My Accidental Billionaire Husband

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, mine didn’t.

I came back with a marriage certificate bearing a stranger’s name, a ring worth more than my parents’ love ever was, and a son whose father I’ve never seen, never known, never remembered.

I went to Vegas for a racing competition. I won. I celebrated. And somewhere between the victory and the sunrise, my life changed forever.

For six years, I’ve lived with the consequences of one reckless night. I built an empire. I raised my son. And I searched for the man who changed my life without even knowing it.

Then fate laughed in my face.

My sister married my ex-fiancé—the man I was promised to since childhood. The man I was supposed to become Mrs. Windsor for. The man who now wears my family name… and looks far too much like my child.

Every time I’m near him, the past presses closer. Every glance feels like a question I’m terrified to ask. I shouldn’t notice him. I shouldn’t feel anything. He is my sister’s husband.

But some secrets refuse to stay buried.

Because the truth about Vegas isn’t just in the ring on my finger or the child in my arms.

It’s standing right in front of me.

And when it finally comes out, it won’t just destroy a marriage, it will burn an empire to the ground.

The Arrangement

Katia

I woke up to the sound of people singing badly.

“Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream.

“Happy birthday, dear Katia...”

My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth.

I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve.

So this? This felt like a setup.

“Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion.

Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine.

I looked down at