The Billionaire's Secret Bump-Chapter 47: The way out

Martin forced a tight smile for the team.

"Thank you. I... appreciate it."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

He didn’t stay.

He turned on his heel.

Walked straight to the private elevator.

Pressed 45.

The doors closed with a soft, final ding.

"Fuck."

The word echoed softly in the mirrored car, bouncing off the polished surfaces like an accusation.

When the doors opened on the executive floor, he walked straight to his office.

Didn’t greet anyone.

Didn’t stop for the assistant who tried to hand him the morning brief.

Didn’t acknowledge the curious glances from the two VPs waiting outside the conference room.

He shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Dropped into his chair.

Pulled out his phone.

There were already three missed calls from Valentine.

Two from Victor Thorne.

One from Elena.

He ignored them all.

The screen lit up again—Valentine calling for the fourth time.

Martin silenced it.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the silence of the office press in on him.

The room felt too large, too quiet, the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows mocking him with its indifferent glow. No assistants knocking. No Victor updating him on quarterly numbers. Just the low hum of the air system and the heavy beat of his own pulse.

How do I get out of this situation?

The question looped in his mind, relentless.

It’s really getting complicated. Saturday is just two days ahead.

Forty-eight hours until the engagement party at the Thorne Estate. Until the whole company, the board, the press, and every business contact in Aurelia Bay would watch him stand beside Katherine Thorne, smile for the cameras, and pretend this was the happiest day of his life.

I can’t do this," he whispered to the empty room.

He couldn’t stand on that stage.

He couldn’t let Valentine win.

But how?

If he walked away publicly now, Valentine would make good on every threat. The company would suffer. Employees would lose jobs. The inheritance that funded half the initiatives he actually cared about would vanish.

Martin sat forward.

He picked up his phone and dialed Kane.

His right-hand man answered on the first ring.

"Boss."

"Kane I need a way out. A clean one. Or at least a delay that buys me time until after the weekend."

Kane exhaled slowly.

"You’re asking me to go against your father and Victor Thorne at the same time."

"I’m asking you to help me choose the right future."

A long pause.

"I’ll start pulling threads. But Martin... this is going to get ugly fast. The board is already buzzing about the merger. If they smell weakness, they’ll turn on you."

"Let them," Martin said quietly. "I’d rather lose the company than lose her."

Kane was silent for a beat.

"I’ll call you in an hour with options."

The line went dead.

The day dragged on like a slow, merciless tide.

Fiona sat at her desk for hours after Martin left. She had nodded politely when people passed her desk. She had smiled when Riley brought her coffee. She had even managed a few coherent sentences in the afternoon team meeting while Clara sat across from her, smiling like a cat who had already swallowed the canary.

But inside, the quiet fracture from the morning had widened into a deep, aching chasm.

By 2:30 p.m. the office began emptying early. Valentine had sent a company-wide email announcing a half-day in "celebration of the happy news." People laughed and chatted as they packed up, already planning what to wear to the engagement party on Saturday.

The floor was almost completely silent. Fiona saved her work, shut down her laptop, and stood.

The room tilted.

She gripped the edge of her desk.

Breathed through the sudden wave of dizziness.

*Just get to the restroom. Splash some water on your face. You’re okay.*

She walked slowly down the corridor, one hand lightly on the wall for balance.The stress felt heavier.

The ladies’ restroom was empty.

She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and locked it behind her.

The cool marble sink was a relief under her palms.

She turned on the tap.

Splashed cold water on her face.

Looked at herself in the mirror.

Pale cheeks.

Dark circles.

Eyes that looked too tired for someone only twenty-eight.

She pressed both hands to her stomach.

Fiona closed her eyes.

Another wave of dizziness hit her, stronger this time.

The room spun.

Her knees buckled.

She grabbed the sink with both hands, knuckles white, breathing fast and shallow.

*Don’t faint. Don’t faint. Not here. Not alone.*

She lowered herself slowly to the floor, back against the cool wall, head between her knees.

The tile was cold against her skin.

She focused on breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—just like the prenatal class video she had watched alone on her laptop two nights ago.

Minutes passed.

The dizziness slowly receded.

Fiona stayed on the floor a little longer, letting the quiet of the empty restroom wrap around her like a blanket.

No one came in.

No one knocked.

Everyone had already knocked off early and gone home.

She was alone.

When she finally felt steady enough, she pushed herself up.

Washed her hands.

Fixed her hair in the mirror.

Took one last deep breath.

Then she walked out of the restroom, down the silent corridor, and into the empty office.

She grabbed her bag.

Turned off her desk lamp.

Took the main elevator down to the lobby.

Stepped out into the early evening air.

The city was still busy—people rushing home, cars honking, lights beginning to flicker on—but Fiona felt detached from all of it.

She walked to the bus stop.

Sat on the bench.

The bus when it arrived she got in.

And rode home in silence.

When she finally stepped into her dark apartment, she locked the door, kicked off her shoes, and sank onto the couch without turning on the lights.

Clara stepped into Marcus’s penthouse , the city lights glittering behind her like a backdrop she had chosen for herself. She didn’t knock. She never did. The doorman knew her face, knew the code, knew she belonged here whenever she wanted. She dropped her designer bag on the marble console table, kicked off her heels, and walked straight into the open living room where Marcus waited.

He was already pouring drinks—two glasses of aged bourbon, neat. He didn’t look up when she entered, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw flexed. He was angry. Good. She liked him angry.

Clara crossed the room slowly, hips swaying, the burgundy dress from earlier still clinging to her body. She stopped behind him, pressed her front to his back, and slid her arms around his waist.

"Miss me?" she purred against his ear.

Marcus set the bottle down harder than necessary.

"You’re late."

"I was busy impressing the company," she said, nipping at his earlobe. "They think I’m a genius.

Marcus turned in her arms, eyes dark, jaw tight.

He grabbed her by the hips, yanked her flush against him, and kissed her—hard, punishing, possessive. His tongue swept into her mouth without asking, claiming, demanding. Clara moaned into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt.

He broke the kiss only to growl against her lips.

"We need to talk ..."

Clara smiled against his mouth.

"Later."

She pushed him backward until his back hit the kitchen island. Her hands worked fast—belt buckle, zipper, shoving his trousers and boxers down in one rough motion. He was already hard. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroked once, twice, firm and possessive.

Marcus groaned.

"Clara—"

"Shut up and fuck me," she whispered, biting his lower lip.

He spun her around, bent her over the island, and shoved her dress up to her waist. No underwear. Of course. He didn’t bother with gentleness. He thrust into her in one brutal stroke.

Clara gasped—half pain, half pleasure—then pushed back against him, meeting every slam of his hips.

"Harder," she demanded.

He obliged.

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the penthouse. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks, pounding into her with angry, possessive strokes. Clara’s fingers curled against the cold marble, moans spilling from her lips each time he bottomed out.

"Fuck—yes—harder—"

Marcus leaned over her, one hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back.

"You’re going to make her look incompetent," he growled against her ear, thrusting deeper. "You’re going to make her look unreliable. You’re going to make her look like she can’t handle the event."

Clara moaned louder.

"I will. I’ll delay her deliverables. I’ll question her ideas in every meeting. I’ll make her look sloppy while I look brilliant."

Marcus’s grip tightened in her hair.

"Promise me."

"I promise," she gasped. "She’ll be gone before the event even launches. And when the engagement party happens this weekend... it proves it. Martin and Katherine. The perfect couple. Fiona is nothing to him. Just a mistake he fucked and forgot."

Marcus thrust harder—angry, jealous and possessive.

Clara laughed—breathless, cruel.

"Then let her. She’ll still be the one who gets left behind. And we’ll be the ones who watch her fall."

Marcus came with a guttural sound—deep inside her, marking her, claiming her.

Clara followed seconds later, body clenching around him, nails scraping the marble as she cried out.

They stayed locked together for a moment—breathing hard, sweat-slick, hearts pounding.