Oops! My Boy Toy Is A Billionaire Heir

Camille Garner had three hours to get rid of her paid lover before her cheating husband landed at JFK with his mistress.

Frank Walters, her husband, was flying back to New York with April Mercado, the woman who had once been Camille's closest friend. Three years ago, Camille had caught them in bed together.

That same night, humiliated and furious, Camille had found Cody. Young. Handsome. Passionate. If Frank wanted to make a fool of her, then she would buy herself a distraction and make sure it came with better manners.

Cody was never meant to be love. He was retaliation with a perfect body and a bank account Camille quietly kept full.

She had been keeping Cody for three years, but now, it was time to bring it all to an end.

The check sat on the polished surface of the table.

Seven figures. A clean break.

Camille watched the late afternoon traffic crawl along the Manhattan street, her reflection stretched thin across the café window by the fading gold of the day. Her fingers, of their own accord, found a loose strand of chestnut hair and began to twist it. A nervous habit she despised.

She glanced at her watch. Frank Walters's flight would land in three hours. Plenty of time.

The bell above the café door chimed, a delicate sound in the quiet space.

A man walked in. He wore a simple black t-shirt and worn jeans, a stark contrast to the Upper East Side clientele. But the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, and he moved with a coiled energy that made heads turn. He commanded space without trying.

His deep gray eyes found her instantly.

He strode to her table and sat down opposite her, the force of his presence sucking the air from around them.

Camille slid the check across the table. The paper whispered against the wood. Her movements were fluid, practiced, betraying none of the tension coiling in her stomach.

"Cody, this is the last time."

Her voice was calm. A placid lake over a dark depth.

His gaze dropped to the check, lingered on the amount for a beat, then slowly lifted back to her face. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by something cold. Glacial.

He didn't touch the check. Instead, he leaned forward, planting his hands flat on the table. The posture was predatory. It boxed her in.

"Because your husband is coming back?" His voice was a low rumble, laced with a mockery that scraped against her nerves.

Camille picked up her coffee cup, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. She took a small sip, the bitter liquid a welcome distraction.

"That has nothing to do with you."

A humorless smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. He slammed his hand down, covering the check. The veins on the back of his hand stood out in sharp relief.

"Three years, Camille." The whisper was more menacing than a shout. "You think you can just pay me off with this?"

The paper crinkled under his palm, a faint, tortured sound.

Her amber eyes narrowed slightly. "Our agreement was clear from the beginning. Mutually beneficial. No attachments."

His eyes roamed her face, taking in the perfect makeup, the carefully composed expression. They darkened.

"And if I say no?"

The tips of his ears turned a faint, dusky red.

Camille set her cup down. The clatter of porcelain against saucer was sharp, decisive. It cut through the dangerous tension he was weaving.

"Don't make me look down on you, Cody."

She stood, her chair making no sound on the floor. She was already dismissing him, moving on.

She pulled a few bills from her handbag and tucked them under her cup. For the coffee. Another transaction closed.

He rose with her, his tall frame eclipsing the light from the window, casting her in his shadow.

His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. His grip was like iron. A flare of pain, sharp and unexpected, made her wince.

"You're going to regret this, Camille," he said, each word a clipped, hard stone.

She yanked her arm free. A dull, familiar ache pulsed from the old scar tissue on her left shoulder blade, dragging an old pain sharply back into her body.

"Goodbye."

The word was ice. She turned and walked away without looking back.

He didn't follow. He stood motionless, his gray eyes boring into her back, a tangible weight.

Camille pushed through the café door and out onto the bustling sidewalk. The city noise was a relief, washing away the suffocating silence of that final confrontation.

She slid into the driver's seat of her car, the leather cool against her skin. She locked the doors. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped her lips in a shaky sigh.

In the rearview mirror, she saw him still standing at the café window. He picked up the check. Slowly, deliberately, he ripped it into small, precise pieces. The white scraps fluttered from his fingers like dead confetti.

Camille met her own eyes in the mirror. She smoothed a stray piece of hair, her expression settling back into its usual mask of languid indifference.

She started the engine. In her mind, the chapter titled 'Cody' was already closed, filed away, and forgotten.

The car merged seamlessly into the river of traffic, heading east. Towards JFK.

The car hummed along the highway, a smooth, insulated bubble against the world. Soft jazz played from the speakers, the saxophone a lonely, meandering voice in the quiet.

Camille's mind drifted.

She remembered meeting Frank Walters in college. He was the golden boy of the law school, all bright smiles and easy confidence. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room.

She remembered her best friend, April Mercado. Sweet, fragile April, who always seemed to need protecting, with a smile that could disarm armies.

She remembered, with a new, sharp clarity, the small moments she had chosen to ignore. The way Frank's hand would linger on April's arm a second too long. The shared glances across a crowded room. The inside jokes that left her on the outside.

Details that were once insignificant now felt like tiny, sharp pieces of glass embedding themselves in her heart.

She remembered the trip Frank had announced two weeks ago. Europe, he had said. He needed air, distance, a few days away from the pressure in New York. He had not invited his wife. He had taken April instead, because April was "fragile lately" and "could use a change of scenery."

Camille had received the itinerary only because his assistant had copied her by mistake. Paris. Lake Como. Santorini. A series of beautiful cities, first-class seats, and hotel reservations made under Frank's name.

She remembered her family's fall from grace. The scandal, the bankruptcy. And Frank, her gallant knight, stepping in to marry her. To "protect" her, he'd said. She knew now he was protecting his own interests, securing a connection to a name that still held weight, even when tarnished.

The car rolled to a stop in the airport parking garage. Camille cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening. A notification on her phone confirmed it: his flight had landed.

She took a deep, steadying breath. One. Two. Three.

She opened the car door and stepped out. By the time her heels clicked against the concrete, the mask was firmly in place. The serene, untouchable smile of Mrs. Walters.

The international arrivals hall was a chaotic swirl of reunions and goodbyes. She spotted him easily.

Frank stood by the baggage claim, looking impatient in his expensive suit. His tie was slightly askew, and the tips of his fingers were stained a faint yellow from nicotine.

He wasn't alone.

A small, delicate figure was tucked into his side, her hand looped possessively through his arm.

April Mercado.

She wore a loose, white summer dress. It was meant to look innocent, ethereal. But it couldn't hide the gentle, unmistakable swell of her belly.

Camille's gaze rested on that swell for precisely half a second. Then it moved on. Her smile didn't waver, but a deep, arctic cold began to seep into her veins.

Frank saw her then. His face went rigid. His first, instinctual movement was to pull his arm away from April.

But April held on tighter. She leaned her head against his shoulder, a picture of loving dependence. Then she looked up, her wide, innocent eyes meeting Camille's across the crowded hall. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph disguised as helplessness.

The small, dark mole just below her left eye seemed to mock Camille, a tiny punctuation mark on a page of lies.

Camille started walking towards them. Her steps were even, unhurried. The click-clack of her heels on the polished floor was the only sound in her world. She moved as if she were approaching old friends, as if the woman clinging to her husband wasn't carrying his child.

"Frank. Welcome home." Her voice was perfectly level, as if she were commenting on the weather.

Frank's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He looked trapped, his eyes darting away from hers.

April, however, spoke up. Her voice was as sweet and cloying as honey. "Camille, it's been so long. Please don't misunderstand. Frank was so exhausted, and I only went because he didn't want to be alone in Europe. It wasn't meant to look... improper."

She trailed off, letting out a soft, delicate gasp as if the effort of speaking was too much. Her free hand went to her stomach, a gentle, protective caress.

The gesture was a billboard. A declaration of war.

Heads were starting to turn. Travelers, sensing drama, began to watch with open curiosity.

Frank's face darkened. He hated public scenes. He lived and died by his public image.

"Let's talk in the car," he hissed, his voice low and urgent, an order disguised as a suggestion.

Camille ignored him completely. Her attention was fixed on April. A brilliant, dazzling smile bloomed on her face. It was the kind of smile she used for magazine photoshoots, beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth. It made April flinch.

Camille's gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, down April's body. It came to rest, once again, on the pregnant curve of her stomach.

She lifted her hand.

She reached out, as if to touch it.

April recoiled, a genuine look of fear flashing in her eyes. She stumbled back a step, as if Camille were about to strike her. As if Camille were the monster here.

The air crackled. Frank's hand twitched, ready to step between them. April's face was a mask of terrified innocence.

Camille's fingers hovered in the space between them, a breath away from the white fabric of April's dress.

Then, she let her hand drop to her side.

The smile on her face widened, becoming something sharp and dangerous. She looked directly at April, her voice light, almost cheerful.

"Congratulations, April. You finally managed to turn helplessness into a career plan."

The unexpected blessing threw April completely off balance. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came. She could only stare, bewildered.

Frank's face was a thundercloud. He understood the venom dripping from Camille's sweet words.

Camille turned her gaze from April to him. The smile vanished from her face as if it had never been there. Her expression was now a flat, frozen plane of ice.

Their marriage had never been built on tenderness. Frank needed the Garner name, tarnished but still useful, and Camille needed the Walters protection after her family collapsed. She had endured his coldness, his neglect, and the quiet humiliations of being treated like a decorative wife because the marriage still preserved something essential: her position.

But a pregnant mistress changed everything. April was no longer just an affair Frank could hide behind closed doors. The child in her belly was a claim. A future scandal. A potential heir. A quiet little knife pointed straight at Camille's place as Mrs. Walters.

"Frank Walters," she said. Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the airport noise with terrifying clarity. "I want a divorce."

The words detonated in the space between them.

Frank's pupils shrank to pinpricks. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. He couldn't believe she would do this. Here. Now.

A flicker of pure joy crossed April's face before she expertly replaced it with a look of horror.

She clutched Frank's arm, her body swaying. "Frank, oh no... Did I cause this? This is all my fault..."

She began to sob, soft, theatrical little sounds. The mole beneath her eye glistened with a single, perfectly placed tear.

Her performance snapped Frank out of his shock. Rage, hot and blinding, flooded his system.

"Camille! Are you insane?" he snarled, his voice a low growl. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

Camille lifted her chin, her amber eyes meeting his without a trace of fear. "I've never been more sane in my life."

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You flew home with your pregnant mistress hanging off your arm and expected me to stand here like a well-trained wife. Frank, please. I'm not one of your junior associates. You don't get to bore me and insult me at the same time."

Her words were a scalpel, expertly dissecting his pathetic, cowardly plan.

Someone's phone flashed. Then another. The vultures were circling, eager to capture the messy, public implosion of a prominent family.

Frank saw the flashes, and panic warred with his anger. His reputation. His family's name.

"This isn't the place for this!" he gritted out, reaching for her arm, trying to physically drag her out of the spotlight.

Camille took a sharp step back, avoiding his touch as if he were diseased. The look in her eyes was one of pure revulsion.

"The divorce papers," she announced calmly, her voice ringing with finality, "will be at your office tomorrow. My lawyer will be in touch."

April's sobs grew louder. She sagged against Frank, a damsel in deep distress.

"Camille, please don't blame Frank... It was all me..." she choked out between sobs.

Camille watched the pathetic display with dead eyes. She felt nothing. Not anger, not jealousy. Just a vast, empty exhaustion.

She looked at Frank. "Control your mistress. If she wants to cry on cue, tell her to save it for a room without witnesses. This act is cheap, and unfortunately for both of you, I have excellent taste."

That was the final straw. The insult to April, the woman he was supposed to be protecting, ignited the last of his self-control.

"Camille Garner!" he roared, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged hall. "You've gone too far!"

She gave him one last look. It was a look of pity and contempt, all rolled into one.

Then she turned away before he could reach for her again. Cameras were still rising around them. April was still crying. Frank was still saying her name like a threat. Camille kept walking, each step steady, until their voices dissolved into the airport noise behind her.