From Hidden Lover To His Boss: The Billionaire's Ultimate Regret

Rain lashed against the penthouse windows, blurring the city skyline into a smear of cold, distant light. Inside the bedroom, the air was still warm, heavy with the lingering friction of their encounter. Bailey lay against the pillows, staring at the ceiling as she waited for her heart rate to settle.

Beside her, Dorr was already out of bed. He buttoned his crisp dress shirt with practiced efficiency, his broad shoulders stiff, his profile indifferent. It was a familiar, clinical routine. For three years, they had been nothing more than exclusive friends with benefits-a purely physical arrangement operating under the cover of darkness, completely devoid of promises or tenderness.

"I'm getting married," Dorr said.

His voice was flat, dropping into the quiet room without a hint of warning or remorse.

Bailey froze. A dull, heavy ache settled in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain entirely blank. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

Three years. Her mind involuntarily pulled her back to how this twisted dynamic had started. It all traced back to that disastrous night at the Morrow estate. She had just been brought back to her biological family, having discovered she was switched at birth with her foster sister, Jordin. But there had been no tearful, fairy-tale reunion. At her own welcome-home banquet, her biological mother had looked at Bailey with blatant disdain, clearly preferring the polished, perfect Jordin over the stranger who shared her blood.

Suffocating under the weight of her mother's rejection, Bailey had hidden in a quiet corner of the estate and drank until the edges of her reality blurred.

Dorr had been there, too. He was notoriously ruthless in business, but that night, he was just a man nursing a broken heart, drinking himself into oblivion over a woman he supposedly loved deeply. To this day, Bailey still didn't know who the mystery woman was. They had collided in their mutual misery. Two broken people seeking a temporary escape. It was a drunken mistake that should have ended by morning.

Instead, Dorr had refused to let it go. Using his overwhelming influence and her vulnerable position within the Morrow family, he had forcefully tethered her to him, turning a one-night stand into a three-year secret arrangement.

And now, he was getting married. Probably to the very woman he had been pining for all along.

Bailey swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. Fine, she told herself, feeling a sudden, clarifying wave of resolve wash over her. If he treats the last three years as nothing more than a game to pass the time, then I won't waste another second mourning it. She refused to be the tragic, discarded casualty in his grand love story. She had survived the Morrows; she would survive Dorr Randall.

She leaned back against the headboard, offering a lazy, careless smile. "So, was tonight a farewell performance?" she asked, keeping her tone light and conversational.

Dorr paused, his gaze darkening as he looked down at her. "Think what you want. Our arrangement ends tonight."

He picked up a leather folder from the nightstand and tossed a property deed onto the tangled sheets. "The penthouse is yours. Consider it compensation for the last three years."

Bailey glanced at the paper resting on the duvet. He was looking at her like a CEO liquidating a minor asset, fully expecting her to either cry or gratefully accept his generous payoff.

She let out a dry chuckle. "Compensation?"

Pushing the covers aside, Bailey stood up. She didn't bother reaching for a robe. She stood tall, refusing to let her nakedness make her feel vulnerable. "Dorr, don't flatter yourself. We were using each other. If you got off, so did I. Why would I need a severance package for mutual pleasure?"

Dorr's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Bailey, don't be difficult. This place is worth eight figures."

"Exactly," she said. She picked up the deed with two fingers and dropped it squarely onto his chest. It fluttered to the floor between them. "Keep it. Consider it my wedding gift to you. Though I hope when you bring your new bride to this bed, you perform a little better than you did tonight. It would be a shame to disappoint her on the honeymoon."

The sheets were still warm, but the air in the bedroom felt suffocating. Bailey slipped out from under the duvet, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. She didn't bother to cover herself, nor did she look back at the man she was leaving behind. Dorr sat on the edge of the mattress, a dark, brooding silhouette in the dim light, his jaw tight with a silent, simmering fury she didn't care to unpack.

She walked into the en-suite bathroom, shut the door, and turned the shower on as hot as it would go.

By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a thick towel, the bedroom was empty. The heavy silence was familiar.

For three years, it had always been like this. Three years of locked doors and drawn blinds. Three years of him taking what he wanted and slipping out before midnight, leaving her alone with nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne.

He never stayed the night. Not once.

But today was different. On the rumpled sheets where he had just been sitting, he had left a manila folder. Inside was a transfer agreement signing the luxury penthouse over to her name, along with a cashier's check bearing enough zeros to buy a lifetime of silence. A severance package.

Bailey stared at the check for a long moment. She picked up her phone and dialed her real estate broker.

"It's Bailey," she said when he answered. "I need you to list the penthouse. Sell it fully furnished, as is. I want it off my hands by the end of the week."

She hung up, packed a single suitcase with her essentials, and walked out the door.

An hour later, her taxi idled outside the wrought-iron gates of the Morrow Estate. Rain lashed against the windows, blurring the city lights behind her. Bailey paid the driver, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the downpour. She didn't buzz the intercom to announce her arrival; she simply swiped her old keycard. The heavy gates groaned open, reluctant to let her back in.

The moment she pushed open the front doors and stepped into the grand foyer, a crystal tumbler shattered against the wall, inches from her head.

Bailey didn't flinch. She looked down at the glittering shards scattered across the marble floor, then slowly lifted her gaze to the mezzanine.

"Where the hell have you been?" Her biological mother,Ilene Morrow demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet of the house like a whip.

Bailey set her suitcase down and unbuttoned her damp coat. "Is that how we greet family now, Ilene? Throwing glassware?"

"Don't you dare use that tone with me." Ilene stormed down the sweeping staircase, the very picture of high-society rage. The second her heels hit the foyer floor, she swung her hand in a vicious arc aimed at Bailey's cheek.

Bailey caught her mother's wrist mid-air. Her grip was tight enough to bruise.

"You didn't raise me," Bailey said, her voice deadpan. "Don't pretend you have the right to discipline me now. It's pathetic."

She shoved Ilene's hand away. The older woman stumbled back, clutching her wrist, her chest heaving in shock at the sheer defiance in her daughter's eyes.

"You disgraceful brat," Ilene spat. "I know exactly where you've been. Playing house as some rich man's kept woman. He's clearly done with you, hasn't he? You've come crawling back because you have nowhere else to go."

Bailey let out a short, dry laugh. "I came back to pack the rest of my things. And honestly? Watching you lose your mind is just a nice bonus."

"Listen to me," Ilene snapped, stepping closer. "Your sister Jordin is finally securing this family's future. Her fiancé is coming for dinner tomorrow to finalize the merger. I will not have you ruining it with your presence."

Bailey picked up her suitcase, bored with the conversation. "Then tell her to keep him out of my way. I'm not interested in Jordin's leftovers."

"Her fiancé is Dorr Randall," Ilene said, dropping the name like a winning hand. "The CEO of the Randall Group. A man you couldn't even dream of touching. If you so much as breathe in his direction, I will cut you off for good."

Bailey froze on the third step.

The name hung in the air. Suddenly, the abrupt breakup, the massive check, and the rushed apartment transfer all made perfect, sickening sense. He was marrying her sister.

A genuine, humorless smile touched her lips.

She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. "Dorr Randall?" she repeated. "It seems the world is smaller than I thought."

"Stay away from him, Bailey," Ilene warned, her eyes narrowing as she sensed a shift she couldn't quite name.

"Don't worry, Mother," Bailey said lightly. "If he's the best Jordin can do, I almost feel sorry for her."

She didn't wait for Ilene's reaction. She just continued up the stairs, her grip tightening on her suitcase handle. The severance check in her purse suddenly felt a lot heavier.

Bailey pushed open the door to her old bedroom and stopped. A thick layer of dust coated the desk, and the mattress was stripped bare, smelling faintly of neglect and stale air. She dropped her suitcase, a cynical smile touching her lips.

For a family so obsessed with high-society optics, the Morrows couldn't even be bothered to hire a maid to run a duster over the furniture. They despised her-that was no secret-but abandoning basic, surface-level hospitality just to prove a point? It was incredibly petty.

She refused to sleep in squalor. Grabbing a damp towel from her bag, she spent the next twenty minutes wiping down the surfaces. Only when the room met her standards did she grab her toiletry bag and step into the hallway to wash up.

She didn't make it far.

"Bailey! You're finally home!"

Jordin Morrow,her adopted sister, stood blocking the corridor. Dressed in a delicate silk slip, her blonde hair perfectly tousled, she looked less like a woman getting ready for bed and more like an actress hitting her mark for a camera crew. Her voice was high, sweet, and entirely manufactured.

Bailey didn't stop walking. "Move, Jordin. You're in the way."

"I was just so worried," Jordin continued, ignoring the dismissal and reaching out to grab Bailey's arm. "Mom said you've been staying out for days. People are starting to talk, you know? Rumor has it you've been... staying with a sponsor."

Bailey sidestepped the touch with practiced ease. "Still listening at keyholes, I see. Some things never change."

"Bailey! Is that any way to speak to your sister?" Ilene's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. The venom returned to her eyes the moment she saw Bailey, but it melted into a sickening sweetness when she turned to her youngest. "Jordin, sweetheart, did she wake you up with her racket?"

Bailey suppressed a dry laugh. It was Ilene's screeching that could wake the dead, yet the blame always landed on her.

"I'm fine, Mom," Jordin chirped, playing the martyr to perfection. "I just wanted to make sure Bailey was okay. She looks so... worn out."

Ilene raked her eyes over Bailey's simple clothes with blatant disgust. "She looks exactly like what she is. Bailey, stay in your room tomorrow morning. Jordin's fiancé is coming over for lunch. I won't have you embarrassing us in front of Mr. Randall with your presence or your reputation."

Bailey paused, her hand resting on the bathroom doorframe. She looked at the two of them-the doting mother and the two-faced sister. "Don't worry," she said coolly. "I have zero interest in your little family circus."

The next morning, Bailey stuck to her usual routine. She couldn't care less about the high-stakes lunch or the Morrows' VIP guest. Instead, she went for a grueling five-mile run, letting the sharp burn in her lungs and the rhythm of her footsteps ground her.

When she returned to the estate, she was flushed and glowing with sweat, her dark hair pulled back into a messy, high ponytail. Dressed in tight black leggings and a cropped athletic tank, she radiated a raw vitality that sharply contrasted with the suffocating, curated elegance of the Morrow household.

As she crossed the circular driveway, she noticed a sleek black Maybach parked near the entrance. The custom license plate was a string of eights. Ostentatious, powerful, and entirely too familiar.

She walked through the front doors, intending to head straight to the kitchen for water, but the heavy, oppressive silence spilling from the formal living room forced her to stop.

Sitting on the center velvet sofa, flanked by a fawning Bailey's father Richard and Ilene Morrow, was Dorr Randall. He looked exactly as intimidating as the financial magazines claimed-crisp white shirt, sharp, unforgiving features, and a cold authority that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the room. Jordin was tucked close to his side, her head tilted shyly, playing the innocent fiancée to the hilt.

Bailey stood in the archway, a water bottle in her hand, her damp skin catching the light of the foyer chandelier.

Dorr's gaze shifted. His eyes, usually as unreadable and flat as slate, locked onto hers. The reaction was microscopic-a sudden stillness, a slight tightening of his jaw-but for a man of his absolute control, it was a massive tell.

He knew exactly how she looked in those gym clothes. He knew the exact temperature of her skin, the way she breathed when she was exhausted. And here she was-the disgraceful sister of his bride-to-be.

"Bailey!" Ilene's horrified hiss shattered the quiet. She stared at her daughter's sweaty, athletic appearance as if Bailey had dragged a corpse onto the rug. "What are you doing? I told you to stay out of sight! How dare you show your face looking like that in front of our guest!"