CEO Daddy, Our Son Was Stolen!
Description
Six years ago, Selene Alvaroz's life changed forever. One reckless night, one wrong drink-and she woke up in an unfamiliar bed, her memories erased. Then came the shock: she was pregnant. Abandoned by her mother and forced to raise twins alone, Selene mourned the third baby she was told didn't survive. She never questioned it-until now. Because Dominic Castellano, the ruthless billionaire she barely remembers, just walked back into her life with a chilling revelation: "Your son didn't die. He was stolen."
Chapter 1
Jun 24, 2025
Selene Alvaroz’s POV
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”
The words hit me like a freight train, crushing me under their weight. I pulled my jacket tighter. My breath stalls, my heart slams against my ribs, and my entire body locks up. The doctor keeps talking, but his voice is distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
My father was fine. He was here. He was fighting. He was alive. I clamp down on the hospital chair's sides, my nails biting into the plastic armrests, desperation clawing at me to stay anchored.
“Miss Alvaroz—”
A hand reaches for me. I jerk back so fast the chair tips over, my feet stumbling against the slick tile floor. My chest constricts, my lungs burning with the effort to draw breath, as a guttural, agonizing cry tears from my throat.
I don’t even recognize it. I turn and run.
The hospital doors burst open, and cold air slams into me.
The rain is unyielding, cascading in torrents, drenching my dress almost instantly. My tears blend seamlessly with the rain, obscuring my vision and transforming the world into a watery, warped spectacle.
I keep walking. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care.
The city moves around me—cars streak by, while figures cluster beneath umbrellas, their laughter and chatter filling the air.
They don’t see me. No one sees the girl who just lost the only family she had left. I trudge on for what seems like an eternity, my legs protesting, my body in shell, yet I cannot halt my steps. Stopping means thinking. Thinking means remembering. Remembering means breaking.
A neon glow flickers ahead. The Black Orchid Bar.
I push through the door, and the world inside is loud.
The heavy bass of music vibrates through the floor. The pungent aroma of liquor mingles with the acrid smell of cigarettes, permeating the air. Laughter erupts from a nearby booth, someone clinks their glass against one another, voices overlap in meaningless conversations.
It all feels so wrong.
I slide onto a barstool, clutching the edge of the counter as if it were my sole anchor amidst the storm within. The bartender’s gaze pierces through my dripping clothes, my smeared mascara, and my trembling fingers, unasking yet understanding.
He doesn’t ask questions. He just pours the drink.
I lift the glass to my lips. The whiskey blazes a trail down my throat, searing with its fiery warmth, yet failing to thaw the icy void that grips my heart.
Good. I drink again. And again.
The stool rocks beneath me, perhaps it's me swaying. The room leans gently, my sorrow's edges fuzzing, deadening, enough to make me momentarily overlook—a figure nearby.
I feel him before I see him. A shadow at my side. Tall. Solid. Unignorable. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His voice is deep, rough, the kind that demands attention even when spoken softly.
I turn my head languidly, blinking up at him with effort. The dim bar lighting casts stark shadows across his face, yet I discern the chiseled jawline, the enigmatic eyes, and the manner in which he carries himself—composed, formidable, menacing.
I try to speak, but my tongue feels heavy. The room tilts again.
His hand steadies my arm as I stumble. His grip is unwavering, warm, reassuring.
“You need to go home,” he murmurs.
Home, the word stabs through me.
“There is no home,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, something flickering in his expression. He exhales, and before I can protest, everything shifts. My vision tunnels and the world spins. Then—nothing.
***
The next day, I wake up to silence. The air is too still and the room is too dark. My body feels strange, heavy, sore, and wrong.
A sluggish, revolting rhythm pulsates deep within my groin, raw and relentless, as if my very essence were being torn apart. My stomach twists, nausea creeping in, turning my insides into a knot.
The sheets beneath me are soft. Excessively soft, the air carries an unnerving purity of scent.
This isn’t my bed.
Panic ripples through my chest like wildfire. I jerk upright, only to be met with a searing, unbearable pain. My fingers dig into the sheets, each breath a ragged whisper of terror.
And then—I see it. Blood. Dark red, staining the pristine white sheets.
My stomach lurches. I scramble up, my hands trembling as I clutch at my dress—or what’s left of it.
The fabric rips apart, clinging precariously to my form. My skin is marred by bruises, dark blossoms that spread across my thighs, arms, and ribs like sinister tattoos.
No, no, no.
My chest constricts, my lungs blaze with pain, and my thoughts swirl into a chaotic vortex. The bar. The whiskey. Him.
But after that—nothing. The edges of my memory are black, a void where there should be something. A sob builds in my throat, but I can’t let it out. I can’t break. I can’t afford to break.
My fingers claw at the sheets, grasping at the undeniable, unforgiving evidence etched into my flesh.
I don’t know what happened.
I don’t know who did this.
CEO Daddy, Our Son Was Stolen!
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