The Billionaire's Revenge She Made Me Jump

My wife wanted to throw our one-month-old daughter off the roof.

The reason? The infant had urinated on her childhood sweetheart.

"You ignorant beast!" Joanna Fox screamed, her face twisted with pure loathing. "You're a waste of air. You might as well die!"

I fought to restrain her, my mind reeling. How could a mother demand the death of her own child over something so trivial?

My confusion ended when Joanna collapsed into Matthew Dickerson's arms. She pointed a trembling finger at me, sobbing.

"If it weren't for that accident... if I hadn't gotten pregnant with this bastard child, I wouldn't have lost Matt!" she wailed. "I wouldn't have been forced to marry down to a stinking chauffeur like you!"

She buried her face in Matthew's chest. "You ruined my love, and now this bastard is going to ruin my life!"

I stared at her, watching the hatred burn in her eyes. The fog of my one-sided love finally lifted. I saw how profound my stupidity had been.

I hadn't even found the right moment to tell her the truth: I wasn't just a chauffeur. I was the heir to the Farley Group, the son of the wealthiest man in the country.

Now, there was no need.

My daughter wailed in my arms. I held her close, shielding her from the woman who gave her life but wished her death. Without looking back, I stepped off the ledge.

Six years later.

A little girl with eyes that mirrored Joanna Fox's took center stage, claiming first place in the national ballet competition.

Joanna, seated at the judges' table, nearly lost her composure. The resemblance was undeniable. Subconsciously, she called out to the child.

"Auntie, you're mistaken," the girl said, her voice crisp over the microphone. "I have a mommy."

——

Joanna's face drained of color. She scrambled through the contestant files, hands shaking, until her eyes locked on a specific page.

"Your name is Lucy Farley? Is your father Asher Farley?"

Lucy clutched her bouquet and offered an innocent, sugary smile. "Yes."

Joanna abandoned all propriety. She scrambled down from the platform, her voice rising to a shriek.

"Asher Farley is my husband! I didn't expect that bastard to still be alive!"

Lucy tilted her head, her expression shifting to exaggerated pity.

"Auntie, are you... experiencing a neurological episode?"

She poked her own temple. "My mommy is a world-famous brain specialist. She could perform a craniotomy for you. Sounds like you need to drain some excess fluid from your head."

Stunned silence. Then a ripple of stifled laughter.

The mockery snapped Joanna's last thread of reason. She lunged forward, reaching for Lucy. "Come with me!"

Before she could touch the girl, I stepped out from the shadows. I moved swiftly, placing myself between the crazed woman and my daughter.

Joanna froze. Her pupils contracted, her breath hitching as if she were staring at a ghost.

"Asher?" Her voice trembled. "You didn't die?"

The revelation sent a shockwave through the crowd. Whispers ceased. All eyes locked on me.

The man who had jumped from a rooftop six years ago was standing here, alive.

A figure shoved through the stunned onlookers. Matthew Dickerson.

He looked me up and down, his lip curling into a sneer.

"So, it is you. The Farley chauffeur."

Matthew crossed his arms, radiating arrogance. "You staged that suicide six years ago as a ploy for sympathy, didn't you? And now you're dragging the kid back into the spotlight. Quite the performance."

His gaze swept over Lucy and me with undisguised contempt.

"I see what this is. It's no coincidence she took first place today. No coincidence she ran into Joanna."

He stepped closer, raising his voice for the audience. "You orchestrated the whole thing. Trained the girl to act cute, win over the judges, and deliberately let Joanna recognize her. You're using the child as a pawn to claw your way back into the Fox family fortune."

Matthew laughed darkly. "And the kid—so young, yet so manipulative. Calling her own biological mother 'Auntie,' playing hard-to-get. Like father, like daughter. Truly calculating."

As his accusations hung in the air, the atmosphere shifted. The audience's gaze turned suspicious, and murmurs rose once more—sharp and judging.