Chapter 3 The Billionaire - Joemar Soriano

Over to the right, on the edge of the yacht, wearing nothing but tight board shorts. He was tan and had an array of tattoos down one arm, and he was holding a wooden spear with a shiny bladed tip. He glanced over at the commotion on the helipad but didn’t seem to care very much. Abruptly, he dove headfirst into the water, disappearing under the surface. I shuddered; I knew that the water off the coast was frigid this time of year, and the swimmer wasn’t wearing a wet suit.

Back on the boat, the well-dressed man cleared his throat and said in a crisp English accent, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Villar.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Soriano,” I said, extending my hand.

The man chuckled softly as he shook my hand.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“The whole world,” he replied. “But especially what you just said.”

“This is Roman Gomez, Mr. Joemar Soriano’s personal assistant,” Andre explained. The two of them embraced briefly, and then Andre added, “Didn’t realize you were back so soon.”

“I finished up that nasty affair in London sooner than expected.” Roman glanced at me with eyes so blue they were almost gray. “Besides, I would not miss today for all the tea in Puerto Prinsesa harbor.”

Is he talking about me? Why would this be such a big deal to Mr. Soraino’s personal assistant? Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Soriano had been searching for a surrogate for longer than I thought.

Out on the water, fifty feet from the yacht, the man with the arm tattoos resurfaced with a splash. He raised the spear out of the water; three plump lobsters were skewered on the blade.

Must be nice to have servants to fish for your lunch on a whim, I thought.

“Come,” Roman told me, gesturing with his palm in a precise manner. “Mr. Soriano is waiting.”

Still wondering if this was a good idea or not, I allowed myself to be guided inside the yacht.

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Melissa Villar POV

From the helipad, we entered into an airy lounge with armchairs and small tables meant to hold drinks. A full bar occupied the entire wall ahead of us, complete with a white-clad bartender who was currently washing glasses with a rag.

“Welcome aboard the Majestic,” he said warmly. “Care for a drink?”

Although I could have used a stiff drink for courage, I replied, “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Right this way,” Roman said, taking the lead down a hallway behind the bar. Andre peeled off, leaving me alone with Roman. Except as we navigated deeper into the yacht, we were never really alone. Servants in crisp white uniforms were everywhere: dusting oil paintings on the walls, restocking trays of candies, carrying crates of food. That helped defuse my anxiety a little bit. Nothing bad could happen to me with so many witnesses around.

Witnesses who work for Mr. and Mrs. Soriano. If something happened, would they really cross someone who owned a fucking yacht?

“Andre will give you a proper tour of the Majestic upon the conclusion of your business with Mr. Soriano,” Roman said in that posh English accent.

“This is just supposed to be a meet-and-greet,” I felt the need to point out. “I haven’t actually signed anything yet.”

“But you will,” Roman said.

I hated the way he said it, like it was a foregone conclusion. As if I had no say in the matter.

“In fact, the parade of documents you must sign begins now,” Roman said as we came to a small office room with a large window showing the ocean. He swept a piece of paper off the desk and handed it to me, along with an expensive-looking Mont Blanc pen.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This is a standard non-disclosure agreement. I am certain you will find it quite straightforward. You may not disclose any of the specifics of your meeting with Mr. Soriano, nor the details of the contracts you will be given.”

I stared skeptically at the page.

“The meeting cannot begin until this is signed,” Roman said dryly, narrowing those blue-gray eyes. “If you are uncomfortable doing so, I will have Andre return you to your place.”

I skimmed the NDA. I wasn’t an expert in contract law, but it did seem straightforward. I placed the paper on the desk and signed it.

“Very good,” Roman said. “Mr. Soriano will see you now.”

The door he opened was dark wood carved with designs around the border. It was heavy and thick, and as it opened, I noticed several circular deadbolts set inside the lock. The interior appeared to be steel, like the door to a bank vault.

Inside was a large room that was part work space, part library. It took up the width of the yacht, with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, although the curtains were currently drawn. Warm lamplight lit the room from recessed alcoves in the ceiling and floor. It reminded me of a cozy book store where I used to study when I was a student.

The drawn curtains concerned me. Once again, I wondered if I was about to be kidnapped and sold into the sex trade. I hoped my GPS location was still transmitting, despite the lack of cell signal.

At one end of the room was a large hearth with a gas fireplace, the flames flickering quietly. In front of that was a broad teak desk with a massive curved computer monitor. There was a man seated in a leather chair behind the monitor. When he saw me, he pressed a button, and the huge computer screen descended into the desk out of sight, like a theater performer disappearing below stage. The man stood, a thoughtful expression on his face as he regarded me.

Joemar Soriano.

The man I had come to meet wore slacks and a button-down, but no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a little bit of his tan chest, and his sleeves were rolled up. After seeing Andre and Roman both wearing full suits, Joemar looked downright casual by comparison.

And there’s something familiar about him…

He was young—younger than I expected. Maybe in their late twenties, a few years older than me. And he was incredibly handsome. Alarmingly so. Sharp green eyes regarded me from above a prominent nose, and he had the jawline of a cologne model. Yet his broad shoulders spoke of an athletic upbringing. I wasn’t sure what I expected from someone who owned a yacht. He wasn’t scrawny like Mark Zuckerberg or doughy like Elon Musk. This looked like a man who could throw on a uniform and play ninety minutes for Manchester United.

“Melissa Villar,” Joemar said in a smooth, deep voice. “I’ve waited quite some time to meet you.”

He was an American-Filipino. I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but I expected him to be English, like Roman Gomez.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk.

Despite his attractiveness and charm, there was something about his smile that rubbed me the wrong way. I realized what it was a second later: it reminded me of the Boss at New Philippine Digital Marketing. Wealthy men who were used to giving instructions and having them carried out without hesitation. I sat and tried to ignore the pang of anger that I felt.

“It hasn’t been very long,” I said.

Joemar Soriano sat in his chair and cocked his head. “Pardon?”

“You and your wife couldn’t have waited a long time to meet me,” I said pointedly. “I was only added to the surrogacy database yesterday.”

He smiled as if that were funny. “You sent in your application to the agency two weeks ago.”

I felt another pang of annoyance. The agency sent him my information before I was officially approved and added as a potential surrogate. That felt like an intrusion of privacy.

Tristan, the assistant, appeared over my shoulder and placed two manila folders on the desk, side-by-side. Why two?

“How was your trip here?” Joemar asked politely. “I trust Andre took good care of you?”

“It was fine,” I replied, looking around. Where was his wife? Every surrogacy experience I had read about involved meeting the couple who I would be a surrogate for, not just the husband.

Joemar studied me from across the desk. There was an intense intelligence in his gaze. A calculating, methodical man.

Why does he look familiar?

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