My Sister Married My Ex, So I Became a Billionaire's Mistress novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: Mr. Corwin

Willa calls her ex Mr. Corwin over breakfast, the baby falls ill and her family rushes off without her, and a final notice about her grandmother's cottage sends her to a billionaire's hotel suite.

Willa did not sleep again until the sky turned gray.

She woke at seven with her suitcase already packed beside the bed.

One night was what she had promised, and one night was what she would give.

She went downstairs in her coat.

The dining room was nearly empty.

Nolan sat at the table in a soft gray sweater with a newspaper open in front of him.

A glass of milk and an untouched sandwich sat at his elbow.

It was almost eight, and he should have left for his father's firm an hour ago.

Willa took the chair across from him. "Good morning."

He lowered the paper. "Morning."

The cook set down a plate with toast, a sandwich and a glass of milk.

Willa ate half the sandwich and drank the milk.

Then she put her napkin to her mouth.

"That's not enough," Nolan said. "Finish the toast."

She had loved that voice once. It had told her to eat breakfast every morning for two years.

"Mr. Corwin," she said. "Give your worrying to your wife."

His face went white.

"Mr. Corwin?"

"What else should I call you?" Her smile was thin and it hurt her own mouth. "Brother-in-law? You pick."

Nolan's jaw moved. For a moment she thought he would say something real.

"Whatever you want," he said at last.

The cook backed out of the room with a tray she did not need.

Daphne's voice came from the hall, tight and quick. "Nolan, Birdie's been sick all night, and now she's, oh."

She came in with the baby on her hip and stopped when she saw them.

"You're up," she said to Willa. "Did you sleep?"

"A little."

Birdie lifted her head from Daphne's shoulder. Her cheeks were pink and her curls were damp.

Willa stood without meaning to.

She looked at the child's face. Round cheeks. Dark eyes. Nolan's eyebrows, flat and serious, on a baby.

"She's so little," Willa said.

Her voice shook, and she hated it.

She reached out and touched Birdie's cheek with one finger. It was soft and hot.

This is his daughter, she thought. This is the girl he told me about.

He had said we'll call her Birdie. He had meant a child with her.

He had not meant a child with her sister.

She swallowed, and the burn behind her eyes went down.

"Hello, Birdie," she said, and smiled. "I'm your Aunt Willa."

Nobody answered.

"Nolan." Daphne's voice cracked. "She's had it again. It's in everything."

Nolan was up and already holding the car keys.

"Hospital," he said. "Now."

Daphne ran past Willa with the baby tight against her. The front door slammed. An engine started.

Willa took two steps after them, because her feet had decided to.

Then she stopped in the hall.

His wife was going with him. His child was going with them.

What was she supposed to do, ride in the back?

She watched the taillights pull out of the drive and bit her lip until she tasted blood.

The cook came out of the kitchen and said gently, "They'll call. It's only a stomach upset, she's a strong baby."

"I know, Auntie."

"You'll stay for the day?"

"I have somewhere to be."

She went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed with her phone.

There were four new emails since the plane. She opened the one at the top.

It came from a lawyer in Prarc Town and the subject line said FINAL NOTICE, MILL LANE.

She had read it three times on the plane. She read it again.

Her grandmother's cottage had been sold at a tax auction in the spring.

The new owner was an investor.

He would take five hundred thousand dollars for it, but only until the last day of the month.

After that the cottage would come down and a parking structure would go up.

Willa had lived in that cottage until she was thirteen.

Her grandmother had taught her to cook in its kitchen.

Nobody else had ever loved her there without asking her to be someone different.

She had saved eight thousand dollars in three years.

Her father had told her no on the phone.

Her grandfather, she knew, would say worse.

She closed the email and opened her contacts.

There was a name she had seen in the news on the plane, in the seat pocket magazine. A man on the cover with black hair and a flat stare.

The article was called The Hotel Heir Who Never Stays.

It said Jasper Quarles kept a suite at the Silver Oak Grand and used it only to meet women.

It said he changed lovers every three months.

It said he paid each one a settlement that people in the business called generous.

Willa read the paragraph slowly, twice.

Then she put her coat back on, picked up her bag, and went down to call a taxi.

She did not say goodbye to anyone.

In the back seat she found the hotel's number and held the phone to her ear.

"Silver Oak Grand," said a woman's voice. "How may I direct your call?"

"The presidential suite," Willa said.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that suite is private."

"I know," said Willa. "I'm coming in person."

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