Not Your Billionaire Daddy Chapter 2

There is a very particular sting that comes with being discarded by an account you used to look forward to reading every night.

The account handle was @velvetsugar. I had stumbled across her profile six months ago when she was just another entry-level lifestyle creator posting iced lattes and neutral-toned workwear. Then, overnight, the narrative shifted into a modern fairy tale.

“First day at the new firm! Shared an elevator with an impossibly handsome man in a bespoke charcoal suit. Literally my exact type.”

“OMG HR just confirmed—the elevator guy is the Chief Executive Officer!”

“Sat in the gallery during his investor briefing today. His voice is so low and commanding, I could barely take notes~”

And then, inevitably:

“He actually stopped by my desk! He asked me why my cheeks were flushed.”

“Cinderella is real. He told me he can’t stop thinking about me.”

I had followed every chapter with the shameful, breathless glee of someone reading pulp fiction on a Sunday morning. Devon had noticed my fixation back then. He would pace slowly past the living room sofa, pretending to review financial briefs, throwing sideways glances at my screen until I finally caved and read an excerpt out loud.

“You know,” I had teased, “the way she describes him sounds a lot like you. Cold, demanding, obsessed with dark roast espresso. Is this just an industry standard for private equity titans?”

I had paid dearly for that comment. That night, Devon had pinned me beneath him until my voice gave out, refusing to let me sleep until I admitted—in explicit detail—whether I loved him or merely found his archetype attractive.

Now, staring at the little grey banner that said User Not Found, my pride flared hot.

I opened my finsta, ready to leave a scathing reply on her latest post to set the record straight. But by the time I arrived at Meridian’s Midtown offices, my schedule took over. Back-to-back executive meetings consumed the entire morning, and by noon, the online pettiness had been thoroughly buried under quarterly projections.

During the lunch lull, Linda Morris, our Senior Director of People & Culture, dropped into my office with a stack of evaluation folders.

“The summer analyst and intern rotation wraps next week,” Linda said, settling into the armchair opposite my desk. “We need your sign-off on who stays.”

I pulled the files toward me, pen in hand.

A soft, melodic voice drifted in from the open doorway.

“Excuse me, Ms. Morris? Is Mr. Bennett landing at JFK this afternoon?”

The voice was sweet, pitched just slightly higher than natural. I looked up. Standing on the threshold was an intern with porcelain skin, wide amber eyes, and carefully curated soft-curled hair.

Linda’s brow creased instantly. “Brianna, executive itineraries are confidential. You know better than to ask that.”

Brianna Scott offered a sheepish, dimpled smile, tucking a loose tendril of hair behind an ear. “I only asked because there’s an urgent document that requires Mr. Bennett’s personal signature. I was hoping I could meet him at arrivals with the courier pack…”

“Hand it over,” I said, cutting her off cleanly.

Brianna’s gaze snapped to mine. A flicker of naked territorial hostility crossed her face before she could smooth it away.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Director Miller. I really ought to deliver it directly into Mr. Bennett’s hands.”

Linda let out a dry, exasperated breath. “Brianna, Hannah is our Managing Director of Business Development. Any matter requiring the CEO’s direct signature flows through her office, not an intern’s tote bag.”

Cornered, Brianna had no choice but to bow her head and retreat, though her heels clicked against the hardwood with unmistakable irritation.

I glanced down at my phone on the desk. The algorithm, in its infinite cruelty, pushed an update from an account I had searched an hour earlier.

@velvetsugar had posted five minutes ago.

“Need to vent! Running into so much pettiness from an older female boss at work. I wanted to surprise daddy at the airport when his flight touched down, and she completely tried to steal my paperwork :(”

The comments were already weeping for her.

“Classic corporate jealousy! The older ones hate seeing young pretty girls thrive!”

“Disgusting corporate hag. Doesn’t she know you guys are practically married?!”

@velvetsugar replied: “It’s fine, really. We keep our relationship completely hidden at the firm, so I just have to smile and take it.”

A cold shock traveled down my spine.

The timing. The wording. The airport excuse.

The rosy, cinematic haze through which I had viewed this creator shattered into sharp, ugly pieces. Every line she had written over the last six months reeked of performative victimhood.

Then I saw her latest comment:

“Heading out early to wait by the international terminal anyway! He’s going to be so surprised~”

Her followers were begging for proof:

“Can you please post a picture of him? You’ve literally never shown his face!”

“Yes! Show us the billionaire who bought the Sotheby’s ring! Let us see what high society actually looks like!”

After a pause, @velvetsugar posted:

“Daddy hates publicity. But he’s obsessed with me, so if I ask nicely, he won’t say no. I’ll sneak a photo of his back at arrivals for you guys~”