The Billionaire And His Children's Tutor

How a Breakup, Bad Wine, and a C

How a Breakup, Bad Wine, and a Cliff Almost Ruined My Life

(Hannah's POV)

If heartbreak had a smell, it would be cheap red wine and betrayal.

I learned that the hard way.

It started in Barry Winston's apartment-the one I used to think we'd eventually decorate together. White walls, gray couch, ambitions that no longer included me.

Barry stood by the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he was preparing for a business presentation instead of a breakup.

"Hannah," he said carefully, which was the first sign I was about to lose something important. "I've been thinking."

That was the second sign.

People never think before saying good things. They think before destroying you.

I forced a smile. "That's new. Should I sit down?"

He didn't laugh.

Strike three.

"I got the job," he said. "At Walton Empire."

I blinked. "I know. I congratulated you. Twice. I even cried a little."

"That's not the point."

Oh.

Here we go.

He turned to face me fully, eyes sharp, confident-too confident. The kind of confidence that comes with money, power, and suddenly believing you deserve better.

"I'm moving up fast," he continued. "My salary just doubled."

"I'm proud of you," I said softly.

He sighed, like I was exhausting him.

"Hannah... you're still in school."

Ah.

There it was.

"I graduate in six months," I said. "You know that."

"But six months is still six months," he replied. "And after that, you'll probably start small. Entry-level. Internships."

I stared at him. "Barry, what are you saying?"

He hesitated. Not because he was kind-but because he was a coward.

"I think... we're in different leagues now."

The words hit harder than any slap could have.

"Different leagues," I repeated. "Like football?"

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm trying to make it one so I don't cry."

He finally looked uncomfortable.

"You deserve someone at your level," he said. "And I deserve someone at mine."

I laughed then.

Actually laughed.

Because what else do you do when the man you planned to marry decides you're suddenly beneath him?

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You get a paycheck, and I lose a future?"

He looked relieved that I was taking it calmly.

"This is for the best."

"For who?" I asked.

"For both of us."

That was the moment I stopped listening.

I grabbed my bag, my dignity-what was left of it-and walked out before I begged him to stay.

I did not beg.

I was very proud of that.

The pride lasted approximately forty-seven minutes.

---

The wine came next.

I didn't buy it to get drunk.

That's what everyone says before they get drunk.

I bought it because my chest hurt and I needed something to quiet the noise inside my head-the what did I do wrong, the was I ever enough, the how could he leave so easily.

One glass turned into three.

Three turned into a decision to "get fresh air."

Which is how I ended up on a hiking trail at dawn, slightly buzzed, emotionally wrecked, and wearing shoes that had absolutely no business being near dirt.

I sat under a tree, staring at nothing, sipping from a bottle like a woman in a tragic indie film.

"This is fine," I told myself. "Very healthy coping mechanism."

That's when I saw him.

A man standing at the edge of a cliff.

Tall. Still. Silent.

My heart seized.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

He wasn't pacing. He wasn't on his phone. He wasn't taking pictures like a normal human.

He was just... standing there.

Too close.

Too calm.

My brain-already compromised by wine and heartbreak-made a decision without consulting logic.

He's going to jump.

I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over my own misery.

"Hey!" I shouted, running toward him. "Don't do it!"

He didn't turn.

Panic exploded in my chest.

"No no no-please don't-"

I grabbed his coat and yanked with everything I had.

And immediately realized two things:

1. He was much heavier than anticipated.

2. He was very much not planning to die.

He spun around, eyes sharp, hands gripping my arms to steady us both.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

I screamed.

Not a dignified scream. A full-blown, horror-movie scream.

"Let go of me!" I yelled.

"I'm trying to keep us from falling!"

"YOU WERE TRYING TO JUMP!"

"I WAS STANDING!"

"That'S WORSE!"

I yanked free, my heart pounding, and spotted a plank of wood on the ground.

Don't ask me why there was a plank of wood on a hiking trail.

The universe knew I was unstable.

I swung.

The sound it made when it hit his head will haunt me forever.

He collapsed.

Silence followed.

"Oh my God," I breathed.

I dropped the plank and knelt beside him.

"Please wake up," I whispered frantically. "I can't go to prison. I have student loans."

Nothing.

I backed away slowly.

And then-I ran.

---

The police found me before guilt could kill me.

They brought him in too-alive, thankfully, but furious.

At the station, reality hit.

He hadn't been suicidal.

He'd been quiet.

Grieving.

Normal.

And I had assaulted him because my ex-boyfriend got a promotion.

"I'm so sorry," I said for the hundredth time, staring at the floor. "I really thought you were going to jump."

He was silent for a long moment.

Then he sighed.

"I won't press charges."

My head snapped up. "You won't?"

"It was a misunderstanding," he said calmly. "An aggressive one. But still."

I almost cried again.

I thanked him. Apologized. Promised never to drink and hike again.

He left with a bandage and dignity intact.

I left with shame.

I assumed that was the end of it.

I was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Because a weeks later, I walked into a job interview at the Walton's Estate...

And found myself staring at the man whose head I had nearly cracked open with a plank of wood.

Benjamin Walton.

The richest man in the country.

And, apparently, my future problem.

The Day a Stranger Hit Me and Ruined My Peace

(Benjamin POV)

I had not gone to the hiking trail to die.

That felt important to clarify-especially in light of what happened next.

I went there because silence is expensive, and it is the one thing money cannot buy. Not when you own an empire, not when your name is printed in financial journals, not when every room you walk into expects something from you.

The trail was the only place that didn't.

No assistants.

No board members.

No questions.

Just trees, wind, and the quiet memory of a woman who used to walk beside me and laugh at nothing.

Chloe loved this place.

She used to say it reminded her that life didn't care how rich you were-it would still go on without you. I never liked that sentiment. Now, years later, I understood it far too well.

I stood near the edge of the cliff, hands in my coat pockets, staring down at the endless stretch below. Not because I wanted to jump.

Because sometimes you need to stand close to something vast to remember how small your problems are supposed to be.

Apparently, this made me look suicidal.

I learned that when someone slammed into me from behind.

Hard.

"What the-"

My balance shifted violently as hands grabbed my coat and yanked with surprising strength. For half a second, I genuinely wondered if this was how I was going to die-not from despair, but from being tackled off a cliff by a stranger with poor timing.

Instinct kicked in.

I turned sharply, reaching out to steady whoever had just decided my personal space no longer mattered.

And that was when I found myself gripping the wrists of a woman who looked at me like I had personally crawled out of her nightmares.

She screamed.

Not a polite scream. Not a startled sound.

A full, soul-deep, you are about to be featured on a crime documentary scream.

"Let go of me!" she yelled, thrashing like a cornered animal.

"I'm not-" I started.

She did not wait for clarification.

She tore herself free, stumbled backward, and grabbed a plank of wood off the ground.

A plank.

At this point, I had several thoughts in rapid succession:

1. This is escalating.

2. I should leave.

3. Why does this keep happening to me?

"Don't come closer!" she warned, eyes wild, tears streaking down her face.

I raised my hands slowly. "You grabbed me first."

This did not help.

"I was trying to stop you!" she cried.

"From what?"

"You were going to jump!"

I blinked. "I was standing."

She swung.

The impact was immediate and deeply unpleasant.

Pain exploded at the side of my head, bright and sharp, and then the world tilted sideways. I remember thinking, This woman is surprisingly strong, and then I was on the ground.

Darkness followed.

---

I woke up to voices.

Police voices.

Which is never ideal.

"What happened, sir?" someone asked.

I opened my eyes slowly, immediately regretting it. The sky fractured above me, blue lights flashing between the trees like I'd wandered into the world's most inconvenient music video.

My head throbbed.

"I was assaulted," I said truthfully.

Across the trail, wrapped in a borrowed jacket and vibrating with panic, stood the woman who had done it.

She was speaking rapidly to another officer, gesturing wildly in my direction.

"He chased me! He tried to-he was going to-"

I stared at her.

She stared back.

And I watched the exact moment realization punched her in the chest.

Her shoulders sagged. Her mouth fell open slightly. Whatever story she'd built in her head collapsed under the weight of facts.

Ah.

She thought I was the threat.

This explained everything.

At the station, the truth came out in pieces-alcohol, heartbreak, fear, poor judgment. She sat across from me, hands shaking, eyes red, shrinking into herself as the weight of what she'd done settled in.

She looked young.

Too young to carry that much guilt.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly, not meeting my eyes. "I really thought... I wasn't thinking."

No, she hadn't been.

But neither had I, standing at a cliff in a tailored suit like a tragic metaphor.

My lawyer arrived. My assistant, Joe, looked ready to combust. Pressing charges would have been effortless. The system loves efficiency.

I looked at her again.

At the way she was folded inward, remorse written into every line of her body.

"No," I said finally. "I won't press charges."

Her head snapped up. "You won't?"

"It was a misunderstanding," I replied. "A dramatic one. But still."

Relief flooded her face so fast it nearly knocked her over.

She whispered thank you about three times.

I left with a bandage on my head and a story I would absolutely not be telling at board meetings.

I assumed that would be the end of it.

I was wrong.

---

A week later, I reviewed a file Joe placed on my desk between meetings.

"In-house tutor," he said. "Excellent academic record. Strong recommendation."

I skimmed it without much interest.

Then I saw the name.

Hannah Milton.

I froze.

"That's not funny," I said flatly.

Joe frowned. "What isn't?"

"The universe," I replied.

He leaned over my shoulder. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," I said. "She hit me."

Joe paused. "I'm sorry?"

"She thought I was suicidal and/or a criminal," I clarified. "Used a plank."

Joe stared at me for a long moment. Then-unhelpfully-he smiled.

"That's one way to meet," he said.

I closed the file.

"I'm not hiring her."

Joe lifted an eyebrow. "Because she assaulted you?"

"Because she drinks, panics, and solves problems with wood."

"Sir," he said carefully, "the interview is tomorrow."

I sighed.

"Fine," I muttered. "I'll meet her. And then I won't hire her."

It was a solid plan.

It failed spectacularly.

---

Because the woman who walked into my garden the next morning-limping, pale, and painfully determined-was not the reckless menace I had imagined.

She was human.

And, as I would soon learn, very inconvenient.

The Boy, the Limp, and the Worst First Impression

(Hannah's POV)

If I had known the day was going to unfold the way it did, I would have stayed in bed and wrapped myself in a blanket like a responsible adult with self-preservation instincts.

But no.

Instead, I woke up early, ironed my blouse, rehearsed polite answers in my head, and convinced myself that today-finally-something good might happen.

I should have known better.

I was halfway down Oakridge Avenue, mentally repeating You are qualified, you are capable, you are not the girl who assaulted an innocent man on a hiking trail, when I heard it.

A scream.

High-pitched. Panicked.

I turned just in time to see a small boy chasing a red ball straight into the road.

And a car.

Everything slowed in that awful, cinematic way that never happens when you want it to.

The driver didn't see him.

The boy didn't see the car.

And my body moved before my brain could start screaming sensible objections.

"Hey!" I shouted, dropping my bag.

I ran.

I don't remember thinking this could hurt. I don't remember thinking this could kill me. I just remember the sound of tires screeching and the feel of small arms colliding with my waist as I grabbed him and twisted us both out of the way.

The impact was sharp and immediate.

Pain shot up my leg as we hit the pavement, the world spinning violently. The ball rolled harmlessly to the curb as the car screeched to a stop inches away from us.

For a moment, everything was noise and chaos and adrenaline.

Then silence.

The boy stared at me with wide, shocked eyes.

"You okay?" I asked breathlessly, wincing as I tried to sit up.

He nodded quickly. "I-I was just playing."

"Yeah," I said weakly. "Roads are terrible playgrounds."

A woman rushed toward us, panic written all over her face.

"Oh my God-Adam!" she cried, pulling him into her arms. Then she turned to me. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

I tried to stand.

That was when my leg betrayed me completely.

I hissed in pain, grabbing my knee as it buckled.

"Are you hurt?" she asked urgently.

"I'm fine," I lied automatically, because that's what women do even when they're clearly not. "Just-uh-gravity and I had a disagreement."

She frowned. "You should see a doctor."

"I have an interview," I blurted, immediately regretting it.

Because when you're injured, late, and trying not to cry in public, priorities apparently leave the building.

She hesitated, then helped me to my feet. Adam clung to her hand, staring at me like I'd just performed a magic trick.

"Thank you," he said solemnly.

"You're welcome," I replied. "Try not to give your mother a heart attack again."

He grinned.

I limped away minutes later, pain radiating with every step, my shoe filling with an uncomfortable warmth that suggested bruising-or worse.

By the time the Walton estate gates came into view, I was sweaty, flustered, and desperately trying not to look like I'd just survived a low-budget action scene.

Which, in hindsight, I failed spectacularly.

---

The maid who attended to me kept looking at me in a disbelieving way before directing me to the garden for my interview.

The garden was impossibly beautiful.

Perfect hedges. Stone paths. A fountain that probably cost more than my tuition.

And standing at the center of it all, looking like a model from a magazine carved into the landscape itself, was Benjamin Walton.

The man from the hiking trail.

Of course he was.

Because apparently the universe has a dark sense of humor.

Our eyes met, and I could practically hear the record scratch.

He looked... put together. Calm, insanely handsome. Controlled. The kind of man who probably woke up looking like this, while I looked like someone who had wrestled fate and lost.

"Miss Milton," he said, his tone cool.

"Mr. Walton," I replied, forcing a smile that probably came out more like a grimace.

His gaze flicked downward.

To my leg.

Which was, unfortunately, betraying me by refusing to function normally.

He frowned slightly. "Are you injured?"

"Oh," I said lightly. "No. This is just my natural walk. Very trendy."

Silence.

He stared at me.

I sighed. "Okay, yes. I'm injured. But I promise I'm not contagious."

He motioned for me to sit, but his expression had shifted-closed, guarded.

"This interview," he said carefully, "is about responsibility."

"Yes," I said quickly. "And I'm very responsible. Usually. Today is just... an off day."

His jaw tightened.

"And the incident on the trail," he added. "Combined with your appearance now-"

Oh.

Oh no.

"I wasn't drunk today," I blurted.

That was not the defense I meant to lead with.

His eyebrow lifted slightly. "I didn't accuse you of anything."

"You were about to," I said. "I can feel it."

A pause.

Then he exhaled slowly. "Miss Milton, I need someone reliable around my children. Someone stable. I can't afford-"

"You think I'm an alcoholic," I said flatly.

He didn't deny it.

I felt heat rise to my face.

"I had a bad night," I said quietly. "One night. I made a mistake. That doesn't define me."

He stood.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think this will work."

The words hit harder than I expected.

I nodded stiffly, pushing myself to my feet despite the pain. "Thank you for your time."

I turned to leave.

That was when a small voice rang out.

"Daddy!"

Adam whose name I later learned was the little boy I had saved not to long ago.

He came running toward us, eyes lighting up when he saw me.

"It's her!" he exclaimed. "She saved me!"

Benjamin froze.

"She saved me from the car," Adam continued proudly. "She fell and hurt her leg but she still made sure I was okay."

Silence crashed down like a wave.

Susan stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "Sir," she said, "she's the one I told you about. The young woman who rescued Adam this morning."

Benjamin turned to me slowly.

"You," he said. "That was you?"

"Yes," I said. "Though I prefer reckless hero to public menace."

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Guilt.

Concern.

He moved closer, studying my leg. "You're bleeding."

"I know," I said. "I was hoping to ignore it until it went away."

"That's not how injuries work."

"I'm learning that."

A beat.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a quiet laugh.

Barely there-but real.

"Sit," he said firmly. "Before you fall and give me more reasons to worry."

As Susan helped me to the bench, Adam beamed at me like I'd just earned a medal.

Benjamin looked at me differently now.

Not as a mistake.

Not as a liability.

But as something... unexpected.

"I owe you an apology," he said finally. "And a job offer-if you still want it."

I smiled, despite everything.

"I'd be irresponsible to say no," I replied.

And just like that, my worst first impression became the beginning of something I never saw coming