The Billionaire's Hidden Heiress

Ayla's POV

The ceiling above my bed was stained yellow with time, like it had soaked in every sleepless night I'd spent staring at it. Each night, the fan generated random sound patterns which never synced with my excessive thinking processes as the floorboards warned me through creaks that facing another day wouldn't be less challenging than previous attempts.

In the one-bedroom apartment I shared with the convenience store below, the air became bitter from burnt coffee, which matched the store's desperation. Nighttime wind entered through the faulty window opening, further exposing my inadequate blanket coverage. But I couldn't afford better. No matter the arrival of regular bills, the fridge made more noise than its limited contents.

I brushed off a shiver by hugging my arms, and then I looked at the envelope sitting on the counter. The final notice stared at me through bold red print, which seemed to enjoy saying you're out of time cruelly.

I wasn't surprised. My mother had barely held things together before cancer took her last breath-and every dime we had. After that, the hospital bills came. Then the landlord's warnings. Then the realization that the family name I carried had never opened a door-it had only raised questions. Questions she refused to answer.

That's when I found the photo.

It was tucked inside an old jewelry box I almost threw away-a black-and-white picture of my mother, young and laughing, in the arms of a man I'd never seen before. But the way he looked at her, and the date scribbled on the back-just months before I was born-set off a storm in my chest.

I flipped the photo over so many times that the paper wore thin.

Throughout my life, she kept my father's identity secret. Whenever I inquired about my father, she stopped speaking before redirecting the conversation. She would conceal knowledge about my father because she wanted to protect me from a force surpassing my understanding. Since her death, the emptiness between my ears proved too heavy for me to bear.

I needed answers. And I needed money.

So I did what people like me always did when we were running out of options: I took the first job I could find.

The agency called it a "domestic position." The pay was decent, but the requirements were odd. Discretion. Live-in preferred. No questions. No visitors. A single name on the listing caught my attention: Blackwood Estate.

I froze. That name wasn't just on the envelope. It was scrawled in ink on the back of that photo. Dominic Blackwood.

Coincidence? Maybe. But it didn't feel like one.

I clicked on the listing and filled out the application before I could second-guess myself. I used my real name. My real address. For the first time, I wanted to be found-wanted someone to notice me, to recognize what even my mother never said aloud.

I didn't sleep that night.

Instead, I lay in bed thinking about the man in the photo. His expensive watch. The way he looked at my mother like she was the entire room. If he really was who I suspected-if he was my father-why had he left? Why had he let us scrape by in the cracks of a city he probably owned half of?

And what would I do if I walked into his world, and he didn't even remember her name?

The next morning, the agency called me back.

"You're hired," the woman said, her voice clipped and cold. "Report to the estate tomorrow at 7:00 AM. Be early."

No interview. No paperwork. Just instructions.

My stomach twisted.

I spent the last of my grocery money on a secondhand pair of flats and a navy blouse that looked almost professional. I couldn't afford luggage, so I packed my things into an old duffel bag, zipped it until the fabric strained, and stood by the bus stop like I belonged to a better story.

While I waited, I thought about the last time I saw my mother smile. We were watching a rerun of some drama she liked-one with forbidden love and powerful men who thought money could buy everything. "Life doesn't work like the movies," she said, her voice raspy with exhaustion. "But sometimes... sometimes it comes close."

I didn't know what she meant then. I'm not even sure I do now.

As the city rolled past the window, I pressed the photo between my fingers and whispered a promise to her memory.

I'm going to find him. And I'm going to make him see me.