Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Meet Your Son

The wind at Teterboro Airport didn't just blow; it bit. It chewed through the thin fabric of Elara's wool coat, finding the skin beneath and making her shiver violently. She leaned against the side of her 2014 Toyota Camry, tucking her hands deep into her pockets, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left. Her fingers brushed against the rough lining of the pocket where the stitching had come undone last week.

She checked her phone. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb fracture over the time. 4:12 PM. The flight was an hour late.

A ground crew member in a neon vest walked by, glancing at her car. His eyes lingered on the dent in the rear bumper and the fading paint. He didn't say anything, but the curl of his lip said enough. You don't belong here.

She knew. She had spent the last twenty minutes frantically scrubbing the backseat with industrial wet wipes, desperate to remove the sticky residue of spilled apple juice and the faint, lingering scent of a child. She prayed the overwhelming smell of lemon bleach would mask the reality of her life.

Then, the sound came. A low rumble that vibrated in her chest, growing into a deafening roar. The Gulfstream G650 descended from the grey sky, sleek and silver, a predator returning to its territory. The tires screeched against the tarmac, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris that forced Elara to squint.

She smoothed the front of her coat. It was a nervous tic. A useless attempt to look like Mrs. Julian Sterling instead of the woman who cleaned her own apartment.

The stairs lowered with a hydraulic hiss.

Elara held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm. Seven years. It had been seven years since she looked him in the eye.

But it wasn't Julian who stepped out first.

A woman emerged. She wore a cream-colored Chanel coat that looked like it had never seen a speck of dust. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, flawless bun. Serena Pembrooke.

Serena paused at the top of the stairs, turning back with a smile that could melt glaciers. She extended a gloved hand.

And then he appeared.

Julian Sterling took Serena's hand. The gesture was easy. Practiced. He guided her down the first few steps, his body angling toward her as if to shield her from the wind.

Elara felt the air leave her lungs. It wasn't a sharp pain. It was a dull, heavy ache, like swallowing a stone.

Julian reached the tarmac. He straightened his suit jacket-custom fit, dark navy-and lifted his head. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, scanned the area. They bypassed the luxury SUVs waiting for other clients. They bypassed the security detail.

They locked onto her.

The distance between them was fifty yards, but his gaze felt like a physical touch. Cold. Assessing. There was no smile. No widening of the eyes. He looked