piece of property.

This wasn't just wealth. This was generational power.

The main house rose before us like something transplanted from an English countryside manor—all stone facades, towering windows, and architectural details that spoke of centuries-old craftsmanship. Every element was perfectly maintained, from the ivy climbing the walls in precise patterns to the fountain that dominated the circular drive.

But rather than feeling intimidated, I felt the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. A family with this much influence didn't just impact their own lives—they shaped society. Their choices rippled outward, affecting thousands of employees, millions of customers, entire economic systems.

Which meant the child I was here to help wasn't just any troubled five-year-old. He was the future steward of an empire. Every lesson I taught him, every value I helped instill, every trauma I helped him heal—it all mattered on a scale I'd never encountered before.

I had to get this right.

A man who appeared to be in his fifties stood by the main entrance, his silver hair perfectly styled and his uniform pressed to perfection. He held himself with perfect posture, spine straight as a soldier's, but his face was surprisingly gentle and kind. You could tell he had been a heartbreaker in his younger days—those fine bone structure and warm eyes were the kind that aged gracefully into distinguished elegance.

"Dr. Reeves, I presume?" His accent was crisp, distinctly British. "I'm Mitchell Gates, the family's estate manager. Master Ryan is having his music lesson upstairs."

"Thank you, Mr. Gates. I appreciate you accommodating the home visit."

He led me through an entrance hall that could have housed my entire apartment. Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, and oil paintings in gilt frames lined the walls.

"Second floor, fifth door on the left," Mitchell said as we reached the grand staircase. "I'll prepare some refreshments and join you shortly."

As I climbed the stairs alone, the sound of piano music drifted down from above. Someone was playing scales, the notes crisp and technically perfect but somehow mechanical. Then a small voice joined in—a boy's voice, pure and sweet, singing along to the melody.

But as I reached the second floor landing, the piano stopped abruptly, and a woman's voice cut through the sudden silence like a blade.

"No, no, no! Ryan, you're completely tone-deaf! How can someone with Blackwell blood be so utterly hopeless at music?"

I walked quickly down the long hallway lined with family portraits, counting doors. The voice grew louder, more acidic as I approached the fifth door on the left.

"This is impossible! I've been trying to teach you for months, and you still sound like a dying cat! Maybe the rumors are true—maybe you really are just a mute little freak!"

My professional training kicked in. Those words—the casual cruelty, the public humiliation of a child—sent warning bells clanging through my mind.

"Perhaps if you practiced more instead of sitting there like a statue—"

I quickened my pace, anger coursing through me. Any moment now I'd hear a child crying, or pleading, or trying to defend himself.

But there was only silence.

"You know what your problem is, Ryan? You're broken. Just like your—" She paused, and I could hear the malice crystallizing in her voice. "Just like your mother. No wonder she couldn't stick around. Who could love a defective child like you?"

That was enough.

I pushed the door open and entered the room, taking in the scene at a glance. A woman in her late twenties stood over a small figure seated at a grand piano, her face twisted with frustration and spite. She was conventionally pretty in an overdone way—too much makeup, too much perfume, a dress more suited to a cocktail party than a music lesson. Everything about her screamed "trying too hard."

But it was the child who captured my attention.

Ryan Blackwell was heartbreakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly fragile. Tall for his five years and almost ethereally thin, with the kind of delicate bone structure that suggested he'd grow into a striking man someday. His dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, partially obscuring eyes that were the deepest brown I'd ever seen—old eyes, wise eyes, eyes that held far too much pain for someone so young.

He sat perfectly still on the piano bench, his small hands folded in his lap, showing no reaction to the venom being spewed at him. But I could see the tension in his narrow shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched tight, the careful blankness of his expression that screamed of practiced self-protection.

This wasn't a defiant child or a bratty rich kid. This was a little boy who'd learned that the safest response to cruelty was absolute stillness.

"Miss Hart, I presume?" I said, my voice cutting through her tirade with professional authority.

She spun around, her carefully styled blonde hair swinging dramatically. Up close, she was even more artificial—foundation thick enough to hide any genuine emotion, lipstick so bright it was almost aggressive, and enough perfume to choke a horse. She looked like she was dressed for a photo shoot, not a children's lesson.

"And you are?" Her tone was haughty, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

"Dr. Aveline Reeves, Ryan's new teacher." I stepped further into the room, positioning myself between her and the boy. "I couldn't help but overhear your... teaching methods."

Her laugh was sharp and brittle. "Oh, the famous Dr. Reeves. Yes, I heard Arlington Academy hired someone new. Though I have to say, you look rather young to be handling a case this... complex."

"I find age is less important than competence," I replied evenly. "And from what I just witnessed, competence seems to be in short supply in this room."

Miss Hart's eyes flashed dangerously. "Excuse me? Do you have any idea who you're speaking to? I am Melody Hart of the Hart family. My father is Deputy Commissioner of the City Planning Department, and my uncle sits on the Education Board. I don't appreciate being lectured by some nobody with a fresh degree.