THE UNDERESTIMATED BILLIONAIRE TYCOON

Saving A Stranger

Blake's phone rang before he'd made it to his car.

"President Blake, excellent news." Sam's voice was bright. "The share transfer for Stratton Industries is nearly finalized. Two days from now, right after Mrs. Blake rings the Nasdaq bell, we can present it to her. The paperwork—"

"Stop it."

Silence.

Blake stared at the house behind him—the one he'd paid for, filled with people who despised him. "It won't be necessary."

"Sir?"

"I filed for divorce today." The words tasted like ash. "In three days, I'll return to collect the signed papers. Handle the share transfer yourself. Do whatever you want with it."

"Sir, are you—"

"I need some peace, Sam. That's all."

He hung up before Sam could respond.

The car felt suffocating. The house felt suffocating. Everything felt like a cage he'd built with his own hands.

There was only one place left—his mother's grave

_____

The cemetery was empty.

Blake preferred it that way. No pitying glances. No questions. Just silence and the woman who'd actually loved him.

His mother's headstone was simple. She'd hated extravagance.

Grace Chris. Beloved Mother. 1965-2019.

Blake knelt, ignoring the damp earth soaking through his pants. "I'm sorry, Mum."

The wind rustled through the trees. No answer. There never was.

"You told me to marry for love. I thought I did." His throat tightened. "I thought if I gave her everything—if I made her dreams come true—she'd see me. Really see me."

A bird called somewhere in the distance.

"She's with him now. Her first love. The one who came back." Blake laughed, bitter and broken. "I gave her an empire, and she gave me a video of her kissing another man."

His hands curled into fists. "You'd be disappointed in me. I know. You raised me to be stronger than this."

The headstone offered no comfort. No absolution.

"I'm done, Ma. I'm finally—"

A scream shattered the silence.

Blake's head snapped up. Female. Close. Terrified.

"Please! Someone—help!"

He was running before conscious thought caught up.

The scene was wrong in every way that mattered.

Three men. One woman. Blades catching afternoon light.

The woman was backed against a mausoleum, hands raised, face pale. She was young—mid-twenties maybe—dressed in business clothes that had seen better days.

The men circled her like wolves.

"Even if you scream your lungs out," the leader said, grinning with too many teeth, "no one's coming. Cemetery's empty, sweetheart. Just you, us, and all this privacy."

"Be a good girl," another one added, flipping his knife casually. "Make it easy on yourself."

The third one laughed. "We'll be gentle. Maybe."

The woman's breath came in short gasps. Her eyes darted, looking for an exit that didn't exist.

"Stop."

Blake's voice cut through the clearing like a blade.

All three men turned.

The leader looked Blake up and down—saw a man in house clothes, thin build, no visible weapons—and laughed. "You lost, buddy?"

"Leave. Now."

"Or what?" The second man stepped forward, knife raised. "You gonna stop us? Look at you. I could snap you in half."

"We're busy here," the leader added. "Walk away before we add another body to this cemetery."

Blake smiled. No warmth. No humor. Just the expression of a man who'd run out of patience for stupidity.

"Your mistake."

He moved.

The leader didn't even see the kick coming. One moment his knife was in his hand, the next it was spinning through the air, and Blake's foot was already planted in his chest. The man flew backward, crashed into the mausoleum with a sickening crack.

The second man lunged with his blade. Blake sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, twisted until bone met bone at the wrong angle. The knife clattered to the ground. The man screamed.

The third tried to run.

Blake grabbed him by the collar, swung him around, and slammed him into the other two. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and groans.

"Please," the leader wheezed, clutching his ribs. "We didn't know—we're sorry—"

"Get out."

They scrambled like roaches in sudden light, limping and cursing, leaving their weapons behind.

Silence returned to the cemetery.

Blake turned to the woman.

She was staring at him with something between awe and terror. "You—how did you—"

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, but her legs were trembling. "They grabbed me when I came to visit my father's grave. I thought—" Her voice broke.

Blake stepped closer. "It's over. You're safe now."

"Thank you." She tried to smile. Failed. "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't—"

Then he saw it.

Her face was too flushed. Her pupils too dilated. Her breathing too shallow.

"When did they grab you?" Blake asked sharply.

"Maybe twenty minutes ago? One of them put a cloth over my face before I could scream. It smelled sweet, and then everything got—" She swayed. "—dizzy."

Drugged.

Blake caught her arm. "Listen to me. Did they give you anything? Make you drink something?"

"No, just the cloth—" Her knees buckled.

He caught her before she hit the ground. Her skin was burning up.

"Hey. Stay with me." Blake lifted her chin, forcing her to focus. "What's your name?"

"Emma." Her voice was fading. "Emma Kane."

"Emma, you've been drugged. I need to get you help. Can you walk?"

"I feel—" Her eyes rolled back. "—wrong. Everything's wrong. It's so hot—"

Her body convulsed once, violently.

"Twelve hours," Blake muttered, recognizing the symptoms. He'd seen this before—corporate espionage gone wrong, a rival CEO who'd nearly died. The drug worked fast, burned hotter, and without treatment, the body would shut down completely.

Twelve hours. Maybe less.

Emma's eyes fluttered open one last time, glassy and unfocused. "Please," she whispered. "Help me."

Then she went limp in his arms.

Blake pulled out his phone with one hand, cradling her with the other. "Sam. I need a private suite at the Grandeur Hotel. Top floor. Discretion. And get Doctor Williams—tell him it's urgent."

"Sir, is everything—"

"Now, Sam."

He hung up and lifted Emma carefully, started walking toward his car.