Chapter 1Breaking The Billionaires Destined Script

My ex-husband hated me with a vengeance that burned like a fever, all for the sake of the girl who’d been his "forever" dream. I did the only sensible thing: I took the settlement money and disappeared, leaving everything behind—including our child.

Six years later, a miniature version of him, a little marshmallow of a boy, knocked on my door.

He was wearing a bright yellow backpack, his small face set in a mask of solemnity that was far too old for him. "Dominic doesn't want me anymore," he announced, his voice steady despite the slight tremble of his lower lip. "I'm moving in with you."

I froze, the air caught in my lungs. Before I could even find my voice, he tilted his head back and began reciting legal statutes with the precision of a court reporter. "Under the Family Code, parents have a non-delegable duty to support and maintain their minor children..."

He didn't get to finish. I stepped aside, opening the door wide. "Get in here."

...

* * *

The warm light of the entryway hit his face, and for a split second, his eyes shimmered. Then, with a haughty little huff, he marched inside on his sturdy legs.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the boy—Milo, as I knew him from the few photos I’d dared to look at over the years—began surveying my life. He gripped the straps of his backpack tight when he caught me watching him.

"I’m Milo," he said, puffing out his chest.

The tone was unmistakable. It was a declaration of war and a plea for recognition all at once. He wanted me to know exactly whose blood ran through his veins. Not that he needed to say it; with that jawline and those piercing dark eyes, he was a carbon copy of Dominic.

When I didn't immediately fall at his feet, he looked slightly deflated. He turned his head away, pouting.

I took his backpack, hanging it on the hook by the door, and led him toward the bathroom. "Wash up. Dinner’s almost ready."

He gave a small, obedient nod. By the time I’d set the table, he had already scrambled up into the dining chair, looking tiny against the high back.

"Why are you here, Milo? Really?" I asked.

He poked at a piece of broccoli with his fork, his head drooping low. His voice came out muffled, thick with unshed tears. "We had a fight. He threw things. He told me to get out, told me never to come back to the estate again."

A runaway.

I remembered how fiercely the Thorne family had fought for custody, nearly burying me in lawsuits and threats of jail time just to keep me away from him. He was their crown prince. I figured Dominic was probably tearing the city apart looking for him right now.

Watching him eat, a lump formed in my throat. I hadn't prepared for guests. It was just a simple stir-fry and soup. Milo was clearly a picky eater—he meticulously picked out every sliver of onion and carrot—but eventually, only the greens were left. He stared at them like they were poison, stole a quick glance at me, and then, with the dramatic resolve of a martyr, closed his eyes and swallowed them whole.

The arrogant little prince who had walked in ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by a kid who was trying so hard to be "good" that it broke my heart. It seemed he hadn't been mistreated at the Thorne mansion, but he was certainly disciplined.

I cleaned up the dishes, expecting a frantic knock on the door at any moment. But nine-thirty came and went. The hallway remained silent.

Six-year-olds can only stay awake so long. Milo’s eyes were drooping. He pulled a pair of dinosaur pajamas out of his bag and looked around my cramped studio apartment.

He wrinkled his nose. "Your house is so small. Why is there only one bed?"

"Are we... are we sharing?" he asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

I glanced at the clock, wondering where the hell Dominic was. I sighed and nodded. "Yeah. We’ll make it work for tonight."

I expected a tantrum. Compared to the Thorne estate, this place was a glorified closet. Instead, Milo just bit his lip, a flash of something that looked suspiciously like relief crossing his face.

He scrubbed his face, changed into his pajamas, and climbed under the covers. Just like at dinner, he was playing the part of the perfect guest. He wiggled around until he was tucked in like a little silkworm, only his big eyes visible. Then, he reached under his pillow—God knows when he’d hidden it there—and pulled out a book of fairy tales.

"Aren't you going to read to me?"

The hope in his eyes was so bright it was almost unbearable.