Chapter One
Secret Baby For My Billionaire Enemy
Victoria
I don't fucking belong here.
The Beaumont mansion looms over me, ceilings high enough to hang clouds, marble floors polished until I can see my scowl, chandeliers glittering in the afternoon sun. Every corner smells faintly of lemon polish and cold money. It’s beautiful, but it’s not warm.
I really don't belong here.
I sit on the edge of the velvet settee, laptop balanced on my knees, while Richard and Catherine perform the ritual dissection of their disappointing daughter.
Across from me, my father flips through papers that don’t matter; he only ever reads financial pages, even though he's the CEO of a fashion company. My mother has her half-full teacup balanced, lips pursed into a pout.
We’re English, so teatime goes without saying.
Declan’s laughter drifts from upstairs. I cling to the sound.
“Why are you smiling?” Mum’s voice slices through my thoughts.
I snap the laptop half shut. “Business milestone.”
She arches a brow. “How quaint.”
Richard Beaumont frowns at his newspaper as though it’s offended him. He always does that, like there’s nothing good in any of the papers he reads. His cufflinks catch the light, matching the frost in his eyes. “Your… what was it? Cybersecurity venture?” He says the words like he’s describing mildew.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I finally got my business license.”
He grunts. “A hobby, then.”
“It’s a company,” I correct.
Mum leans forward in her ivory suit, diamonds winking from her wrist. Her perfume is sharp, floral, suffocating; it fills my lungs. “Darling, you’ve had a few years to stop playing pretend. We’ve tolerated the… situation, but the time has come to restore dignity.”
“I—”
“You’ll be twenty-eight years old tomorrow, Victoria,” my mother says, her blue eyes eerily like mine staring at me in disappointment.
“You mean we are?” I ask, glancing at Valerie, who is seated in the corner, working on design mockups.
It’s our birthday tomorrow. My twin sister doesn't seem particularly interested in our conversation. Nowadays, all she does is work. I guess it comes with the title of being COO of the Beaumont empire.
“You are turning twenty-eight and you have nothing to show for yourself,” mother says, hissing.
“I have him.” I shrug.
Her eyes narrow. My father doesn’t look up. “Your boy,” he says, turning a page.
My nails dig crescents into my palms. They never even call him by his name. Always boy. Always a problem.
“Declan,” I say. “His name is Declan.”
“Declan, with no last name we know of,” my father replies flatly. “The family brand is built on decency, for Christ’s sake. We’re in business with the catholic church, and our daughter is what? Out frolicking?”
The air is so heavy I can taste it, bitter as their tea. Valerie shifts on the settee, her blonde hair, which she had just recently dyed, shining, her voice soft enough to pass for sympathy.
“Maybe we should ease off,” Val says. “Victoria’s trying, Daddy.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Val. Nothing says support like that condescending tone of yours.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t fight back. Of course not. She never does. That’s why they adore her.
She's their perfect daughter and I’m… Well, I’m me.
Mother sets her cup down with a quiet clink. “Lord Alistair has written again.”
“What shall I do about that, Mother?” I scowl. “How many times do I have to say—”
“Lovely letters,” she cuts in, like I don't matter. “Thoughtful gifts for the boy, too. Books, toys. A man eager to step into his role.”
Role. Like marriage is a damn casting call.
“He’s not stepping into anything of mine,” I say.
“You need redemption,” Father says, still staring at the paper. “Marriage to Alistair restores your name. His interest in the boy is… generous.”
Generous. Like Declan is some charity case.
I grip the armrest until the velvet burns my palm. “Generous is not grooming my son with presents. Generous is letting me live without choking me every time I walk in here. Hell’s sake, mother!”
Mother’s voice sharpens. “You have no life. A side business in computers? Without this family, you’d be nothing.”
“You already think I’m nothing! Why don’t you hassle Val about a husband? We’re the same age!”
“Val isn’t the one with a bastard under our roof!” Mom exclaims.
The silence cracks. Even the clock on the mantel seems to hold its breath.
Father finally folds his paper, his gaze settling on me. “Five years, Victoria. For five years, we’ve asked the same question. Who is the boy’s father?”
My throat tightens, but my voice stays steady. “I don’t know.”
It’s a lie. One I’ve worn so long it almost feels true. Almost.
Valerie’s hands twist in her lap. “She doesn’t, mother.”
“Quiet,” Mother snaps. “You coddle her.”
“Don’t,” I warn quietly. “Don’t try to smooth this over.”
Valerie looks at me, a scowl forming. “I’m just saying—”
“No,” I cut in. “I don’t need your help, Val. You do what they want you to do, don’t act like you’re on my side now.”
Mum leans back, satisfied. “At least one of my daughters understands the importance of appearances.”
That makes me madder. Valerie’s eyes flick away, shame or guilt, I can’t tell which.
The rest blurs. Their voices rise and fall, threats of cutting my trust fund, whispers of ungrateful, embarrassment, and liability. I don’t wait to hear more. I grab my laptop and leave the room.
The corridor stretches long and airless. Family portraits line the walls, generations of Beaumonts glaring down, all pale, polished, and miserable. Their painted eyes follow me with accusations in them.
Upstairs, the air shifts. Softer. Warmer. The scent of lavender and crayons reaches my nose, and I appreciate it. Declan’s laughter bubbles through his door before I even touch the handle.
When I enter, he looks up from the floor, his dark curls messy, and his grey eyes bright. Freckles dot his nose. He’s cross-legged with a sketchbook sprawled open, pencils scattered like tiny soldiers.
“Mummy! Look!”
I kneel beside him. “What’s this, then?”
“Monsters,” he says proudly. “But they’re not bad. They’re just different.”
I study the page. The creatures are… strange. Elongated, elegant, and detailed with odd precision for his age. Their eyes carry an unsettlingly human look. Against my wishes, I think about him.
I don’t want to think about him.
I blink it away. “They’re brilliant, darling.”
He grins, missing a front tooth, showing. “Can I show you the next one?”
“Always.”
He flips the page, breathless with excitement. For a few minutes, I forget the world downstairs. It’s just him and me and the sound of pencils against paper.
Then he coughs. Once, twice. His small chest shudders.
Panic cuts through me. “Hey, hey, slow down.” I grab the inhaler from the bedside table. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Take it slow.”
He obeys, eyes wide, trusting. The hiss of medicine fills the air. Slowly, his breathing steadies. My own doesn’t.
I pull him into my arms. His little heart thuds fast against mine. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he whispers.
I kiss the top of his head. “Don’t ever be sorry for needing help.”
He nods, sleepy now, curling into me. I glance at his sketchbook again. The monsters stare back, familiar, wrong, beautiful.
I know exactly who they remind me of. And I can’t let my parents ever see them.
Later, when Declan’s asleep, my parents retire to their wing, and the mansion quiets into its usual ghostly silence, I find Valerie in the small parlor, curled on the sofa with a glass of white wine and smoke curling from her lips. The fire throws gold across her face.
“I thought you gave it up?” I say.
Valerie glances at me, the cigarette between her long fingers. “What, this?”
“You know how much mother hates it.” I pout, knowing I hate it too. “She’d throw a fit if she saw you smoking in her parlor.”
“They see what they want to see.” Valerie blows rings of smoke like an experienced smoker. “That’s the difference between you and me, Vic.”
“What?”
“You don’t know how to hide the parts of you they don’t want to see.”
I stare at my sister. She’s the most confident person I know. Valerie could walk into the room with the Queen of England present and still think she was God’s gift to humanity.
I hate how much I liked that about her.
“I will not apologize for being honest.”
“I never asked you to.” She shrugs. “You handled them well,” she says softly.
“Handled?” I drop into the opposite chair. “They’re not a public relations issue.”
“They may as well be.” Her lips twitch, laughter dying before it even formed. “You were impressive. Scary, even.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
She sighs. “Look, you can’t keep fighting forever, Vic.”
“Watch me.”
A beat passes. She studies me with those blue eyes we share. “You know, the LA branch of Beaumont Couture opens next month. I’m going to manage the launch. You could come.”
I blink. “Since when?”
“Since when what?”
“Since when have we been opening a branch in LA?”
“Since yesterday. I was going to tell you—”
“No, you weren’t. You never do. You guys never tell me anything.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I lean back, crossing my arms. “You’re the golden twin. They tell you everything. You get the perfect assignments, dinners, and praise.”
“Christ, Vic.” She rubs her temple. “You make it sound like I asked for any of this.”
I fall silent. The fire crackles. She’s right; she didn’t ask. She just fit the mold better.
She softens. “Look. I just thought… You need a break, don’t you? A change. Come with me to LA. New city, new start.”
“New start,” I repeat quietly. “Right.”
“You’d have space to work, raise Declan, breathe. It could be good for you.”
I trace the rim of my glass. “What if we run into him?”
Valerie frowns. “Him?”
I don’t say the name. I never do. “You know who.”
“He’s in New York. Not LA. Trust me, the last thing the company wants is a run-in with them. Our mothers still hate each other’s guts after, well, you know.”
I do know. Too well.
Valerie leans forward. “Stop looking for reasons to stay stuck here. You hate this house. You hate being under them. You have a chance to start over, Vic. Take it.”
I look at her, really look. She means it. Beneath all the compliance and soft diplomacy, she wants out too; she’s just better at hiding it.
The room feels suddenly too quiet. The clock ticks. My chest tightens with a raw need to be out of here.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe running isn’t a weakness. Perhaps it’s survival.
I think of Declan asleep upstairs, his little hand clutching a pencil, monsters waiting in his sketchbook.
I stand. “All right.”
Valerie blinks. “All right?”
“I’ll go. To LA. With you.”
“Oh my God, yes!” Her relief is instant, warm. “We’re gonna have so much fun!”
I’m not so sure. But I nod anyway.
As I leave the room, the hallway stretches before me again, and those damn portraits watch, silent and smug. I meet their painted eyes and think, "You can keep your legacy.”
Upstairs, I peek into Declan’s room one last time. He’s sprawled across the bed, curls fanned out, breathing steady. The sketches lie open beside him.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell him we’re going on an adventure and leaving the cold for somewhere with light.
I close the door gently and lean against it, heart pounding.