Bound By A Broken Night novel Chapter 9

"If you don’t start taking your life seriously, you’ll lose your inheritance. Can you stop messing around with women?”

The voice cut through the low hum of the café, pulling my attention away from the screen in front of me. I paused mid-bite, fingers still holding a fork, and resisted the urge to look up too quickly.

I was seated at my usual table in the quiet corner of the café I had frequented ever since arriving in Savannah City five months ago.

Five months.

A new place, a new identity, and a new life. And aside from a slight weight gain from indulgent pastries, late-night meals, and pregnancy, I had gained far more than I ever expected.

Peace of mind.

And wealth.

Yes—wealth.

With the money Madame Carina and Ashton had lent me, I had done something I was never allowed to do before. Move freely. No interviews. No judgmental glances at my résumé. No doors slamming shut the moment they saw my credentials and remembered my past.

All I needed was a MacBook, a stable internet connection, and a mind far sharper than my academic records ever suggested.

Quietly, methodically, I built a name for myself in the stock market. A name that did not exist on paper—yet one already worth millions.

But money was never the end goal.

Power was.

Influence.

And that was precisely why I was sitting in this café.

Across the nearly empty space, a hushed commotion unfolded at a table not far from mine. I kept my gaze fixed on my laptop screen, scrolling idly, pretending to be absorbed in market charts and figures.

But in truth, I was listening to every word. Every sharp whisper. Every restrained accusation.

The game, it seemed, had finally come to me.

"I’m not interested in business. How many times do I have to tell you, Mom?”

The man—no older than his late twenties—snapped irritably at the older woman across from him. His jaw was tight, his posture careless, as if the entire conversation was a burden he had endured far too many times already.

“And what are you interested in, then?” the woman shot back, looking seconds away from smacking the back of his head.

“Playing around with women? Do you know how many of them have shown up at our doorstep claiming they’re pregnant with your child?”

Her voice rose with each word, sharp and unrestrained.

“We’re on the verge of bankruptcy, Zandrie! And all you can think about is sex! I’m already supporting two of your children—add more to that, and we’ll be living on the streets!”

The outburst drew a few startled glances, but she didn’t care. Neither did I. From where I sat, every word carried clearly.

“Mom,” the man said, running a hand through his hair, frustration replacing his earlier arrogance.

“What do you expect me to do when our farmers keep leaving for better opportunities elsewhere? That farm is dying. It’s hopeless.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice—not in shame, but in reluctant concern.

“Why don’t you just sell it? It could fund your retirement.”

Her response was immediate—and heavy.

“That farm is all I have left from my parents,” she said, her voice suddenly softer, laden with grief. “It’s your inheritance. Without it, Wallace Plantation will be nothing.”

She sighed, the sound weary and resigned.

“But the farm isn’t productive anymore,” he insisted, more earnest now. “The factory keeps buying raw materials from other suppliers because we can’t keep up. That’s why the company is bleeding money. We don’t have the resources we used to.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“Let’s sell the farm. Sell the factory too. Then we can invest in something else—something that actually works.”

Horror flashed across her face.

“Are you hearing yourself, Zandrie Wallace?” she exclaimed, rising abruptly to her feet. “I will never sell my inheritance—even if I have to toil that land myself!”

With that, she stormed away, heels striking sharply against the floor.

Zandrie Wallace let out a harsh breath and buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on the table—frustrated.

It was my cue.

I rose carefully from my seat, mindful not to bump my already protruding stomach against the edge of the table. With my MacBook tucked securely under my arm, I approached Zandrie Wallace’s table at an unhurried pace.

“I’m not in the mood,” he snapped the moment he sensed someone sit across from him. “Leave.”

“Well,” I said lightly, settling into the chair, “I’m six months pregnant—so I don’t think I’d perform well enough to satisfy you anyway.”

His head snapped up.

Our eyes met, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to pause. I watched confusion ripple across his handsome face, his brows knitting together as he tried—and failed—to place me.

“I don’t remember ever sleeping with you,” he said sharply, breaking the silence. “So it’s not my child.”

I raised a brow, genuinely intrigued.

“Wow. So you remember every woman you’ve slept with?”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify