Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
And then, mercifully, her instincts kicked in.
“Vincent, I need to go to the fourth floor…” she blurted out, abruptly standing up from the sofa.
His brows furrowed.
“Why?”
“To pack my clothes. And Oliver’s,” she said quickly, refusing to meet his eyes.
“No need. I’ll have someone do it for you.”
Her head turned to see him. “Please, no!”
“Why not?” His brows rose, curious.
Her cheeks flamed so hot she thought she might blush now. “How could someone else touch my… underwear?”
Silence. Thick and heavy.
Then she caught the look in his eyes, the slow, meaningful smile spreading across his face. A smile that made her knees weak and her blood rush.
‘Oh no…’
Before he could say a single word, before he could tease her, or worse, agree to help, Helen grabbed the doorknob, yanked it open, and darted out, her face as red as Oliver’s toy firetruck.
She didn’t slow down, didn’t dare look back, for fear he was following her.
…
While the sweetness between Vincent and Helen blossomed within the walls of their apartment, the outside world was not so kind.
Just minutes ago, a popular gossip blog updated its feed.
Blurry photographs filled the screen: Vincent Moretti, the elusive Playboy CEO, driving through the streets of Willowcrest. Another shot showed him behind the wheel with a woman beside him.
The clickbait caption screamed in bold, scandalous letters:
[ Is the nation’s most eligible bachelor hiding a secret lover in Willowcrest? ]
Speculation exploded instantly.
The blog’s comment section overflowed. Some fans were outraged, others heartbroken:
“Who is the woman?”
“Please find her identity. Tag me if you guys find out.”
“Damn! Why is the picture of the woman so blurry?”
“Can someone hack the street CCTV? Please track where they’re heading.”
“Whoa! I need to fly to Willowcrest right now. I have to see it with my own eyes. I can’t believe my future husband found another woman.”
…
The story spread like wildfire across social media. Whispers turned into screaming headlines on news and gossip portals.
Within minutes, it was trending everywhere.
And Vincent’s business rivals and nemesis leaned closer to their screens, already sensing an opportunity to find his weakness.
Rest.
That was all Vincent needed after flying across the continent and rushing straight to Willowcrest just to meet Helen and Oliver.
While Helen busied herself on the fourth floor, Vincent finally allowed himself a moment of peace.
He stretched out his long body across the three-seater sofa, one arm draped over his face, and let out a quiet breath. Sleep. That was the plan.
But fate, apparently, had other plans. Not even five minutes later, just as his body began to relax, a shrill ringtone shattered the quiet.
Vincent’s eyes snapped open.
He didn’t move, not yet. Maybe it will stop. Perhaps the caller would give up.
It stopped.
Then, seconds later, it started again. Louder, more insistent.
He clenched his teeth, giving up all hope of rest.
With a deep sigh, he sat up. He scanned the room until his gaze landed on Helen’s bag, perched innocently on the single sofa opposite him.
The noise vibrated from inside it like a villain who ruins his rest.
Vincent considered turning the damn thing off, but that felt rude, even for him. Instead, he stared at the bag like he could intimidate the phone into silence. But of course it didn’t work.
Resigned heavily, he stood up, grabbed the bag, and headed toward the door, planning to take it to Helen downstairs.
But just as he reached the doorway, the sound of the door opening stopped him. Oliver emerged from his bedroom, eyes wide with childish curiosity.
“Daddy?” He asked, tilting his head when he noticed Vincent holding Helen’s bag. “Ohhh, Mommy’s phone is ringing?”
“Yes,” Vincent replied calmly, though he felt oddly caught red-handed holding Helen’s bag. “She’s on the fourth floor. I was about to take it to her. Whoever’s calling doesn’t seem like they’ll stop anytime soon.”
Oliver’s eyes brightened.
“Oh, let me check.”
Before Vincent could object, his son stepped forward. Vincent, curious despite himself, handed him the bag.
Oliver fished out the phone, squinting at the screen.
“Can you read?” Vincent asked.
“Mm-hmm. Of course,” Oliver responded matter-of-factly.
Another surprise. Vincent arched his brow. His three-year-old son could already read? Helen had conveniently forgotten to mention that.
“Daddy, it says ‘Uncle Oscar.'”
“Uncle Oscar?” Vincent repeated, leaning closer. And sure enough, the screen confirmed it: Oscar with a heart icon after the name. The heart beside the name made his jaw tighten.
Before Vincent could ask to return the phone to bring it to Helen, Oliver had already pressed ‘Answer’.
The speaker crackled, and a deep male voice filled the room. “Elle? Why are you so slow to pick up?”
Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he cheerfully replied, “Uncle Oscar, this is me.” He shot Vincent a smile and, with exaggerated seriousness, tugged on his father’s hand to lead him toward the seating area.
“Eh? Hi, buddy!” The man’s tone softened immediately. “Where’s Mommy? Can you put her on the phone?”
“Mommy is downstairs. On the fourth floor,” Oliver explained, swinging his legs as he perched on the sofa. Then he added with devastating innocence, “But you can talk to my Daddy.”
The other end went silent for a beat. Then came a shocked question. “Your WHAT? Your… Daddy?”
Oliver nodded proudly at the phone, though Oscar obviously couldn’t see it. Without hesitation, he shoved the phone into Vincent’s large hand as though handing over a bomb.
And then, just like that, Oliver hopped down from the sofa, humming to himself, and dashed toward the kitchen, leaving Vincent holding the phone and the awkward silence that followed.
Vincent gazed at the device, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.
“Why are you calling Helen?” he finally said, his deep voice blending curiosity and warning.
The line falls silent once more. Before Oscar’s voice sounds again, he asks, “…Who is this?”
Vincent leaned back against the sofa, his expression calm but his tone sharp, “This is Helen’s husband.”
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint sound of Oliver in the kitchen opening and slamming drawers as if hunting for cookies.
Vincent’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. Rest would have to wait. This, suddenly, was far more interesting.
“E-Helen’s husband? What do you mean?” Oscar’s voice came slow and hesitant, then suddenly sped up like a rapper tripping over his own words. “You said you’re Oliver’s daddy? Hahaha… are you joking? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m Oliver’s dad. Don’t talk nonsense in front of my three-year-old son!”
Vincent froze. His jaw tightened to hear his nonsense. A sharp fury built in his chest, but before he could unleash it, Oliver came bouncing back, carrying a glass of milk with both hands.
“Uncle Oscar, he’s my daddy… Don’t lie… That’s not good.” Oliver announced again, climbing back onto the sofa.
The other end of the call crackled before Oscar’s panicked voice cut in.
“Little buddy, don’t trust anyone, alright? That man must be lying. Impossible! You already have a daddy, and I know for sure who your daddy is. Quick, call Mommy. Tell her to kick that man out of the house!”
Vincent’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone. It took every ounce of control not to let his temper loose in front of his son. Still, his voice came sharp and cutting before he could stop himself. “Excuse me!?”
“Damn it! Can you stop taking the phone from Oliver?” Oscar snapped.
