Chapter 3 - The Billionaire’s Awakening
Dominic’s mind raced backward through the months, violently replaying the day he had fired her.
He remembered her white face. He remembered her hands pressing against her stomach as the crystal shattered. He had assumed she was hungover, or weak, or simply incompetent. He had dismissed her with the casual cruelty of a man accustomed to treating human beings as disposable assets.
Now, sitting in a rundown diner at two in the morning, looking at the swollen contours of her body, the horrifying math clicked together in his head.
Four months since November. That made her roughly three months pregnant when she stood in his office.
August.
The masquerade gala. The private library.
“Do I know you?” “No.”
Dominic had been intoxicated by more than just scotch that night. The mysterious woman in the gold Venetian mask had slipped into his private sanctuary, challenging his authority with a quiet, fierce defiance that had drawn him in like a moth to a flame. In the shadow of the mahogany bookshelves, the masks had come off, and for one reckless, passionate night, the ruthless billionaire had lost control in the arms of a nameless maid.
He had searched for her the next morning, assuming she was a high-society guest who had slipped away before dawn. He had never dreamed she was the girl who polished his desks.
“You’re pregnant,” Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with a dark, suppressed intensity that made the trucker in the next booth glance over nervously.
Layla yanked her wrist out of his grip, her fear instantly hardening into a fierce, protective anger. She stepped back, putting the table between them, her hands instinctively wrapping around her belly.
“Don't touch me, Mr. Gallow,” she whispered fiercely, her voice trembling. “You fired me on the spot. You told security to throw me out into the street with four months of bills and no health insurance. I don't work for you anymore.”
“How far along?” Dominic demanded, ignoring her anger completely as he slid out of the booth, standing up to his full, intimidating height. The diner suddenly felt suffocatingly small with him in it.
“That is none of your business,” Layla spat back, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. “Get out of here. Go back to your high-rise apartments, your corporate mergers, and your society parties. Leave me alone.”
“You’re carrying my child,” Dominic stated, not a question, but a cold, absolute fact.
“Children,” Layla corrected bitterly before she could stop herself.
Dominic’s breath hitched. His dark eyes widened fractionally. “Twins.”
Before he could step closer, the diner door jingled open again, and a cold blast of air accompanied the entrance of a heavy-set police officer who regularly grabbed coffee on his night shift.
Dominic locked his jaw, his gaze boring into Layla with an intensity that promised this conversation was far from over. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a black leather cardholder, and dropped a crisp, hundred-dollar bill onto the table—then slid a solid platinum business card right beside it.
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“My private number is on that card,” Dominic said quietly, his voice dangerously low. “If you aren't at my penthouse by noon tomorrow, I will send every security detail I own to pull you out of this kitchen myself. Do not test me, Layla.”
He turned on his heel, pulling his coat collar tight against the freezing rain, and walked out into the night, leaving her shaking beside the coffee pot.
