Billionaire Pretends to Be Homeless, But the Poor Girl Knows His Biggest Secret
Chapter 3
Alexander stayed in Lily’s apartment for an hour.
Neither of them spoke much.
Her small living room felt strange compared with every place he’d ever lived.
One sofa.
One table.
A broken lamp.
A tiny bookshelf.
Photographs taped to the wall.
Everything had a purpose.
Nothing was decorative.
Nothing was wasted.
“This is where you live?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Four years.”
“You’ve never wanted somewhere bigger?”
Lily smiled.
“I wanted somewhere I could afford.”
He looked at her.
“You’re always calculating.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not.”
“You count exits.”
Alexander frowned.
“What?”
“You looked at the door three times since you came inside.”
He almost laughed.
“You notice everything.”
“Yes.”
She sat down.
“Tell me about my mother.”
Alexander sat opposite her.
“I barely knew her.”
“That’s not true.”
He looked surprised.
“My father knew her.”
“How?”
“She worked for him.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know.”
Lily leaned forward.
“You do know.”
Alexander studied her.
She was right.
His father had employed Margaret Carter as a financial investigator.
But she hadn’t been ordinary staff.
She had been searching for something.
Money missing from company accounts.
Transfers to shell organizations.
Payments that vanished into charities that didn’t exist.
Richard Reed had suspected someone inside the company.
He had asked Margaret to investigate.
Then she disappeared.
Three weeks later, Richard died.
The investigation ended.
At least publicly.
Alexander had never known the details.
“What really happened to your mother?” he asked.
“The official story was a car accident.”
“And you don’t believe it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she was terrified before she died.”
Alexander leaned closer.
“What did she say?”
Lily hesitated.
“She told me someone was trying to find something she’d hidden.”
“What?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Did she leave anything?”
Lily looked toward a small wooden box on the shelf.
“Yes.”
She brought it over.
Inside were letters, receipts, old photographs, and a brass key.
Alexander picked up the key.
“Do you know what it opens?”
“No.”
“Why haven’t you tried?”
“I was afraid.”
He looked at her.
“Of what?”
“Finding out I was right.”
Alexander understood.
Sometimes truth didn’t solve fear.
It confirmed it.
His phone vibrated.
A message.
DO NOT TAKE HER TO THE STORAGE FACILITY.
Alexander’s blood ran cold.
He hadn’t told anyone about the key.
“How did they know?”
Lily watched his face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She stood.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t know how dangerous this is.”
“And you don’t know me well enough to decide what I can handle.”
Alexander stared.
Then slowly nodded.
“Fine.”
They drove to the old storage facility that night.
The brass key opened locker 214.
Inside was a metal box.
Lily’s hands shook.
Alexander opened it.
There were bank records.
Photographs.
A handwritten ledger.
And a recording device.
He pressed play.
Margaret’s voice filled the darkness.
“If Lily is hearing this, then I failed.”
Lily covered her mouth.
Her mother’s voice continued.
“Richard trusted the wrong person.”
Alexander stared at the device.
Margaret went on.
“The stolen money isn’t being used for personal wealth.”
“It’s being moved to build something.”
“Something far more dangerous than a company.”
The recording crackled.
Then one final sentence.
“The man you call a hero is the one you should fear.”
The recording ended.
Lily looked at Alexander.
“Who was she talking about?”
He didn’t answer.
Because the only person his father ever called a hero was his own brother.
Thomas Reed.
Alexander’s uncle.
Chairman of Reed Holdings.
The man who had raised Alexander after his parents died.
The man Alexander had trusted all his life.
Then Lily found another piece of paper.
A child’s drawing.
A house.
A tree.
And three words.
Alexander knows.
She stared.
“I was a child.”
Alexander took the page.
On the back was the date.
Twenty years ago.
He looked at Lily.
“I wasn’t there.”
She shook her head.
“I know.”
Then something else caught his eye.
At the bottom of the drawing was a tiny symbol.
A black circle with a line through it.
Alexander recognized it immediately.
His father’s secret organization.
The symbol nobody outside the family was supposed to know.
He looked at Lily.
“How did your mother know this symbol?”
Lily’s voice was barely audible.
“I don’t think she did.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother didn’t draw that.”
“Then who did?”
Lily looked at him.
“You did.”
Alexander stared.
And suddenly, an old memory returned.
He was eight years old.
Sitting at his father’s desk.
A little girl stood beside him.
Brown hair.
Green eyes.
She was crying.
He had drawn the symbol on a piece of paper.
Then his father had walked in.
Alexander remembered the next sentence clearly.
“You must never tell her who you are.”
