Signed to the Billionaire

I couldn't cry when my landlord slid a sudden eviction notice under my door. I felt sick in my stomach as tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Could hardly hold them back, but somehow I did. 

But on a second thought , I shouldn't have. I should have rolled up on the floor of my tiny apartment, screaming at the unfairness of life. But I didn't have the luxury of breaking down, not when my Dad was lying in a hospital bed, his medical bills piling up faster than I could count.

I really wanted to cry, but remembered it was not going to change or pay the bills, so, instead of crying, I did the only thing I thought would be best I could do, I grabbed my apron and dragged myself to work.

It was not the life I had dreamed of. For a very long time, I had wanted to be a writer, not just a regular writer, but a well-known writer in the world. A big dream, yeah? Well, I know too well, but still wanting to write stories that would make people feel something, I mean something different and deep, more like a connection to every word I write, and emotions they can't help but feel. I have two dreams, though, but will keep the other anonymous for now. It's the biggest dream which I call an impossible, crazy dream. I realized dreams don't pay rent. Dreams don't stop you from facing the embarrassment of not being able to pay your bills, just like it doesn't stop landlords from knocking on your door and demanding money you don't have. 

The coffee shop was hell that morning.

The line stretched to the door, the espresso machine was making a sound I was pretty sure it meant it was dying, and the broken register beeped in distress every time we tried to process an order.

  And my manager was already on my case for being five minutes late.

"You're late," my manager, Leonard, snapped angrily as I quickly tied my apron.

"Five minutes," I shot back.

"Five minutes closer to getting fired."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a notepad. Like I could afford to lose this job.

Then he walked in.

The shift in the room was subtle at first. A few people straightened, whispers bouncing around like a secret too good to keep. Alexander Pierce.

I didn't recognize him at first, not by name, at least. But could at least acknowledge his type. Expensive suit, sharp jawline, the kind of presence that sucked the air out of a room. Power clung to him like a second skin, and people moved out of his way without him asking.

I barely spared him a glance as I slammed a cup onto the counter and called out, "Double espresso for Mr. Too Important To Stand In Line."

Laughter rippled through the shop.

Alexander Pierce didn't laugh.

Instead, gently stepped forward, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine.

"You have quite the mouth on you," Alexander murmured calmly, his voice smooth like whiskey.

"And you have quite the ego," I shot back.

His gaze held mine for a moment longer, indistinct and intense. Then, surprisingly, he smirked.

That should have just been the end of it. A random encounter with a rich stranger. But surprisingly, two days later, I found his business card tucked into my tip jar, along with a note.

Call me. I have an offer.

I didn't call.

Not right away.

But when my dad's hospital bill came in, which left me in a serious state of confusion, just then my landlord knocked again with a final notice, and desperation sank its claws into me.