Chapter 3: A Name on the Internet

Sleep was a foreign country I couldn't find my way back to.

I lay in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars passed outside. My apartment was too small, too quiet, too full of the things I couldn't afford to fix—the dripping faucet in the kitchen, the crack in the window, the way the radiator clanked all night like it was dying.

But none of that mattered tonight.

Tonight, all I could see were green eyes.

I rolled onto my side, punched my pillow into submission, and squeezed my eyes shut. It didn't help. He was there, imprinted on the inside of my eyelids like a photograph I couldn't delete. The way he'd crouched beside me. The warmth of his fingers. The impossible depth in his voice when he'd said, "You're bleeding."

*Stop it*, I told myself firmly. *He was just being decent. It meant nothing.*

But my hand drifted to my nightstand, where I'd placed his handkerchief after washing it carefully in the sink. The linen was impossibly soft, the monogram elegant and precise: A.B. in dark navy thread. I'd held it for a long time before finally setting it aside, breathing in the faint trace of his cologne that still clung to the fabric.

*Alexander Black.*

Sophie's words echoed in my mind. Billionaire. CEO. The biggest deal in New York. A man who never dated, never smiled, never let anyone close.

I should have let it go. Should have laughed at the absurdity of it all and gone to sleep. But curiosity is a cruel mistress, and mine was wide awake at 2 AM.

I grabbed my phone. The screen glowed too brightly in the darkness, making me squint as I typed the name into the search bar.

**Xander Black.**

The results loaded instantly. And my world tilted on its axis.

**Alexander "Xander" Black: CEO of Black Enterprises**

**Forbes 30 Under 30: The Youngest Billionaire in Tech**

**The Ice King of Wall Street: Inside the Mind of a Genius**

**Xander Black's Net Worth Shocks Investors**

I scrolled, my thumb moving mechanically, my eyes growing wider with every headline. Article after article, photo after photo. Him at galas, looking bored. Him at board meetings, looking severe. Him on magazine covers, looking like he'd been carved from marble by someone who hated warmth.

**Black Enterprises**, I read, **the multinational corporation founded by Alexander Black Sr. in 1985, has grown under the younger Black's leadership into a $47 billion empire spanning technology, real estate, and venture capital.**

Forty-seven billion dollars.

I did the math in my head, comparing it to my own bank account—which currently held exactly $243 until my next paycheck. The difference wasn't just vast. It was cosmic. It was the distance between a grain of sand and the entire galaxy.

I kept reading.

**Known for his ruthless business tactics and cold demeanor, Black has earned the nickname "The Ice King" among colleagues and competitors alike. He rarely gives interviews, never attends social events unless required, and has been linked to exactly zero romantic partners since his very public breakup with socialite Isabella Rossi five years ago.**

Isabella Rossi. I clicked on the name, curiosity burning. Photos loaded—a stunning brunette with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, draped in designer gowns, hanging off Xander's arm at various events. They looked perfect together. Glamorous. Untouchable.

The article described their relationship in detail: the whirlwind romance, the engagement announcement that made headlines, and then... the scandal. Isabella had allegedly been caught with another man—his business partner, no less—and Xander had ended things publicly, brutally, and never looked back.

**Sources say Black hasn't dated anyone since. "He's completely closed off," an anonymous insider revealed. "Whatever she did, it broke something in him that can't be fixed."**

I set my phone down, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. So that was it. That was the reason for the ice in his eyes. Someone had hurt him. Betrayed him. Left him frozen.

I thought about the way he'd looked at me—not with desire or interest, but with something almost like recognition. Like he'd seen something in my chaos that resonated with his own.

*You're projecting*, I told myself. *You don't know him. You shared exactly thirty seconds of interaction. He probably forgot you existed the moment he walked away.*

But then I remembered the handkerchief. The way he'd pressed it to my palm. The warmth I'd felt that I never expected.

I picked up my phone again, unable to stop myself. I scrolled through more photos—him at charity events, him at product launches, him walking through airports with a face like thunder. In every single one, he looked alone. Surrounded by people, but completely, utterly alone.

*Like me*, a treacherous voice whispered.

No. Not like me. I had my mother. I had Sophie. I had a life full of love if not money. He had forty-seven billion dollars and apparently no one to share it with.

I finally put the phone down at 4 AM, my eyes burning with exhaustion. Tomorrow—today—I had to be at the hospital by 8. Mom had another round of tests. I needed sleep.

But sleep didn't come. Instead, I lay there watching the ceiling, imagining what it would be like to live in his world. To never worry about money. To have people bow and scrape at your feet. To be so powerful that a dropped tray was the most interesting thing that happened to you all night.

*Ridiculous*, I told myself. *Delusional. He's a billionaire. You're a waitress and a nurse. Your worlds don't intersect. They never will.*

I finally drifted off around 5, my last thought a hazy wish that I could stop thinking about green eyes and cold smiles and the way he'd said "It's fine" like he meant it.

---

The knock on my door came too early.

I groaned, pulling the pillow over my head. The clock read 7:47 AM. I'd had less than three hours of sleep. The knocking continued, insistent, impossible to ignore.

"Coming," I croaked, stumbling out of bed. My reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror was alarming—dark circles, wild hair, the imprint of my pillow creased into my cheek. I ran my fingers through my hair, gave up, and shuffled to the door.

"Look, whoever you are, I'm not buying anything, and if you're collecting for something, I'm broke, so—"

I opened the door.

And stopped.

A man stood in the hallway. Not just any man—a courier, judging by the uniform, but a courier from a service so exclusive I'd only ever seen their vans in movies. White gloves. Crisp uniform. And in his hands, a box.

Not just any box. A box wrapped in midnight blue silk, tied with a silver ribbon, stamped with a logo I didn't recognize but somehow knew cost more than everything I owned.

"Ms. Ella Reynolds?" the courier asked.

"That's... that's me."

He extended the box with the reverence of someone handling ancient artifacts. "This is for you."

"I didn't order anything."

"The delivery instructions were very specific. Please sign here."

I stared at the electronic pad he held out, then back at the box. My name. My apartment. Delivered to me at 7:47 AM by a courier who looked like he stepped out of a magazine.

I signed.

He handed me the box, nodded once, and disappeared down the stairs before I could ask any of the thousand questions exploding in my brain.

I stood in the doorway, holding the box like it might detonate. The silk was cool against my fingers. The ribbon felt expensive. My heart hammered against my ribs with a rhythm I recognized from last night.

*No*, I told myself. *No way. It can't be.*

I carried the box to my tiny kitchen table, sat down, and stared at it for a full minute. Then, with trembling fingers, I pulled the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was silk. The most beautiful silk I'd ever seen—a scarf in shades of deep blue and silver, printed with a pattern that looked hand-painted. The fabric slid through my fingers like water, impossibly soft, impossibly luxurious.

I couldn't breathe.

A small card lay on top of the scarf. Cream-colored. Thick. Handwritten in elegant script.

I picked it up with shaking hands.

The message was brief. Devastatingly brief. Just a few words that made my entire world tilt sideways:

*"An apology for last night's tray. I hope your hand isn't hurting. - A.B."*

A.B.

Alexander Black.

The Ice King.

The billionaire who never noticed anyone.

Had sent me a gift.

Had remembered my name.

Had worried about my hand.

I sat there in my tiny kitchen, in my cramped apartment, holding a scarf worth more than my monthly rent, and I laughed. A wild, hysterical laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest.

What was this? What did it mean? Why would a man like him send a gift to a woman like me?

I thought about the way he'd looked at me. The warmth of his fingers. The flicker in his eyes that I'd convinced myself I imagined.

Maybe I hadn't imagined it.

Maybe—just maybe—something had happened last night that neither of us expected.

I looked at the scarf again. At the note. At the elegant initials that could only belong to one person.

*A.B.*

Alexander Black.

The most powerful name in New York.

And he'd just knocked on my door.