The Billionaire’s Secret 🥀 | Part 19: Whispers on the Feed (Patreon)

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

I got home just after seven, the city noise fading as I tried the keys to my apartment. The key stuck a little in the lock like always. I pushed the door open, flicked on the light, and let the quiet settle over me. My place was modest. Clean lines, a few plants on the windowsill, books stacked on the coffee table, sketches pinned to the wall above my desk. Nothing flashy, just mine.

I dropped my bag by the door and shrugged off the blazer first. The charcoal wool felt heavier now, like it carried the weight of the day. I held it up to the lamp light, turning the cuff back slowly. There it was again. SB. Silver thread, elegant and small, stitched so neatly it almost looked like art. My thumb brushed over the letters. A quick thrill shot through me, the same one from the penthouse mirror. Possession. Like he'd marked me without even touching me. But right behind it came the other feeling. Shame, hot and prickly. The stares in the lobby. The whispers near the elevators. I folded the jacket carefully, laid it over the arm of the couch like evidence I didn't want to look at too long, and stripped the rest. Shirt, trousers, everything. Left them in a pile on a chair. Naked felt better. Cleaner. Less like I was still wearing his world.

I pulled on sweatpants and an old T-shirt, soft from too many washes, and dropped onto the couch. Phone in hand. Sebastian's sad emoji stared back at me from the screen. No new message. Just that single yellow face, small and ridiculous against everything else swirling in my head. I let the phone rest on my chest and closed my eyes.

Jacob's voice replayed first. "Different guys on his arm at events. Playboy vibes." Then the two account guys by the printer. "Looks expensive. Wonder who's keeping him?" Patel's calm disappointment. "Too extravagant. We need reliability here." The client email. "Scale back. Cost-effective." All of it layered over the memory of Sebastian's study. Dark polished wood. Golden sconces. Books arranged like they meant something. The framed photo of him looking untouchable. My sketches this week had been pulled straight from that room. Marble accents. Custom lighting. Textures that cost more than my rent. They felt alive when I drew them. Bold. Right. But at work they were wrong. Too much. Too rich for mid-tier office refits.

I opened my laptop on the coffee table, pulled up the file Patel wanted redone. The practical version. Neutral tones. Standard materials. Budget-friendly. I started adjusting lines, scaling back the sconces, swapping marble for affordable tiles. My fingers moved, but my mind kept drifting. I opened a new document instead. Blank canvas. I sketched fast. A private study wall. Tall shelves. Warm spotlight on a single sculpture. Gold threading through deep blue carpet. It poured out easy, the way good work always does when you're not thinking too hard. I saved it in a folder labeled "Personal Portfolio." Not for Patel. Not for clients. Just mine. For the first time all day I felt the knot in my chest loosen a little.

My phone buzzed. Jacob. “You okay, Evan? That convo was intense. Talk soon?”

Guilt twisted sharp. Jacob had been my anchor since day one at the firm. Coffee runs. Late-night site visits. He'd dragged me to that party because he thought it would be fun, not because he wanted to watch me disappear into someone else's life. I'd been ghosting him for weeks. Dodging questions. Hiding texts. I typed back.

“Yeah, rough day. Talk Monday?”

I stared at the send button. Didn't press it yet. Instead I opened my messages with Sebastian.

“Home. Suit's off. I got the stares wearing this expensive suit today…”

His reply came fast.

“You sure it wasn't you who looked hot in it? That's why the stares.”

I laughed out loud, soft in the quiet room. Heat crept up my neck anyway.

“I didn't even know it's that expensive. Jacob said it's Stefano Ricci. Ridiculously expensive.”

“Maybe I should get you your own…”, replied Sebastian.

“Shut up. You are not going to do that”.

I could picture his mouth curving. That small, knowing smile.

“Okay, I'm gonna crash.”, I replied. I switched to the camera. Messy hair. Tired eyes. Pouting just enough to look ridiculous. I snapped the selfie, sent it with the caption.

“Wish you were here :)”

A minute passed. Then the photo came through. Sebastian in his home gym. Shirtless. Sweat gleaming on his chest and shoulders. Weights racked behind him. He stared straight at the camera, expression calm but eyes dark, like he knew exactly what this would do to me. No caption. Just the image of his sweaty body.

My breath caught. Heat pooled low in my stomach. I was hard almost instantly, cock thickening against the soft cotton of my sweats. I stared at the photo longer than I should have. The cut of his abs. The line of his hipbones disappearing into low-slung shorts. The way his shoulders looked broad enough to block out the world. I palmed my cock once, twice, slowly through the fabric. A low groan slipped out. But exhaustion hit harder. My eyes burned. My body felt heavy. I let my hand fall away, too tired to finish what he'd started.I walked to my bedroom, plugged the phone in, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed. The sheets were cool against my skin. I lay there in the dark, half-hard and aching, replaying the photo behind my eyelids until sleep finally pulled me under.

─────Saturday morning came slow. Sunlight slanted through the blinds in thin pale strips across my bed. I woke with the ghost of last night's ache still low in my belly, half-hard from dreams I couldn't quite remember except for the shape of Sebastian's shoulders, the dark line of his jaw in that gym mirror photo. I rolled over, reached for my phone. No new messages. I dragged myself up, made coffee in the kitchen, the machine gurgling softly while I stared out the window at the street below. Normal Saturday. People walking dogs. Delivery bikes weaving through traffic. My life looked exactly the same as it had last month, except it didn't feel the same anymore.

Back at the desk I opened the laptop again. First the corporate redo. Patel's voice echoed in my head. Terrific instincts. But budget. Always budget. I forced the lines to behave. The sketch looked clean. Professional. Flat. Soulless. Every change made something inside me shrink a little more.

I saved it, closed the file, and opened the personal one instead. The luxe pieces. I let my hand move without thinking. A private library wall. Tall shelves in dark walnut. Warm spotlight on a single black stone sculpture. Deep blue runner with intricate gold patterns. The lines came fast and sure. I added a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on manicured gardens lit low and gold. A leather armchair angled just so. It felt alive. It felt like breathing.

I leaned back, coffee gone cold beside me, and stared at the screen. These weren't for work. They were for me. For the part of me that had walked into Sebastian's study and felt something click into place. “Don't let them dim you”.  His words from yesterday morning surfaced again, low and deliberate. I wondered if this was what he meant. If the company was holding me back or if I was just using his world as an excuse to dream bigger than cubicles and mid-tier refits.

Could I do this for real? Freelance. High-end clients. Private residences.. The thought sent a quiet spark through me. Excitement. Fear. Possibility. I sketched another piece. A bedroom suite. Silk drapes. Custom headboard in dark leather. Ambient lighting hidden in crown molding. Bold. Expensive. Mine.

The day slipped away like that. Coffee refills. Stretching breaks. More practical adjustments for Patel. More indulgent escapes into the luxe folder. By late afternoon the personal pieces outnumbered the corporate ones. I felt the shift inside me. A small, stubborn certainty. This wasn't just romanticizing Sebastian's life. This was talent. Direction. Something I hadn't named before.

Evening crept in. The light outside turned soft orange. My phone buzzed on the desk.

Jacob.

“Saw something online... you good?”

My stomach dropped. I opened X first. Scrolled through my feed. Nothing obvious. Then I searched Sebastian's name.

The photo loaded at the top of the results.

Grainy. Taken from across the street, probably. Sebastian's black car idling outside my office building yesterday morning. The back door open just enough. Sebastian leaning in through the window, profile sharp and unmistakable, mouth on mine in the last second before the kiss broke. My face was turned away, back of my head, the angle hiding everything but the shape of my shoulders in his oversized blazer. Unrecognizable. To the world. But I knew it was me.

The headline above it screamed.

‘Mr. Blackwell's Mystery Man? Billionaire Spotted in Steamy Car Kiss – New Boytoy or Secret Lover?’

Below it, another tabloid snippet.

‘Sebastian Blackwell Gay? Blurry Pics Spark Rumors After Years of Playboy Whispers.’

Comments poured in.

‘After all the arm candy, finally out?’

‘Who's the twink in the suit? Looks too young for Sebastian.’

‘Bet Tyler Voss is pissed lol. Kane lawsuit still fresh.’

The Kane reference hit like ice water. Tyler. The name Sebastian had kept careful distance from. Lawsuit still in the news. I scrolled faster, heart hammering. More speculation. More photos. Same angle. Same moment. Blurry enough that no one could prove it was me. Close enough that fear clawed up my throat anyway.

The phone rang. Sebastian's name on the screen.

I answered on the second ring, voice shaky.

"Sebastian..."

"Saw the photos?" His tone was calm. Too calm.

"Yeah... did you?"

"Yeah. Already got Tyler on it."

I swallowed. "This shouldn't be happening. Not after the Kane lawsuit still in the news."

A pause. I could almost hear him exhale.

"Are you okay?" I asked, quieter.

"I'm fine." But his voice had an edge. "More important... tomorrow brunch with my mother. She's in town unexpectedly."

The words landed heavy. Mother. Brunch. I felt my pulse spike again, different this time.

"Your mother wants to meet me?"

"She wants to meet whoever's been in the papers with me lately." He sounded tighter now. Controlled. "We'll talk tomorrow. Avoid the internet tonight. Get some sleep."

He ended the call before I could say anything else.

I sat there staring at the dark screen. Photos spreading. Potential outing. Jacob's message still unanswered. The luxe sketches glowing on my laptop, beautiful and useless in this moment. And now brunch. With Mrs. Blackwell. Protective. Rich. Probably elegant in a way that made my modest apartment feel even smaller. Why did she want to meet me? Were we already at the meeting-the-parents stage? Or was this damage control? Would she like me? Would she see the junior designer in borrowed suits and think gold-digger? Would she see someone who didn't belong in the Blackwell world?

I thought about what to wear for tomorrow. Nothing in my closet felt right. No Stefano Ricci. No tailored wool. Just button-downs and chinos that suddenly looked cheap next to the memory of Sebastian's effortless perfection. I pictured her judging the fit of my shirt, the scuff on my shoes, the way I held my fork. I pictured Sebastian tensing across the table, voice low and careful. I pictured myself trying not to look small.

I texted him goodnight. Simple. No selfie this time.

“Sleep well.”

His reply came almost immediately.

“You too.”

Brief. Final. I set the phone face-down on the desk and stared at the luxe sketches still open on the screen. They looked different now. Brighter. Riskier. Like something I might lose if I didn't hold on tight.

Unease settled deep in my chest. Photos. Mother. Secrets. The weekend had started with possibility. It ended with shadows closing in.

I closed the laptop, turned off the light, and lay in the dark, listening to the city hum outside, wondering how much longer I could keep wearing pieces of his world without the rest of it swallowing me whole.

────────────────The Billionaire’s Secret 🥀 | Part 20: Brunch with the Blackwells