Tipping The Billionaire: His Runaway Lover

The smell of stale beer and cheap cigarettes hit Alida the moment she pushed open the door to the Brooklyn apartment.

"Dad?" Alida called out, stepping into the cramped living room.

Arthur McGowan sat hunched at the kitchen table, a violent coughing fit shaking his frail shoulders. When he looked up and saw Alida, tears welled in his cloudy eyes.

"Alida... my girl," he rasped.

Alida rushed forward, hugging him tightly. Her throat tightened at how thin he had become.

The bedroom door slammed open. Brenda, Alida's stepmother, stood there in a ratty bathrobe, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her eyes narrowed as they landed on Alida's designer suit.

"Well, look who decided to show up," Brenda sneered. "Your father's medical bills are three months past due. Pay up."

Alida's spine stiffened. She reached into her bag and pulled out a sleek black credit card. "I will pay the hospital directly. You won't see a dime of this to feed your gambling habit."

Brenda's face flushed an ugly red. She spat the cigarette onto the floor and pointed a jagged fingernail at Damion, who was standing quietly by the door.

"You think you're so high and mighty?" Brenda shrieked. "Coming back here with your little bastard child! Who's the father, huh? Some trick you turned in London?"

Alida's blood turned to ice.

She moved faster than Brenda could react. Alida grabbed Brenda's outstretched finger and bent it backward with brutal force.

Brenda screamed, dropping to her knees, her face contorted in agony.

"Keep your filthy mouth shut," Alida said, her voice a deadly whisper. "Or I cut off the allowance I send Dad, and you starve."

Arthur buried his face in his hands. "Alida, please..."

Alida released the finger. She looked at her father. "Pack your bags, Dad. I rented a place in Manhattan. You're leaving this toxic dump today."

Damion wrinkled his nose at the smell of the apartment. "Mom, I'm going to the park. It stinks in here."

"Stay where I can see you from the window," Alida commanded, already pulling suitcases from the closet.

Damion walked down the block to the neighborhood park. He sat on a green bench, pulling a Rubik's cube from his pocket.

A few yards away, Ephriam Vaughn stood under an oak tree. His bodyguards had tracked the Lincoln to this neighborhood. Ephriam saw the boy sitting alone.

Ephriam gripped his cane and slowly walked over, sitting on the opposite end of the bench.

Damion saw the old man's reflection in the polished surface of a passing car. He kept his eyes on the Rubik's cube.

"That's a difficult puzzle for a young boy," Ephriam said, trying to sound grandfatherly. He pulled a box of artisan chocolates from his coat pocket. "Would you like one?"

"No thank you, sir. My mom says I shouldn't take food from strangers," Damion said, his voice perfectly mimicking a naive child.

"Smart mother," Ephriam probed. "Where is your father? Does he work in the city? Wall Street, perhaps?"

Damion stopped turning the cube. He lowered his head. He forced his breathing to hitch, squeezing his eyes shut until two genuine-looking tears squeezed out and rolled down his cheeks.

"My dad is dead," Damion sniffled, his voice trembling perfectly. "He was a math teacher at a public school. He died in a car crash before I was born."

Damion shifted his arm, subtly exposing a small, frayed patch on the elbow of his jacket-a deliberate modification he had made earlier.

Ephriam's eyes locked onto the patch. The tears. The story of the poor math teacher.

The old man's intense scrutiny wavered. Jax Vaughn would never sleep with a woman who bought patched clothes for her child. The idea was absurd. The bloodline of Vaughn was pristine.

Ephriam let out a long breath, feeling foolish. It was just a coincidence. A trick of the light and genetics.

"I'm sorry for your loss, boy," Ephriam muttered. He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, and walked away, signaling his hidden guards to retreat.

Damion waited until the old man was out of sight. He wiped the tears from his face. His expression went dead.

With a few rapid twists, the Rubik's cube clicked into perfect, solid colors.