Carrying An Heir For The Wrong Billionaire

AMELIA

I staggered to the entrance door of my house and flung the door open. My breath hitched with every step I took and I leaned on the wall for support. I stared at my parents who were seated in the living room, watching TV.

I could barely walk and I continued to gasp for air, clutching my soaked clothes on my body.

"M-mom, Da-d," I stammered, my voice barely audible. They turned to face me, their expressions plain.

"Why are you coming home by this time, Amelia," my mum lashed out immediately.

The little strength I had, drained instantly. I collapsed to the floor, still clutching my clothes.

My dad stood up, tapping my mother's shoulder. "Calm down and talk to her, dear. She looks terrified."

He strode to me and bent down, holding my shoulders. "Where have you been dear? Why are you soaked and why are your clothes torn?"

I glanced at my mum and she was looking at me, a mix of concern and annoyance on her face. She couldn't approach me nor look at me. She was hesitating to say something to me.

"When you're done with whatever you're doing, go and clean the kitchen up," she said, scrunching her nose and retreating upstairs.

Since I was born, she had barely paid attention to me. It was like she never wanted to see my face. She always avoided me and I couldn't tell why.

"Come on dear, don't worry about how she's acting. Tell me what's wrong," my dad said and helped me up from the floor.

My legs shook slightly as I walked till I reached the sofa and collapsed on it.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'm listening."

"It's w-work dad," I began, my lips quivering. "It happened at work. I was....."

But before I could start, tears slid down my cheeks. I couldn't stop it so I let it flow.

"No, don't cry dear," my dad said, wiping my tears with his hands. "Don't cry. If you can't talk now, then don't bother."

I heaved, my body weak. I was soaked, panting heavily and my clothes were slightly torn. Slowly, I stood up and walked upstairs, holding the handrail for support. My father called after me but I didn't respond.

When I got to my room, I locked the door and collapsed on the floor beside my bed. Tears continued to roll down my face as I recalled what had happened.

I worked in a famous classic bar for prominent people. It was supposed to be a normal evening, with just an hour for my shift to end.

My boss had told me to go and serve an important guest in a private room and I did. But as I delivered his order and was about to leave, he pulled me back forcefully and I fell to the floor. The room was fixed with red lights and so I couldn't see his face clearly.

Just as I was about to stand up and