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That night, outside my private villa on Malibu Beach.
A rare storm had hit Los Angeles. Rhys stood outside my front gate like a madman, and he had been there for three hours. No bodyguards, no umbrella.
The billionaire who once wouldn't even get his shoes wet was now soaked to the bone, looking as pathetic as a stray dog.
“Aria! Open the door! Please!” he yelled, banging on the bulletproof glass door, his voice hoarse. “I know he’s my child! I saw him!”
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