Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: You Can't Afford Me by Thedora Birnir

Chapter 239

Chapter 239 You Will Regret This

“Did you find him?”

Ernest’s gaze hardened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

His eyes flickered toward Linda, hesitation gripping him like a vice. He parted his lips slightly, as if on the verge of speaking, but in the end, he turned away in silence.

Linda’s breath hitched. Her heart pounded in disbelief. “Ernest! Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

At the sharpness of her tone, Ernest faltered. His shoulders stiffened before he slowly turned back, his expression a tangled mess of conflict and regret.

“Ernest!”

Linda lunged forward, fingers digging into his arm, her grip tight, desperate. Her swollen, tear–rimmed eyes bore into his as she shook her head, her voice low but seething. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

“Linda…”

His brow creased, his eyes dark with something unspoken. He held her gaze for a long, aching moment before

exhaling deeply.

Gently, deliberately, he pried her fingers from his arm. “We’ll talk when I return.”

The words hit her like a blow. Linda staggered back, her breath shuddering

Ernest spared her one last glance before turning away.

“Ernest! Ernest!”

Her voice cracked, desperation spilling into the empty space between them.

Nyla came rushing over, her brows knitted in confusion. She had caught fragments of the exchange, but none

of it made sense.

“Linda, what’s happening? What is all this?*

“Nyla

Linda spun toward her, her hands gripping Nyla’s arm like a lifeline, tears pooling in her eyes. “I need to know,” she whispered, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “I need to know what he’s been hiding from me.”

In the car

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“Um… Mr. Flynn?” Quentin’s sharp eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Miss Harris is following us.”

Ernest remained unfazed, his expression unreadable. His voice, cool and unwavering, cut through the silence.

“Let her.”

Quentin gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

Their destination was already set–an orphanage.

The call had come unexpectedly. The orphanage director had informed them that the child had returned.

The boy was bright–eyed and healthy, his face carrying the kind of charm that made adoption seem inevitable.

Yet, fate had been unkind.

him six months later when they had a biological

took him in, promising stability. But a year later,

broken vows, was

Quentin had

twice before even understanding what love truly meant, the boy’s once–lively spirit had faded into guarded silence. A heart too young to bear such burdens had already learned the sting

to take him in, the director

concern.

this carefully. Raising a child is an act of devotion, both to him and

said.

clear–if Ernest couldn’t commit, he shouldn’t take the boy

break the child in ways

Ernest had met her gaze with firm resolve. “Rest assured,” he had said, his tone leaving no

finest comforts–everything money could offer. Personal caregivers, a home

yet, despite it all, the child

as the car rolled to a stop, Ernest’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings. The director stood waiting

outside

you, Mr. Flynn, she greeted,

“You too.”

demeanor steady. But as his eyes searched for the

His voice, usually composed, held an unfamiliar edge of concern. “Is

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offered a reassuring nod. “He’s

a wooden step stool, his small frame hunched

of cookies.

so young, yet the road back to the orphanage had been long and difficult. Running away from Maple Bay, searching for a place that felt safe–it was too

clothes were rumpled and stained with dust, his little face smudged with

devoured the cookies as if he

dry, and for the

his eyes.

closer as if afraid that one wrong move

“Locke,” he whispered.

he heard his name, his little

“Locke…”

ruffle the boy’s hair, to offer a

the stool, his small legs carrying him straight to the director, where he clung to her tightly, hiding behind her like

fell to his

stroking Locke’s back in a soothing

Mr. Flynn. He adopted you, remember? You’re

“No!”

head snapped up, his big, teary eyes

good boy! Let me stay here, please!”

“But, Locke…”

be good and follow Mr. Flynn. You’ll live in a big house, eat all the good food you want, wear new clothes, go to

his tiny frame trembling as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “I don’t want to!” Nothing

toward Ernest, searching his face for any sign of frustration or impatience. “Mr. Flynn, this child has been

right away. His face betrayed no anger, no irritation–just quiet understanding. Leaning slightly on his cane, he took a step forward,

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extended his hand toward Locke.

his voice was softer this time, steady

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