My Son Mistook The Heir For His Dad

"Master Bruno is missing!"

The Ryan estate in Port City was in complete chaos. Every light was blazing, and the air crackled with panic. Bruno Ryan—heir to the Ryan Group empire—had vanished without a trace.

Mr. Ryan, the patriarch, was a wreck. His hands trembled, his voice cracking with desperation. "If it's a kidnapping, they'll be making demands any minute. Pay them—whatever it takes!" He barked the order, then his tone dropped to a frantic whisper. "And we keep this quiet. The media gets a whiff of this, it could set the bastards off. And that means he's dead. Got it?"

---

Several hundred miles away, in the sleepy little town of Westfield, Cecilia Dunn was chugging home in her beat-up old truck. It was just past nine when she stomped on the brakes, heart in her throat. She'd almost run right over a figure slumped at the side of the road.

Gulping down her shock, Cecilia squinted through the windshield. The guy was barely holding on, his face ashen and slick with blood. She wasn't the type to stick her nose in other people's messes, but damn, she couldn't just leave him like that.

"Help... me... I'll give you half a million..." the bloodied stranger rasped, his voice weak but urgent.

Cecilia's thumb froze over the emergency-call button. "Come again?! Half a mil?!"

On her shoestring budget and pitiful paychecks, that kind of cash was next to impossible. Pure fantasy.

"Don't... tell anyone... where I am..." Bruno managed before his body went limp, pressing a heavy gold ring into her palm.

Cecilia blinked at the expensive piece, then glanced at his wounds. Summoning every ounce of strength, she grunted and hauled him into the truck. With every second she wasted, she felt like she was straight-up disrespecting that half-a-million-dollar promise, she thought.

As she scrambled to leave, a glint on the ground caught her eye. Her locket—the one she always kept at home.

"That sneaky little Santos, always shoving things in my bag!" she huffed, snatching up the necklace and shoving it into her pocket before peeling out.

Back at home, it took hours to clean the guy up. She went through his clothes—no ID, no phone, just a thick cloud of mystery clinging to him like a second skin. And this whole needing-to-stay-hidden situation? Yeah, that screamed trouble.

Unsure if she'd just dragged a dangerous man into her house, she didn't take chances. She cuffed his wrists and tied his ankles to the bedposts. Better safe than dead, right?

Then, as she turned to toss a blanket over him, she froze. And stared.

There was Bruno, sprawled out in nothing but his boxers, bound and helpless. Up close, she'd been too focused on his injuries to notice... well, the rest of him. The sculpted chest, the abs that looked like they'd been carved from stone, the lean, sinewy limbs—and a face that belonged on a goddamn magazine cover. It was almost unreal.

"Is this, like... performance art or something?" she breathed, her heart hammering harder than it had any right to. Her cheeks flushed.

After a few more jaw-dropped moments of sheer awe, she finally managed to cover him up and shuffle off to her own bed, bone-tired and more than a little flustered.

---

The next morning, little Santos wobbled his way to the bathroom. Peeking into the next room, his eyes went wide at the stranger on the bed.

"Daddy?" he squealed, tiny face lighting up. "Daddy, you came back!"

The sound pulled Bruno partway from unconsciousness. He cracked his eyes open to the sight of a small boy beaming down at him.

"What did you just call me?" Bruno's voice was gravelly but held an edge of command.

"Daddy! Mommy said you'd be back for my birthday, and here you are!" Santos chirped, completely unafraid.

Bruno's brow furrowed, confusion clouding his features. He took in the cramped, cluttered room, the unfamiliar smells, the musty blanket. Everything about this felt wrong. He tried to move, only to realize his limbs were locked down.

He looked down—handcuffs on his wrists, ropes binding his ankles. His expression darkened like thunder. "Get your parents in here. Now."

Cecilia jolted awake, groggy and disoriented. Her hand reached for Santos and found empty sheets. Barefoot and panicked, she rushed into the next room.

"Santos!"

He leaped into her arms, all giggles. "Mommy, Daddy really came back!"

Bruno's cold stare cut right through her. He lifted his cuffed wrists. "What the hell is this?"

Relief flooded her that her son was safe. She grabbed the key. "Just a precaution. Didn't want you thrashing around and hurting yourself in your sleep."

Yeah, like anyone over the age of three would fall for that, she thought as she unlocked the cuffs and untied the ropes.

Bruno flexed his freed wrists, his eyes never leaving hers. And then his voice went frostier than a January morning. "Who am I?"

Cecilia froze, speechless for a beat.

Seriously? Faking amnesia to dodge payment? Her mood curdled. "You've gotta be kidding me!"

But Bruno's expression was dead serious, his eyes searching for answers she didn't have. "I'm not joking. I can't remember a thing. Who am I? How do I know you? Where am I?"

The rapid-fire questions tipped her irritation toward genuine worry. No one could be this calm if their memory was truly gone. He had to be putting on a show.

Forcing a scowl, she snapped, "You're my freaking husband, that's who! Don't think you can fake a little amnesia and weasel out of your responsibilities!"

Doubt flickered in Bruno's eyes. Deep in his gut, he knew he didn't belong in this rundown house, or with this sharp-tongued woman.

But Cecilia's mind was stuck on one thing: that half-a-million-dollar promise slipping through her fingers. Frustration coiled tight in her chest. She clenched her teeth.

"Yes!" she declared, jaw set. "You're my husband!"

The word had barely left her lips when Bruno moved. With one fluid motion, he flipped her onto the bed, pinning her beneath him.

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "If we're really husband and wife... prove it."