Dead to Them: Leaving My Billionaire Ex and Ungrateful Son

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Six years after I fled with a secret in my womb, Manhattan's untouchable billionaire heir came to claim my child. I refused. I booked a red-eye flight out of the country that very night.

But right at the boarding gate, my son ripped his hand from mine. She's not my mom! She's kidnapping me! he screamed.

Genetics was a terrifying force. He had only met Tristan's sugar baby once, and he was already obsessed with his new mommy.

So I turned my back and walked away from everything. Including the boy.

I paid someone to fake my death. Rumor had it, Tristan and his son tore the entire city apart looking for me.

Chapter 1

I was filling out Rowan's elementary school enrollment forms. Outside, a fleet of black tinted SUVs swallowed half the block. Classic Tristan.

He kicked the office door open and clamped his hand over mine right as my pen hit the paper. He didn't even look at me. "Rowan is taking my last name starting today."

Rowan. My son.

My back went completely stiff. I never thought I would breathe the same air as Tristan again.

Six years ago, he shoved my bedroom door open and threw his latest mistress onto my mattress. He kissed her deeply, ripping off his tie. "Not leaving, Beatrice? How much of this do you want to watch?"

Destiny shot me a smug smirk from my own sheets. "Your bed is so soft. Want to join us?"

Clinging to my dignity, I turned on my heel and walked out. I sat on the living room sofa until 3 AM. He finally emerged, shirtless and arrogant.

"We're done, Tristan," I said.

He raised a brow, thoroughly amused. He closed the distance between us, his tone practically dripping with entitlement. "Are you throwing a tantrum?"

A wave of utter pointlessness washed over me. Tristan and I were supposed to be a strategic corporate merger, but then my parents died in a sudden car crash. We hadn't even signed the marriage papers yet.

After that, Tristan paraded a revolving door of women through our penthouse. Word on the street was he had been paying for this new one for three months. A personal record for him.

"Say the word, Beatrice, and I'll kick her out." His gaze softened as he leaned down to kiss me. He still had Destiny's lipstick smeared at the corner of his mouth.

I shot up and slammed my designer bag straight into his face. "You are absolute trash, Tristan."

He froze. He just stood there and watched me walk out the door, get into my car, and floor the gas pedal. I blocked his number on everything.

I never told him I was pregnant. I didn't even run that far. Tristan practically owned the city. If he wanted to find me, he could have. He just never bothered to look.

Until today.

A woman in blood-red stilettos stepped out from behind Tristan. It was the same woman from six years ago. Fallon.

She waved at the space behind me. "Rowan, want to come live in a huge mansion with Mommy Fallon?"

I immediately dropped to my knees and shielded my son against my chest. "We broke up years ago, Tristan," I hissed. "My son has nothing to do with you!"

I hated Tristan. But Rowan was my flesh and blood. I was allergic to anesthesia. Ten hours of unmedicated labor. I almost bled out on that delivery table for him.

After my parents died, Rowan became the only family I had left in this world. Cold sweat pooled in my palms.

Fallon flashed Rowan a saccharine smile. "If you don't come here right now, Mommy Fallon is going to leave." She pretended to turn around.

The tiny body trembling in my arms suddenly shifted. Rowan ripped his hand out of my grasp and shoved me hard. "Stop it! Why won't you let me live in the big house!"

The air vanished from my lungs. "Rowan, what are you saying?" I whispered.

"You're so selfish! Why do I have to be poor!"

My chest collapsed. A painful lump formed in my throat. I never thought those words would ever come out of my six-year-old's mouth.

My family went bankrupt after the crash. But I made sure Rowan never lacked for anything. He was a picky eater, so I took culinary classes to trick him into finishing his meals.

He loved basketball, so I pulled every string I had left to score him courtside NBA tickets.

I poured every ounce of my soul into loving him. I gave him everything. But in this exact moment

Chapter 2

Fallon threw her head back, a laugh spilling from her glossed lips. "Your son is adorable, Beatrice." She dragged her gaze up and down my frame. "As for you still as repulsive to men as ever, I see."

I locked eyes with her. A cold smile stretched across my face. "What, is your barren womb a badge of honor now?"

It was a wild guess. I hit the bullseye.

The color drained from Tristan's face. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "One day, Beatrice," he ground out, syllables snapping like dry twigs. "Get his papers ready. I'm taking full custody tomorrow night."

My fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. Tristan never made empty threats.

I slammed the apartment door shut behind us. I didn't look at Rowan. I didn't turn on the stove.

Hunger broke his silence by nightfall. The truth spilled out. He had met Fallon long before today.

"Penelope and all the other moms wear designer labels! Look at you in your cheap rags!" he screamed, his face red. "Mommy Fallon smells like expensive perfume! You smell like grease. Like Sheila from the cafeteria!"

Air scraped down my throat in jagged breaths. I couldn't tell if the phantom weight crushing my ribs was pure rage or absolute sorrow.

Rowan was a calculating kid. He squeezed out crocodile tears, bracing for a scolding. Yet his chin jutted out in pure defiance. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

My own son despised me.

A bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. Six years of pure devotion. I mashed his peas. I guided his first wobbly steps. I recorded every single milestone as he learned to speak.

All of it erased by a single encounter with "Mommy Fallon." He actually gave her my title.

"Mommy Fallon told me the truth!" he yelled, stomping his foot. "Dad doesn't even like you! Whoever Dad loves is my real mom!"

I sank into the cushions. A violent ringing echoed in my ears. The blood drained from my extremities, leaving my fingertips ice-cold and trembling.

Rowan's relentless whining filled the room, demanding to go to the Upper East Side penthouse. Tristan's brainwashing had already taken root. He promised the boy the worldtrust funds, endless toys, everything in the houseif he just came home.

Six years old. Could a kindergartener really grasp the concept of extreme wealth over unconditional love?

Of course he could. Tristan was exactly six when his father dragged him into my family's corporate boardroom. Even then, the boy knew to look me in the eye and vow to marry me for my shares. The toxic manipulation ran deep in their veins.

"Fine." I stood up, towering over him. "You stay here. Sleep alone. No bedtime stories."

I turned my back, walked into my bedroom, and twisted the deadbolt. Click.

I stared at the ceiling for an hour before pulling out my phone. I dialed Cleo. "Cancel the red-eye," I rasped. "Tell Brock to call off the untraceable car."

"What the hell? Why?" Cleo demanded.

I opened my mouth to explain. A blood-curdling wail ripped through the door.

"Mommy! Mommy, I'm sorry!" Tiny fists hammered against the wood. "Don't leave me out here! It's dark! I'm scared! Please, Mommy!"

I yanked the door open. Rowan lunged, wrapping his arms around my knees in a death grip. His eyes were swollen, face streaked with snot and tears.

"I'll be good! I swear I'll listen! I'll go anywhere with you!" he hiccupped. "Just don't leave me in the dark. Tell me a story, please."

Brock's heavily tinted SUV sped through the city streets. Rowan lay slumped across my lap. The aftermath of his meltdown wrecked his small frame, tiny shoulders jerking with every hiccup.

Science articles always claimed postpartum hormones rewired a mother's brain. Gaslighting women into feeling a manufactured connection. I always scoffed at that. I loved this little boy fiercely, entirely out of my own free will.

But tonight, staring at his sleeping face, a terrifying thought crept in.

He just looked me in the eye and spat pure venom. He claimed to hate my guts. So why did I still cave the second he cried?

There was no logical answer. I pressed my forehead against the cold, blackout window. Streetlights blurred past in golden streaks. The midnight roads were deserted.

Tristan was probably toasting his victory right now. He never imagined I would pack up his precious heir and vanish into the night.

He underestimated the depths of my hatred.

Chapter 3

I used to believe he actually loved me. We were an arranged corporate merger, sure, but we grew up together. Falling into bed and calling it a relationship felt like the natural next step.

Tristan held Manhattan's economy by the throat. Yet, everyone knew him as the billionaire obsessed with his fiance.

"Give this contract to Beatrice."

"Apologies, gentlemen. My girl said no."

"What can I say? If she throws a fit, I'll have to buy a few skyscrapers just to demolish them and make her smile."

Then my parents died in that crash. He flipped like a switch. The revolving door of women started. A walking red flag.

I heard him talking one night. "Perfect timing for them to drop dead. I got bored months ago. I only played the devoted boyfriend for the family trust fund."

The absolute destruction of my family. He called it perfect timing.

My lungs seized at the memory. A violent tremor wrecked my hands.

But all of that ended tonight. Once this plane left the tarmac, my past stayed in New York.

I never saw it coming.

Then it happened. Right at the boarding gate, Rowan violently twisted out of my grasp. His piercing scream shattered the terminal: "She's not my mom! Someone help, she's kidnapping me! he screamed.

My entire body went numb.

The screen on his smartwatch glowed. "Mommy Fallon, are you here yet? Come save me!" he yelled into his wrist.

Chaos erupted at the terminal entrance. The roar of multiple V8 engines rattled the glass doors.

Rowan flashed his little canine teeth at me, grinning like he just won a prize. "If you won't tell me bedtime stories, Mommy Fallon will!"

Tristan strode through the sliding doors in a razor-sharp Tom Ford suit. Fallon clung to his bicep.

Rowan lunged straight into her arms. "Mommy Fallon! The passports and birth certificates are in her purse!"

The fluorescent airport lights blinded me. The polished floor tilted, threatening to drop me to my knees.

How had this happened?

I watched the doctor wash the blood off that baby and place him on my chest.

"We make a gorgeous couple. Our kids are going to be stunning." He used to brush his lips against my cheek. He used to laugh when a flush crept up my neck.

I walked out, and Fallon took my place.

High society gossips whispered she looked like a cheap copy of me. They said she barely had a forty percent resemblance to me on her best day.

But I knew the truth. Tristan felt zero love for me. Real love didn't inflict this kind of carnage.

I buried the fantasy of our perfect little family a long time ago.

So why did my own son choose their side?

A massive wave of bitterness surged up my esophagus. Acid burned the back of my throat. I gagged, swallowing down the physical urge to throw up. I gripped the handle of my suitcase tight just to stay upright.

Tristan pinched his brows together. His voice dropped to a lethal register. "The bag, Beatrice. Don't make me take it from you."

A hollow laugh scraped past my lips. I unclipped the strap and hurled the designer bag at his chest.

He blinked, visibly thrown off by my sudden compliance.

Agatha stepped up, caught the bag, and unzipped it. Passports, birth certificates, social security cards. Everything sat right there.

Rowan bounced on his heels, vibrating with excitement. "Dad, do I get to live in the penthouse forever now?"

Tristan let out a low hum of agreement. A rare, genuine softness flooded Tristan's eyes as he looked at the boy.

The sight caught me off guard, making my stomach churn with pure disgust.

"And Mommy Fallon will tell me stories?"

"Of course she will," Tristan promised.

Fallon's meticulously painted smile slipped for a fraction of a second. The muscle in her cheek twitched.

Rowan sprinted over and shoved my knees as hard as he could. "You're not my mom anymore! I have a new mom!"

The pain maxed out. My nerve endings simply shut down, leaving a void of nothingness.

Something fundamental inside me died right then and there.

New mom.

A cold, mocking laugh echoed in my chest. I really wanted to see exactly how much torture Fallon would endure to play house with her shiny new stepson.

Chapter 4

He rejected everything. He tossed his toys aside, bragging that his new mom would buy him the latest upgrades.

I swept it all into the garbage bag. Including the custom photo albums. I dumped six years of family portraits straight into the trash.

Rowan stared at the pile. He tilted his chin up. "Mom, you're throwing those away?"

Why would I keep them? He was so used to my unconditional, one-sided devotion. I flashed him a bright, hollow smile. "I'm not your mom anymore. It just takes up space."

His little brain short-circuited. He stared at me blankly for a long second. Then he stomped his foot and crossed his arms. "You're right! You're not my mom anyway!"

I zipped his suitcase and dragged it to Tristan's waiting SUV. Rowan vibrated with excitement.

He didn't look back at me. I didn't look at him either.

From this second on, he was Tristan's heir.

I dialed Cleo. "You can fake a death certificate, right?"

"Holy shit, you're taking it that far?" she gasped.

"I'm done. I need a clean slate," I said.

"Done. When is your funeral? Give me a week to make it airtight."

I drummed my fingers against my thigh. A week worked perfectly. "Next Wednesday."

It was Rowan's seventh birthday.

I wanted him to blow out his candles every single year knowing it was his mother's death anniversary.

I collapsed onto my mattress. The adrenaline crashed. A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through my chest.

The walls of this apartment suddenly felt like a tomb. I spent six years raising him in these rooms.

Before he turned two, he would scream through the night. I never slept for more than a couple of hours at a time. He was an intensely high-demand baby. I dropped my career, my hobbies, my entire life just to soothe him.

And the payoff? I used to be a billionaire heiress. The center of the universe. Then, just yesterday, my own son pointed at my exhausted, pale face and called me ugly.

My sinuses burned. Scalding moisture spilled over my lashes before I could stop it. I scrubbed my face raw, wiping the wetness away.

Genetics was a terrifying, undeniable force. He was exactly like his father. They both threw people away the exact same way once they got bored.

It worked out. Two pieces of trash.

I threw them both away.

Cleo ran through the plan on the phone. "Kidnapped, tied up, and the hostage drops dead."

I rubbed my temples. "Did you forget Tristan owns both the cops and the underground in Manhattan?"

"Exactly," Cleo countered. "Do you really think he's going to lift a finger to save you?"

Silence stretched between us. "Perfect way to die," I finally whispered.

I followed Cleo's instructions and started routing my remaining assets into offshore accounts. After my family's empire collapsed, I only had about a million dollars left to my name. I burned through a quarter of that just keeping Rowan in private schools and feeding him organic food.

I used to lie awake sweating, terrified the trust fund wouldn't be enough for his future.

Now? The math was simple. Without a kid bleeding me dry, that money would fund a very comfortable, very selfish new life.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Rowan's demanding little voice blasted through the speaker. "Agatha's food is disgusting! Why aren't you here making my dinner!"

I froze.

He was a notoriously picky eater. He spent his toddler years sickly and underweight. I basically lived in the kitchen, testing the same recipe a dozen times just to sneak some vitamins into his system. The memory tasted like ash. It was pathetic.

"If you want dinner, Rowan, go find your mother," I said flatly. "That's not my job."

"So what if you aren't my mom! You can still cook for me!" he shrieked, barking orders like a miniature dictator. "I want you to come here and be my maid!"

Chapter 5

My muscles locked. The sheer worthlessness of my six years of devotion hit me hard. To Rowan, my bleeding for him wasn't love. It was a cheap, expected service.

A tremor hijacked my vocal cords. "Listen to me, Rowan. I am done cooking your meals. I am done looking at your spoiled, entitled face." I gripped the phone, knuckles white. "If you ever dial this number again, I will call the cops."

He shrieked, bursting into terrified tears.

I hit end.

Tristan showed up that night. No bodyguards. No entourage. His black SUV idled under the flickering amber streetlamp. He waited with an uncharacteristic patience. I hadn't seen this version of Tristan since the night he confessed his feelings in college. The untouchable billionaire actually had a flush crawling up his neck back then.

Now, he stepped out of the shadows. His dark eyes locked onto mine. "Beatrice. Are you really trying to pretend the penthouse doesn't have a spare bedroom for you?"

I scoffed. "What is this? The father-son tag team begging me to be your live-in maid?"

Tristan's gaze traced my jawline. The rigid tension bled out of his stance. "I mean you can come back whenever you want to see Rowan."

"Hard pass." I cut him off. "You gave him your last name. He's your problem now."

Tristan's jaw snapped shut, thoroughly choked by his own words.

I spun on my heel. In a fraction of a second, an overwhelming, aggressive heat eclipsed my personal space. A massive hand clamped around my waist. He yanked me backward, slamming my spine against his solid chest.

"Beatrice." The syllables ripped through his teeth. Hot, ragged breaths scalded the sensitive skin beneath my ear. "Would it kill you to just bow your head and submit?"

My lungs forgot how to expand.

Years of suffocating memories crashed over my skull. The familiar, crushing weight of his control collapsed my chest. I thrashed against his grip, ripping myself out of his arms. My palm connected hard with his jaw. A sharp, echoing crack split the night air.

"Are you out of your mind, Tristan?!"

I braced for the usual insult. The reminder that I was nothing without him. The screech of tires as he abandoned me on the curb.

Instead, a brutal grip snared my wrist. He threw me into the backseat of the SUV, pinning me flat against the leather upholstery. Tristan ground his teeth together. A raw, violent tremor wrecked his vocal cords. "Do you have any idea how many years I spent waiting for you to just coax me?"

He loomed over me, pupils dilated, chest heaving. "Didn't it rip you apart seeing Fallon? If you had just given me one sentenceone ounce of jealousyI would have given you the world."

His voice cracked. "But you just sat there! Like a fking emotionless mannequin!"

My teeth sank into my bottom lip, tasting copper. What the hell was this? Too little, too late. A delayed confession from a serial cheater? A jagged laugh ripped out of my throat. My tear ducts burned.

The blatant infidelity didn't just happen overnight. At first, he actually bothered to cover his tracks. He swore his business partners hired those escorts. A forced networking formality.

But then the red flags multiplied. Lace lingerie shoved between the sofa cushions. Used condoms overflowing the bathroom trash. One night, he stumbled out of the private elevator, drunk, hauling a strange woman into our foyer. He forgot I actually lived there.

I never screamed. I never threw plates.

But behind locked doors, my knees buckled. Acid corroded my stomach lining. I sobbed until my ribs bruised and my throat bled.

I convinced myself this was the inevitable decay of childhood sweethearts. So I swallowed the poison. I meticulously carved my heart out of my chest, piece by piece, and locked it away.

Tristan never noticed the blood on the floor. He only saw my icy exterior. My lack of reaction became his green light. He escalated the disrespect, parading his mistresses right in front of my face to humiliate me.

And now, he had the audacity to pin me down and demand to know why I went cold.

"Did you ever actually love me, Beatrice?" A choked, guttural sob ripped from his throat. His dark eyes swam with bloodshot desperation.

I clamped down on the violent storm threatening to tear my throat apart. Absolute silence stretched between us. My vocal cords refused to function.

His phone vibrated against his thigh. The caller ID glowed in the dark cabin. Fallon.

Tristan didn't break eye contact. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "Beg me, Beatrice," he whispered, the sound rough and utterly broken. "Say the word. I'll drop her right now. We go home together. Rowan takes your last name."

Chapter 6

Go home?

A self-deprecating laugh ripped from my throat. Like father, like son. Both of them were drowning in their own delusion.

I gripped his lapels, pulling him close just to spit the words in his face. "Tristan, who the hell do you think actually wants a piece of garbage like you?"

He froze. Unadulterated rage flooded his dilated pupils.

He ripped himself away and shoved me out of the SUV onto the pavement. He swiped the screen to answer his phone, glaring down at me with absolute venom. "I'm heading back. Tell my son to act like his biological mother dropped dead."

He wanted to trigger me. He wanted to see me break.

But my chest remained completely hollow. I really was about to die anyway. I was about to erase Tristan from my existence and start breathing again.

It was the worst-kept secret in Manhattan's elite circle: Tristan worshipped the ground that boy walked on.

Cleo called me later that night. "Damn, Fallon really knows how to swallow her pride."

"The whole city knows she's playing nanny to another woman's kid."

Tristan's medical records had leaked a while ago. He had a severe fertility issue. His sperm count was basically zero. Rowan was his only shot at an heir.

But even with that reality check, Fallon refused to let go of her billionaire meal ticket. True love, right?

Moonlight spilled across my floorboards. I swirled the bourbon in my glass and shifted the topic. "What time do I die tomorrow?"

"Stand by. The kidnapping goes down in the morning."

I hummed in agreement. I threw the liquor back.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down my throat, settling into a warm, comfortable numbness. I spent the last six years chained to a toddler. I barely had time to buy groceries, let alone get blackout drunk.

As the buzz hit my bloodstream, my mind drifted. The penthouse must be throwing one hell of a party right now.

Right on cue, my phone rang. "It's super late! Why haven't you dropped off my presents yet!"

My peaceful buzz instantly evaporated. "I told you never to call this number again. I will call the cops on you."

"I dialed the number for him." The voice shifted. Fallon. "You are his biological mother, after all. Tristan strictly forbade you from coming to the party, but I just worried Rowan might miss you too much"

"I don't miss her!" Rowan screamed in the background, cutting her off. "I don't want her here tomorrow! She's an ugly, smelly old hag! She'll just embarrass me!"

Fallon giggled, a sickly sweet sound. "Okay, okay. We won't let her come. Rowan doesn't like her, right?"

The picture snapped into focus. This was Fallon trying to flex on me.

Back in the day, she pulled every pathetic stunt in the book to drag Tristan out of my bed. Faking a panic attack. Threatening to jump off a balcony. Cheap, juvenile tricks.

And Tristan fell for every single one.

Now, she had my son wrapped around her finger too. She really thought she won the ultimate prize.

The joke was on her. I never even wanted to compete for that trash.

A dry chuckle escaped my lips. "Rowan, I actually do have a present for you. I'm dying tomorrow. Do you believe me?"

Dead silence stretched for two whole seconds.

Then, a shaky little voice echoed through the speaker. "What are you talking about? Just because I don't want you to be my mom anymore doesn't mean you have to kill yourself."

It only took one week. He completely absorbed Tristan's narcissistic cadence.

Disgust dripped from his childish pitch. "Do you really think faking a stunt like that will make me like you? Are you trying to guilt-trip me into inviting you to my birthday? Ugh, you are so immature!"

Every single syllable stabbed like a switchblade.

Any other mother would have absolutely lost her mind hearing that from her own flesh and blood. But the ashes in my chest were already cold.

Rowan didn't believe me. The physical evidence would teach him a brutal lesson tomorrow.

The next morning, I followed Brock and his crew to an abandoned warehouse in Queens to stage the crime scene. I rolled around in the dirt, roughing up my clothes to make the struggle look authentic.

I paused, looking up at Cleo. "Is Tristan seriously the only billionaire we can extort for this setup?"

Chapter 7

Before I even finished my sentence, the call connected.

"Listen closely, Tristan. We have Beatrice." Brock's gravelly voice spoke into the receiver.

A heavy pause echoed through the line.

"What kind of stunt is this?" Tristan's voice dripped with bored annoyance. "Do you really think faking a kidnapping will make me hand Rowan back to you?"

"Listen, Tristan. We execute the hostage in three hours."

A low, mocking chuckle vibrated from the speaker. "Beatrice, this is pathetic," Tristan drawled, his tone utterly dismissive. "You terrorized Rowan yesterday, and now you're trying to play mind games with me? Well then. Have fun reuniting with your dead parents."

The line went dead.

Cleo stood frozen in shock. A second later, pure fury hijacked her features. "What a psychotic piece of trash! I'm going to rip his throat out