His Billion-Dollar Secret

Amara’s POV

Mondays hate me.

No, scratch that—life hates me.

First, my alarm betrayed me. I had exactly ten minutes to throw myself together and run like a lunatic down the street, hair barely tied up in a messy bun, blouse halfway tucked into a skirt that had seen better days. Then, as if the universe had placed me on its personal hit list, the bus driver thought it would be funny to drive straight through a puddle, splashing dirty water all over my legs.

So here I was, dripping, exhausted, and praying to all the saints above that I wouldn’t get fired from the café today.

I clutched a tray with two steaming lattes, weaving through the morning crowd. My hands trembled. Of course, they did—nerves and caffeine don’t mix well.

“Careful, Amara!” Mia, my coworker, called from behind the counter.

“I got it!” I lied, tightening my grip. My voice wobbled. My hands wobbled. Pretty much everything about me wobbled.

And then, because fate loves to kick me when I’m down, I spun around and slammed right into a wall.

Except it wasn’t a wall. It was a man.

The tray tilted in slow motion, and both lattes cascaded straight down the front of his suit. Not just any suit—a perfect, tailored charcoal-gray one that probably cost more than my rent for three months.

“Oh my God!” My stomach dropped to my toes. “I’m so sorry!”

I scrambled for napkins, reaching desperately toward his chest, but froze. He didn’t move. Didn’t even shake off the burning liquid. Instead, he just stared down at me with storm-gray eyes that locked me in place. Eyes so sharp and cold they felt like knives pressed against my skin.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, voice smooth but laced with venom, “how much this suit costs?”

The café went silent. Chairs scraped, whispers rose. I felt every pair of eyes drilling into me.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Clearly.” His sneer cut me deeper than his words. “Pathetic. They’ll hire anyone off the streets, won’t they?”

My chest tightened, shame burning like fire under my skin. Tears threatened, but I blinked them back. I should’ve stayed quiet. I should’ve apologized again. But my pride? My pride had other plans.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stand like a wall in the middle of a café,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

Gasps echoed. My blood iced over. Oh God. Did I really just say that?

His gaze darkened, like I’d just signed my death sentence. He leaned closer, the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne wrapping around me, suffocating but intoxicating at the same time.

“Be careful with that mouth, sweetheart,” he whispered, his tone more threat than warning. “One day, it’ll get you in trouble.”

My heart thundered so loud I swore the entire café could hear it. But somehow, some impossible strength rose up in me, and I forced myself to meet his gaze head-on.

“Or maybe,” I said, voice steadier than I felt, “people like you just need to learn how to say excuse me.”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes. His lips twitched—almost amused. Almost.

But then the mask returned, colder than before.

“Remember my face,” he said flatly, like a vow. “Because I won’t forget yours.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out.

The door slammed, breaking the spell. The hum of whispers filled the café again. My body sagged, knees weak.

Mia rushed to my side, eyes wide. “Amara, do you even know who that was?”

“Some arrogant jerk?”

Her jaw dropped. “That was Damian Cruz. The billionaire.”

My stomach flipped. My entire life flashed before my eyes. Billionaire? Damian Cruz? As in Cruz Holdings—the man who owned skyscrapers, shipping lines, hotels?

Perfect. Just perfect. I hadn’t just ruined someone’s morning. I’d ruined a billionaire’s suit.

And maybe my life along with it.

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Damian’s POV

I should’ve fired the tailor months ago.

One weak stitch and this suit—imported, bespoke, worth more than that girl could make in half a year—was ruined in seconds. Coffee. Burning, sticky coffee.

Of all things.

I looked down at her, expecting tears. Most people broke the moment they felt my eyes on them. They stuttered, begged, groveled. But not her.

Flustered, messy, stubborn—she still had the nerve to talk back.

Nobody talks back to me.

I should’ve been furious. And I was. But there was something else too. Annoyance… curiosity… something I couldn’t name.

Her voice replayed in my head as I left that pathetic café. Maybe you shouldn’t stand like a wall in the middle of a café.

Ballsy. Stupid. Infuriating.

But it got under my skin.

For a brief moment, I almost laughed. Almost. But Damian Cruz doesn’t laugh at strangers.

Still, I couldn’t shake her face—the fire in her eyes, the way her hands trembled but she stood her ground anyway.

I didn’t know her name. But I promised myself one thing as I stepped into the back of my car and peeled off my ruined jacket:

This wasn’t the last time I’d see her.