A Deal with the Billionaire's Heir

"That's it," I mumble as I fold my book shut. I look at every head of my group with a forceful smile. "Got it, guys?"

They all sigh and let out words of discouragement. We're currently on an Arts project which is torturous to get done — impressionism and expressionism. I've been a person having a creative imagination since I was in middle school, but these two art theories have always shaken my artistic self's soul.

"Stella, we can't do this," one says

"I shouldn't have taken this class," one spits out.

One even pouts at me like a toddler. "Impressionism is yours, please."

I give them a look of dismay and say, "Fine." And then they clap, deafening me. "I'll take the impressionism section. Just give me enough budget."

"Yes."

"Come on, guys. Cash out."

"Faster. Stella might cop out."

I chuckle. I breathe out a cloud of breath while they hand me the money. It's a ton. I furrow my brows. "Isn't this too much?"

"Please include the expressionism's essentials," my seatmate requests.

I sigh in defeat. "Ugh, fine." I put the money into my wallet, and my wallet into my bag.

We all get off our seats and bid our goodbyes.

"Take care, guys," I add while closing our homeroom door shut. I get my notes out of my bag and smile at the content. It's a checklist of what I need to buy for Mom's upcoming birthday. I cross out 'Lavender heart-shaped balloons' and 'Whitish-purple cake' and then put the notes back into my bag. After tightening my shoelaces, I take off and leave the almost barren campus, greeting the school guard with a nod on my way out.

I look at the adjacent block, just in front of the school. It's where our family once resided in. One of the houses in it is now Aunt Hilda's, my mother's cousin. I cross the street when it's free of vehicles and then knock on the door. "Auntie?"

The door swings open.

"Oh, Stella." She taps my shoulder. "Come on in first, little lady. We're having a feast here."

I hold onto the shoulder straps of my bag. "No, Auntie. I'm on my way to buy something." I smile. "And I'm not that hungry anyway. I'll just get my bike."

"You sure?" She gazes at me for some time and then clicks her tongue. "As you insist. Safe road, child."

"Thanks." I slide the latches of the small gate and entered the lot. I unfasten the chains linked to both of the wheels of the bike and then get it over the threshold. I lock the gate and then hit the road.

After some minutes of pedaling, I arrive at one of the leading shops in town. I prop up my bike against the railing and then enter the shop. I walk along the rows of racks until I see the board with the words 'School Stuff' printed on it. I grab four sets of acrylic paints and three palettes, small palette knives, and paintbrushes of different uses. I put them all in the shopping cart and then fall into the least long line. It's my turn and as the cashier puts my things into a shopping bag, I hand her the payment. I leave the shop and then get on my bike.

I'm about to turn to the alley to our house when a car screeches to a halt, shocking me. I don’t have the time to think, and I don't want to end up with broken bones, so I run my bike into a metal garbage receptacle. The loud clamor of my side hitting against the receptacle gets me on the ground statuesquely still. My heart beats like the projection of bullets from an automatic gun. I'm grateful there are no other people around.

I stand up and walk stomping to the front of the glistening black car. I violently smash my palm flatly on the window, my back arching. The mirror is tinted dark, so I don't have a clear vision of the person who could've brought me quick, ultimate death. I notice both of their index fingers tapping the steering wheel as if this isn't a big deal to them. The door then opens — the driver is a he.

He's in a black leather jacket and wears sunglasses. His hair is quite wet and pulled back. Jaws clenching and fists balling. His lips are pursed. Is he mad? At me? He almost killed me. I could file a case. I hope he's aware of that.

"Are you stupid?" he mumbles.

"Me? Stupid?" I slap his chest. "You could've run over me. How am I going to work with a broken leg?"

"As if it's my problem."

"I can't believe you're talking like that." I pick up the shopping bag and then get on my bike. "You're not human at all."

Before I hit the pedal, he grabs my wrist tight and then puts his sunglasses off. His dark silver eyes dart to mine, and I couldn't be more disturbed. He's staring right into my soul. I forcefully get out of his grip, but he's too strong with only a hand.

"Don't you know me?" he asks.

I furrow my brows. "I don't care who you are. All I ask is an apology. I'd gladly accept even if it's a put-on."

"Do I look like I make apologies?"

"Can you stop being so self-centered? It's obvious you've got a very respectful household," I sarcastically utter.

"Take that back."

"Who are you?"

He kills off the proximity between us and tightens the grip on my wrist.

"You're hurting me, mister," I complain and then kick his shin. I pedal panicking as he utters profanities under his breath. I make some turns to random alleys and feeders until I'm confident that I'm out of his range. I'll never forget that freaking face — the face of pure evil.

I stop by the bakeshop and remind the front desk I'll be picking up the cake and balloons in two days. I then arrive at our house. We currently live in the third story of an apartment building. I lock my wheels and then went up the stairways. I insert the key into the doorknob and creak the door open.

I find Mom seated on the couch, her cheeks red and smile wide while watching the television. She turns to me and waves with her weak hand. Mom is a survivor of a car crash. After being diagnosed with an acute spinal cord injury, Dad divorced her. That very event broke smashed my heart into smithereens. After the divorce, my only older brother got married and has never appeared to nor communicated with us since then. I don't still know what's the real reason behind my parents' parting, and I don't care now. Dad, or should I say 'biological father,' has now got a new family. My brother? Well, I don't want to see his face still.

I walk to Mom and settle down beside her. I hug her tight and bury my face in the crook of her neck. His skin is cold. How long has she been in front of this icy electric fan?

"How are you feeling?" I ask while raising my brows.

She shakes her head and just beams. I take it as 'Everything went well.' At least a week after the car accident, she started to talk less. The doctor told me it might be selective mutism, and I always fear that she, one day, might lose her voice. I hope that day never comes into existence.

She points at me and shrugs. I take it as 'How about you?' She pints her mouth to my crinkled sleeves and sweat running down my left temple. I'm sure she's saying 'You're a chaos.'

"I'm good. All well." I smile while massaging her palm. "I just ran into a devil."

She smirks and then shakes her head. Do I look like I'm joking with her? Anyway, I hug her before heading to my room. I lay the painting stuff by my bedside and plop down on the mattress on my side.

After a quick nap, I take a snack — a basic cheesecake and creamed coffee — and then go for a shower. I then dress into the light lilac uniform of the Italian restaurant I work in and sprinkle my body with the perfume brand Mom said she'd used throughout her teenage years. It's a floral aroma that's slightly sweet and mixed with a creaminess similar to coconut. I feel peaceful just smelling it.

I put my bag and then cook something for Mom for dinner — a whole plate of quinoa, fried turkey chop, and stir-fried broccoli. This is a good combo that provides her with protein and fiber. I tell her to reheat it whenever she's going to eat. I then kiss her on the cheek and then get out of the apartment.

I always hail a taxi in an app for me to go to work. After a quick trip and handing the driver the fare, I go through the rear entrance of the restaurant. I've been working here part-time since Mom had her injury. The weekly salary is already quite enough to suffice a week.

I greet my co-workers and then do up myself for a second before serving tables. This restaurant is rather luxurious, and I'm forever thankful I got in. I must've done well during the final interview.

Typical Italian delicacies are served here, from Penne Pomodoro to Tortellini soup and nutty Bruttiboni to sweet Prosecco. Businessmen and well-known personalities are the most common guests here. I exchange smiles with the customers I interact with. This place needs to keep its reputation of one-of-a-kind hospitability and five-star ratings.

"Stella." The evening shift's manager approaches me and then points her finger to a distant table. "Please get the order of that young man over there. I'll just check something in the freezer room."

"Sure, signorina," I respond, and then walk to the table instructed to me.

The man intertwines his hands together and then smirks while looking at the menu lying flat on his table. He shakes his head and mumbles something I can't make out.

"Buonasera, signore," I greet in Italian. I've never taken Italian in World Languages, but I self-teach with the help of the holy Internet. I address my presence once more, "Good eve——"

"I heard you." He lifts his gaze upon me. "Loud. And. Clear," he adds emphatically.

His sunglasses and sideburns appear familiar to me. Have I met him before? I notice the corner of his lips arching into a minuscule smirk as he hardly slides his fingers down his neatly shaved beard. He clenches his jaws and then puts off his eyeglasses. I'm doomed. Those deep silver irises. It's him. The guy who almost accidentally killed me earlier in the afternoon.

He jerks his thick brows upward. "What a coincidence, Miss I-don't-care-who-you-are."

I sigh, my heart pounding. "What are you doing here? Going to attack me again?"

"You're tough, you know."

"Can I get you order," I take a deep breath in, and then out, "signore."

"Your little kick caused my shin to bruise. Not bad."

"You want risotto, sir? Carbonara?" I ignore his rant. There's no point in arguing with him, especially since I'm on duty. I don't want to get fired just because of this self-centered guy's nonsensical nuisance.

"You know what, that was harassment too."

"You want them to be served with caponata?" I smile forcefully, and then speak under my breath, "Or you want me to throw a bowl of boiling broth right into your face?"

He bites his lower lip. "You want war, lady? I'll give you war." He stands up and looks at me from head to toe. "The greatest war." And with that, he leaves the restaurant.

I don't know what he meant by that, but he's creepy. He may be rich, I have to know that. He could hire a guy to shoot me in cold blood whenever he feels like it. My core starts to beats as heavily as I expect it to. I have to be cautious when I leave this place, or else . . . I'm doomed.