Billionaire Flawed 2(97)

“Did you know he was married?” Aisha asked the cook.

“Yes, but he’s been trying to divorce her for years. She won’t sign.”

That made Aisha feel a bit better, but she was still hurt and shocked that he hadn’t told her. And she was pregnant, with his child, and still no one knew about them, and the whole thing filled her with bitterness and sadness. Mary helped her get home, and she had quit and cleaned out her desk before Anthony got back.

He sent message after message to her, emails, phone calls, but she didn’t speak to him. She found a new job with a smaller firm and had settled in. Two weeks after she started Anthony came to see her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

He just smiled, and then clapped his hands. A group of men came into the office, and they each had an instrument. They began to play a song, and Aisha recognized it as the first song they had ever danced to, laughing and drunk in her apartment one night. Tears stung her face.

“I love you,” Anthony said as he went to her. Everyone heard him. “I want to marry you, and I want to raise this baby together,” he added. He took her hands, and pulled her close, and they started to dance. “I’m working overtime to get my ex out of my life. She’s asking for too much, but you’re worth it. I’ll give it to her. The money, the cars, all of it, nothing matters. I want to be with you. Just you.”

Aisha could hardly speak, so she didn’t even try. She simply closed her eyes and laid her head on Anthony’s chest, and they danced slowly to the music while all of Aisha’s new co-workers looked on. She didn’t care if they saw her, and neither did Anthony.



THE END





The Russian’s Secret Love Child – A BWWM Billionaire Romance

Flashback



“Papa, no more… please!” Anton pleaded as his father swung his leather belt against his soft young face.

“What did I tell you? Ha?” His father yelled, continuing whipping his delicate and frail body.

 “I’m sorry. I’m not gonna do it again. Please, stop…..”

“No. You have to learn. And I’m gonna teach you how to discipline yourself….”

Neighbors were filled with terror as they heard him screaming for help. He was the only child, and since his mother died to Malaria, his father had never treated him as his own child. Alcohol became his best buddy.

Anton had not eaten yet since morning. How could he if no one brought him food to quench his hunger with? His father’s beating seemed to be his only meal of the day.

“Stop. Stop. Please, papa… Stop.” Those were the only words he could utter as the belt penetrated into his flesh, ripping the layers of his skin, exposing every tissue of his muscles.

“Your mother, whom you killed, didn’t tell you to steal! How could you disrespect her?” He asked in a very strong tone, deafening Anton’s fragile ears.

Since Anton’s mother passed away, his father had been hostile to him. Unable to blame anyone, he focused his anger on his son, who knew nothing but to obey every word he spoke in great fear.

But desperation pushed him to disregard his father’s command and follow the craving of his hunger. This morning, when no one was looking, he stole a piece of bread from a small bakery. He was caught. A child like him was inexperienced when it came to crime. It was survival instinct that taught him how to misbehave.

“I’m sorry….” He cried out, eating his own mucus while drinking his own tears.

Finally, his father got tired of beating him up and decided to call it for the day. Tomorrow was another day. It seemed he was his father’s punching bag, an object he used to dissipate his fury and disappointment in life.

The floor was his mattress as he laid resting, feeling the pain of his father’s abomination. Is it my fault that mama died? He thought as tears streamed out of his eyes. He did not seem to feel the cold of the bare floor where dust fell and covered the slippery surface.

“Why? Why Am I so unlucky? It’s not my fault to be born poor.” He cried out.



Those same words he spoke as a child kept on repeating whenever he was alone. The memory of the past kept haunting him down. Deep. Painful. Miserable. Those words described his childhood.

“Enough! Enough…….” He screamed as his hands clenched his hair, trying to get rid of a headache created by the trauma of his father’s beating.

Down to the floor, he laid almost in the same position as he was the night after he stole the piece of bread.

Head against the carpeted floor, his gaze was fixed on the huge mirror sitting on the floor, giving him the reflection of his soul.

“Who are you?” He asked himself, still staring in the mirror.