My Billionaire's Secret: A Dragon Heir

Two pink lines on a pregnancy test shattered my ordinary barista life.

Suddenly, I was Sarah Miller, supposedly carrying the heir to reclusive billionaire Alexander Blackwood, whisked away to his sprawling, cold mansion.

Eighteen excruciating and baffling months later, the moment of truth arrived as I went into labor.

But instead of a baby, I delivered a large, pulsating, iridescent egg.

The delivery room erupted in chaos: doctors and nurses fainted, and the socialite who' d hated me shrieked about "poultry" and "bestiality."

My parents looked utterly bewildered, while I lay there, staring in horrified disbelief at the impossible, shimmering egg.

What had just happened? Was I going insane? Was this some cruel, cosmic joke played on the unsuspecting barista?

Then, Alexander Blackwood, usually so stoic, looked at the egg with reverence. "Just like my ancestors described," he whispered, revealing an ancient, secret lineage of Dragon-kin.

My life, I realized, was about to become anything but ordinary, as I was plunged headfirst into a world of hidden magic, with a dragon king and two special eggs as my unexpected destiny.

The plus sign on the pregnancy test was a slap in the face.

A blurry, unbelievable, two-pink-lines kind of slap.

My period was late, sure, but I' d chalked it up to stress from that chaotic masquerade party a few weeks back.

The one where the lights went out and the champagne tasted funny.

The one where I woke up in a very fancy, unfamiliar room with a killer headache and a vague memory of a man with a dragon cufflink.

Now, this.

My name is Sarah Miller, I make a decent latte, and I was, apparently, pregnant.

The unbelievable part wasn't just the pregnancy.

It was the letter that arrived the next day, on thick, creamy paper, sealed with a wax stamp of a dragon.

It said Mr. Alexander Blackwood acknowledged his... responsibility.

Alexander Blackwood. The recluse. The billionaire. The guy rumored to be shooting blanks, the last of his ancient, dying line.

The Blackwood family, it turned out, was desperate.

Desperate enough to send a sleek black car for me.

Desperate enough to install me, a barista from a working-class neighborhood, in their sprawling, isolated mansion.

Suddenly, I wasn't just Sarah Miller anymore.

I was Sarah Miller, carrier of the Blackwood heir.

The mansion was huge, all cold marble and echoing hallways.

Alexander Blackwood himself was nowhere to be seen, which was fine by me.

His family, however, was very present.

Especially his cousin, or whatever he was, Julian Thorne. Tall, dark, and perpetually scowling.

He looked at me like I was a science experiment.

Then there was Veronica Sterling, a socialite with blonde hair so perfect it looked fake, and eyes that could freeze fire.

She' d been sniffing around the Blackwoods for years, apparently.

She looked at me like I was something she' d scraped off her five-hundred-dollar shoe.

The family lawyer, a stiff man named Mr. Albright, explained the situation.

The Blackwoods would "take care of everything."

My parents, when they were eventually summoned, looked like they' d won the lottery and been told they had to spend it all on Mars.

My dad kept muttering about property taxes.

Alexander Blackwood, the supposed father, finally made an appearance a week later.

He was... intense. Quiet, with eyes that seemed to see right through you.

He didn' t say much. Just looked at my stomach with a strange, unreadable expression.

"The family is pleased," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Pleased? I was carrying his kid after one hazy night, and he was "pleased"?

This whole thing was insane.

But they wanted an heir. And I, apparently, was providing one.

This gave me a weird kind of power.

The snooty relatives, the whispers, Veronica' s sneers – they all had to tiptoe around the pregnant girl.

I learned to use it.

Life at Blackwood Manor was a trip.

One minute I was arguing with my mom about whether I was eating enough vegetables, the next I was being served tiny, unidentifiable things on silver platters by silent staff.

Veronica Sterling was my main source of entertainment, and irritation.

She' d find me in the library, or the garden, or even trying to sneak a normal donut in the kitchen.

"Sarah, darling," she'd purr, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Feeling... delicate today?"

I quickly figured out that a well-timed hand to my forehead and a dramatic sigh could work wonders.

"Oh, Veronica," I' d say, my voice weak. "It's the baby. So demanding."

She' d narrow her eyes, but what could she say?

I was the golden goose, or incubator, or whatever.

One afternoon, she cornered me by the ridiculously large indoor fountain.

"You know, some women just aren't cut out for this kind of... lineage," she said, flicking an invisible speck of dust off her silk blouse.

"They lack the, shall we say, fortitude."

I clutched my stomach. "Oh! A kick! A very strong one! Right in the... uh... lineage-appreciating part of my womb!"

Veronica' s perfectly sculpted lips thinned. "Really."

"Yes! He's a feisty one. Probably takes after his father." I gave her my sweetest, most innocent smile.

She huffed and stalked off.

Daisy, a young housekeeper who was probably my age and the only normal person in the entire estate, giggled from behind a potted fern.

"You're a menace, Sarah," she whispered, handing me a contraband chocolate bar.

"I try," I said, unwrapping it.

My parents visited sometimes, looking more bewildered each time.

"Are you sure about this, love?" Mom would whisper, eyeing a stern-looking portrait of some Blackwood ancestor.

Dad would just clear his throat and ask if the Blackwoods needed any help with their... plumbing. He was a plumber. He thought everyone needed help with their plumbing.

But even with Daisy' s friendship and my parents' flustered support, a knot of worry tightened in my gut.

The night of conception. It was a masquerade. The Blackwood charity ball.

Someone had definitely messed with the champagne. I remembered a sudden blackout.

And a man. His face was a blur behind a mask, but his cufflink... it had a dragon crest.

I' d seen that crest everywhere in this mansion.

Alexander Blackwood wore those cufflinks.

But so did Julian Thorne.

They were both there that night, dressed in similar dark, expensive suits.

Julian. He was always watching, his expression unreadable. He was imposing, a shadow that fell long and cold.

Could it have been him?

No. It had to be Alexander. He was the main heir, the one everyone was focused on.

Pinning it on Alexander was safer. Simpler.

I was carrying Alexander Blackwood' s child. That was the story, and I was sticking to it.

My future, whatever it was going to be, depended on it.

If this baby was a Blackwood, I was set. Maybe.

If it wasn' t... I didn' t want to think about that.