Bound By Blood: His Unwanted Contract Bride

The wheels of the luggage cart squeaked against the polished terrazzo floor of the LAX VIP terminal. Darleen pushed it forward, her knuckles white against the handle. The smell of jet fuel and expensive perfume hung heavy in the air.

Julian walked close to her side, his small hand gripping the hem of her coat. His eyes darted around the crowd, sharp and watchful. Aria skipped between them, her pigtails bouncing.

"Stay close," Darleen said, her voice tight.

Aria ignored her. The massive crystal chandelier in the center of the hall caught the light, throwing rainbows across the floor. Aria's eyes went wide. She gasped, pointing at the sparkling fixture.

"Mommy, look! A star!"

Before Darleen could grab her, Aria yanked her hand free. She darted into the sea of arriving passengers, her little legs pumping fast.

"Aria!" Darleen shrieked.

She let go of the cart. It rolled a few feet and crashed into a pillar. Darleen shoved past a man in a tailored suit, her eyes locked on the pink pigtails disappearing into the crowd. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the sound roaring in her ears.

Aria ran straight toward the center of the hall. She didn't see the silver-tipped cane. She didn't see the polished shoes.

Thud.

Aria bounced off the solid object and landed hard on her bottom. Her face scrunched up, ready to cry. She looked up, her gaze traveling up the expensive fabric of a suit, past a watch that cost more than a house, until she met a pair of sharp, pale blue eyes.

Thurston West glared down at the child. His jaw clenched, ready to scold the careless brat who had bumped into him. But as his eyes focused on the small face staring back at him, the words died in his throat.

The breath caught in his chest. The shape of her eyes. The stubborn set of her chin. The exact shade of her hair. It was a face he hadn't seen in thirty years, not since he had last looked at a photograph of his grandson as a toddler.

Darleen burst through the crowd. She dropped to her knees, her arms wrapping around Aria so tight the little girl squeaked.

"I'm so sorry," Darleen panted, her voice shaking. She looked up at the old man, her body angled to shield her daughter. "She didn't mean to. Are you okay, baby?"

Thurston didn't hear her apology. His gaze shifted past Aria, locking onto the boy who had just run up behind Darleen.

Julian stood there, his chest heaving from the run. He didn't cry, but stared at Thurston with a watchfulness far beyond his years, his small hand clutching his mother's coat as if ready to pull her away from danger.

Crack.

Thurston's cane struck the floor. His entire body began to shake. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin papery and thin.

"Surround them," Thurston rasped.

Black suits moved in from the shadows. Within seconds, a wall of muscle and dark fabric closed around Darleen and her children. The noise of the airport faded away, replaced by the suffocating silence of the bodyguards.

Darleen shot to her feet. She pushed Julian and Aria behind her back, her hands trembling but her spine rigid. She glared at the old man, her pulse thudding in her neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the tension. "Who are you?"

Thurston ignored her questions. He leaned forward, his blue eyes burning with a feverish intensity. His voice shook as he spoke.

"Who is their father?"

Darleen felt a drop of sweat slide down her temple. She recognized him now. The West family patriarch. The most dangerous man in the room. She swallowed hard, forcing her fear down into her stomach.

"That's none of your business," she said, her tone icy. "It's my privacy."

Thurston straightened up. The shock on his face melted into absolute certainty. He didn't blink.

"Bernardo West," he said, the name echoing in the space between them. "He is their father."

Darleen's stomach dropped. The airport seemed to tilt. Flashes of that night four years ago-the storm, the heat, the confusion-blasted through her mind. Her palms grew slick with sweat.

Aria peeked out from behind Darleen's leg. She tilted her head, looking at the scary old man.

"No, he's not," Aria said, her voice clear and high-pitched. "He's the stinky king daddy."

Thurston stared at the little girl. A strange, strangled sound escaped his throat. It was almost a laugh. The child's words confirmed everything. Bernardo had been called worse by his own family.

"Bring them to the estate," Thurston ordered, pointing his cane at Darleen. "Now."

A bodyguard reached out, his thick fingers closing around Darleen's arm.

She twisted violently, ripping her arm free. She bared her teeth, her eyes flashing with a raw, vicious fury.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "Try that again, and I will scream kidnapping so loud every camera in this terminal will be on you."

Thurston saw the wildness in her eyes. He saw the protective stance, the way she was ready to fight a dozen armed men for her cubs. He held up a hand.

"Back off," he commanded.

The bodyguards stepped away, giving them a few feet of space. Thurston adjusted his grip on his cane. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by the cold calculation of a corporate raider.

"Why did you hide them for four years?" he asked, his voice hard and demanding. "Did you think we wouldn't find out?"

Darleen didn't cower. She lifted her chin, staring him down from across the gap.

"If the West family wants to claim their blood," she said, her voice ringing with defiance, "they should learn some manners first. You don't send goons to grab a mother in an airport."

Thurston's eyes narrowed. He hadn't been spoken to like that in decades. He studied her, reassessing the woman in front of him. She wasn't a scared little girl. She was a fighter.

Julian tugged on Darleen's sleeve. He looked up at Thurston and said clearly, his voice small but steady, "You look rich, but you're mean."

Darleen smoothed her son's hair. She reached into her purse, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled out a simple white business card.

She held it out to Thurston.

He took it, his brow furrowing. The card was blank. No name, no company, no address. Just a single phone number printed in black ink.

"If you prove he is the father," Darleen said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "he has to marry me."

Thurston stared at the card. He looked up at her, his mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief. He thought he had misheard.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me," Darleen said. She didn't give him a second to process it. She turned, grabbing Julian's hand so tightly her knuckles were white. She forced herself to walk, not run, each step a battle against the urge to flee. She didn't look back, terrified that if she did, the fragile courage she had summoned would shatter.

Thurston stood frozen, his grip crushing the business card. He watched the three figures disappear into the crowd.

His eyes hardened. A fire lit in their depths, the kind that burned before a hostile takeover.

"Get me the head of security," Thurston barked into his earpiece. "I want every detail of Darleen Reynolds's life on my desk in one hour. I want to know what she ate for breakfast four years ago."

The leather sofa in the West family study groaned under Thurston's weight. The room smelled of old books and cigar smoke. Stacks of paper covered the coffee table-bank statements, travel logs, medical records.

Thurston picked up a grainy photograph. It showed Darleen stepping off a plane four years ago, her face pale, her coat wrapped tight around her stomach. He grabbed a red pen and circled the date.

It matched perfectly. The exact week of Bernardo's birthday party on the yacht. The week Bernardo had woken up in his cabin, alone, with a blinding headache and a strange bite mark on his chest.

Thurston tossed the photo onto the pile and reached for the secure phone on the table. He dialed the number he knew by heart.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

On the forty-second floor of the West Group headquarters, Bernardo sat at the head of a long mahogany table. The air in the conference room was freezing. A dozen executives stared at their laps, too terrified to breathe.

Bernardo pressed the accept button on his phone, his eyes never leaving the trembling man at the far end of the table.

"What?" Bernardo snapped.

"You have children," Thurston said without preamble.

Silence.

The scratching of Bernardo's pen stopped. The tip pressed down hard, tearing through the thick contract paper. Ink bled into the tear.

"Excuse me?" Bernardo's voice was dangerously soft.

"In Los Angeles," Thurston continued, his voice firm. "A boy and a girl. They look exactly like you did at that age."

Bernardo let out a short, cold laugh. He tossed the ruined pen onto the table. It clattered loudly.

"That's the most pathetic scam I've heard this year," Bernardo said. "I don't leave loose ends, Grandfather. You're getting senile."

"The boy has your eyes," Thurston pressed, ignoring the insult. "The girl is your spitting image. The mother knew your name."

Bernardo's jaw clenched. A muscle twitched under his skin. A flash of memory hit him-the smell of rain, a woman's soft cry, the searing pain in his chest. He pushed it away.

"Someone is feeding her information," Bernardo said, his tone absolute. "It's a setup. I want the name of the investigator who sold you this garbage."

"It is not garbage!" Thurston roared, slamming his fist onto the coffee table. "West blood does not walk the streets like beggars! You will acknowledge them!"

Bernardo stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall. The executives flinched.

"I will do no such thing," Bernardo said, his voice like ice. "I am not some fool to be tricked by a gold-digger."

"Then take a DNA test," Thurston challenged. "Prove me wrong."

"Fine," Bernardo snapped. "I'll send the legal team and the doctors. This will be sorted out by dinner."

"No." Thurston's voice was iron. "You will go yourself."

"I don't have time for field trips," Bernardo scoffed.

"If you do not go," Thurston said slowly, "I will rewrite the family trust. You will lose your voting shares in the holding company by tomorrow morning."

The line went dead silent. Bernardo stared out the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection glaring back at him. His chest heaved with suppressed rage.

"You're bluffing," Bernardo whispered.

"Try me," Thurston replied.

Bernardo's hand shot out. He hurled his phone across the room. It smashed against the glass wall, shattering into pieces of plastic and metal. The executives shrank further into their seats.

The door opened. His assistant peeked in, his face pale.

"Sir? Should we continue the meeting?"

"Cancel everything," Bernardo bit out. "Get me the security footage from the Leviathan. Four years ago. The night of the storm. Now."

The assistant scurried away. Bernardo walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. He unbuttoned his collar, his fingers brushing the faint, crescent-shaped scar on his chest. A bite mark. He couldn't remember how he got it. It drove him insane.

Miles away, in a dusty guest room of the Reynolds mansion, Darleen sat on the edge of an unmade bed. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of neglect. A single small duffel bag lay open beside her, its contents hastily packed before the flight. She had just pulled out a few of the children's emergency clothes to smooth the wrinkles when her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen showed a number with a 310 area code, but no name.

She picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Reynolds," a crisp, male voice said. "This is the chief counsel for the West Group. We have been informed of your claims. A medical team will arrive at your residence tomorrow morning at eight for DNA sampling."

Darleen stopped smoothing the tiny shirt in her hand. She held it tightly in her fist.

"Where is Bernardo?" she asked.

"Mr. West will not be present," the lawyer said, his tone dismissive. "This is a standard procedure. You will comply with the location and time specified."

"No," Darleen said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Darleen said, her voice steady. "I will not allow a team of strangers into my home to draw my children's blood. If Bernardo wants this test, he can bring his doctors and he can stand in the same room and watch."

"Ms. Reynolds, you are in no position to make demands," the lawyer warned.

"I'm not making a demand," Darleen said, her eyes fixed on Aria's sleeping form on the bed beside her. "I'm telling you a fact. No Bernardo, no test."

She hung up the phone. She tossed it onto the bed, her heart pounding. She knew Bernardo. She knew his pride. He would come. He would want to look her in the eye and call her a liar to her face.

And when he did, she would see the bite mark on his chest. She would know the truth.

The dining room of the Reynolds mansion was a shrine to old money and bad taste. Crystal chandeliers hung over a table that seated twenty. The smell of bacon and expensive coffee filled the air.

Darleen walked in, holding Julian's hand. Aria skipped beside her, her princess backpack bouncing. The moment they crossed the threshold, the clinking of silverware stopped.

Britteny sat at the table, draped over Kian's shoulder. She wore a silk robe that probably cost more than Darleen's entire wardrobe. Kian had his arm around her, his fingers playing with the collar of her robe.

Britteny looked up and flashed a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Well, well," Britteny cooed. "The prodigal slut returns. And with two little souvenirs, I see."

Darleen didn't react. She pulled out a chair for Julian, then lifted Aria into the seat next to him. She placed napkins in their laps.

Kian smirked. He looked Darleen up and down, his gaze lingering on her faded jeans.

"Four years, Darleen," Kian said, shaking his head. "You disappear without a word, and now you show up with two kids in tow? Who was the unlucky guy? Let me guess, he didn't want you either?"

Julian stopped eating. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes fixing on Kian. The look was so cold, so intense, that Kian actually flinched, his hand freezing mid-air.

Britteny laughed, breaking the tension. She leaned forward, examining Aria's dress.

"Target clearance rack?" Britteny sneered. "Does your baby daddy even pay child support? Or is he as broke as you are?"

Aria's lower lip trembled. She dropped her fork and clutched her backpack to her chest, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Crash.

Darleen slammed her coffee cup down. The hot liquid splashed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

She looked at Kian, her gaze lethal.

"You cheated on me with my stepsister," Darleen said, her voice low and biting. "You have absolutely no right to talk about dignity or face. You traded yours for a trust fund."

Kian's face turned red. He slammed his palm on the table and stood up.

"You watch your mouth," he snarled.

Britteny rolled her eyes. "Please, Darleen. You're living in our house, eating our food. You're an unemployed beggar. Don't act high and mighty."

Darleen stood up. She was tall, and standing at her full height, she seemed to tower over the seated couple. Her posture was rigid, her eyes blazing with contempt.

"I've only ever accepted what was necessary for the children," Darleen said. "Nothing more."

Britteny opened her mouth to retort, but Aria suddenly popped her head out from behind Darleen.

"My daddy is the stinky king!" Aria shouted, her voice ringing with childish defiance. "He has a big castle!"

Kian and Britteny stared at the little girl. Then, they burst out laughing. The sound was harsh and grating, echoing off the high ceilings.

"A king?" Britteny wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. "You're delusional. Did you hit your head, or are you just passing your crazy on to the kid?"

"Even a king wouldn't look twice at a boring nobody like you," Kian added, his laugh dying into a sneer.

Darleen didn't explain. She didn't defend herself. She just stared at them, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Ding-dong.

The front doorbell rang, loud and insistent. A maid came running in, her face pale and flustered.

"Ma'am!" the maid stammered, looking at Britteny. "There are... there are people at the door. Important people."

Britteny perked up. She smoothed her hair, assuming it was her socialite friends coming for brunch.

"Finally," she said, standing up. "Some real conversation."

She strutted toward the foyer. Darleen followed at a slower pace, holding the children's hands. She knew what was coming. She had been waiting for it.

The heavy oak front door swung open.

Four men in black suits stepped inside first. They moved with military precision, scanning the room, their earpieces glinting. The air in the house instantly dropped ten degrees.

Britteny froze, her smile vanishing. She took a step back, intimidated by the sheer size of the bodyguards.

Then, an older man walked in. He leaned on a silver-tipped cane, his posture stiff, his blue eyes sharp.

Kian, who had followed them, choked on his own spit. He recognized that face. It was on the cover of Forbes every other month.

"T-Thurston West?" Kian stammered.

Thurston ignored him. He ignored Britteny. He walked straight past them, his eyes locked on Darleen.

He stopped in front of her. He gave her a slight, formal nod. The gesture was respectful, almost deferential.

Britteny's jaw practically hit the floor. She looked like she had swallowed a bug.

"Ms. Reynolds," Thurston said, his voice carrying through the silent foyer. "Mr. West has agreed to the meeting. We leave for the island tomorrow."