Chapter 3

The Next day,

Evelyn woke to the sound of her upstairs neighbor practicing drum solos at seven-thirty in the morning.

Again!.

She groaned, rolled over, and slapped her phone to silence the alarm she hadn’t even needed. Her studio apartment was already too loud, too cold, and too real. Sunlight leaked through the crooked blinds, striping the peeling hardwood floor in dusty gold. The air smelled faintly of turpentine and yesterday’s burnt toast.

She lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling crack that looked suspiciously like a lightning bolt. Same crack she’d been meaning to mention to her landlord for the last year. Same one who’d slipped that red FINAL NOTICE under her door two days ago.

Rent due: December 1.

Grace period ends: December 31.

Current balance in checking: $312.47.

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. No magic deposit had appeared overnight. Shocker.

Her gaze drifted to the nightstand. The black card sat exactly where she’d left it, propped against her half-dead succulent like it belonged there. Heavy stock. Embossed lettering. No logo, no title. Just a name and ten digits.

Alexander Knight.

She’d googled him at 2 a.m. when sleep refused to show up. Mistake.

The search results were a dizzying parade of headlines:

Knight Enterprises CEO Closes $4B Deal

The Ice King of Manhattan: Billionaire Bachelor Alexander Knight

30 Under 30: The Man Who Turned Real Estate Into an Empire

Page Six photos of him in flawless suits, stepping out of private cars, always alone, always unsmiling.

He owned half the skyline she stared at every night. The kind of money that didn’t just open doors; it built new buildings around them.

And he’d walked into her tiny café, looked at her painting like it mattered, and asked how much.

She still hadn’t answered that question. Mostly because she didn’t know. That canvas the indigo-into-rose one was the closest she’d come in months to feeling something other than exhausted. Pricing it felt like pricing a piece of herself.

Her phone buzzed under her pillow. Lila.

Lila: You alive? Or did Tall Dark and Expensive murder you in your sleep?

Lila: Also I’m coming over with bagels and gossip. Be there in 20.

Evelyn smiled despite herself. Lila Chen had been her ride-or-die since their first miserable waitressing shift together four years ago. Zero filter, zero chill, 100% loyalty.

She typed back: Door’s unlocked. Bring cream cheese. And maybe a winning lottery ticket.

Then she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and reached for the card.

Her thumb traced the raised letters.

A-K-N-I-G-H-T.

What kind of person gave out a card like this? No company name. No email. Just a phone number like he expected the world to call.

She flipped it over. Blank.

Of course.

She should throw it away. Or frame it as a funny story: That one time a billionaire wandered into my café and pretended to care about my art.

Instead, she set it back down carefully, like it might explode.

The apartment was its usual disaster—canvases leaning against every wall, tubes of paint scattered on the kitchen counter next to unpaid bills, laundry basket overflowing because the machines in the basement had been broken for two weeks. Her easel stood in the corner, half-finished piece staring at her accusingly.

She hadn’t touched it since the pop-up.

She padded to the kitchenette, started the ancient coffee maker that wheezed like it was on its last legs.

While it gurgled, she opened the fridge. Half a carton of oat milk, one egg, something fuzzy that used to be cheese. Classic.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, her mom.

Mom: Morning sweetie! Just checking in. How was the art show? Dad says hi. Love you.

Guilt twisted in her gut. She hadn’t told them how badly it went. Hadn’t told them about the eviction notice. The last time they talked, she said things were “picking up.”

A lie wrapped in hope.

She typed: It was good! A few people seemed interested. Miss you guys.

Sent before she could overthink it.

The coffee finished brewing. She poured it into her favorite chipped mug the one she’d painted little gold stars on back in college and took it to the window.

Her view wasn’t the glittering skyline Alexander Knight probably woke up to. It was a brick wall, a fire escape, and a sliver of sky if she craned her neck.

But on clear mornings like this, she could see the tops of the Manhattan high-rises in the distance, winking in the sun.

One of them was probably his.

She sipped her coffee and let herself wonder, just for a second, what it would feel like to stand in a place like that. To look down at the city and not feel like it was looking down at you.

Her phone rang—actually rang. Lila.

She answered. “You’re not even here yet and you’re calling?”

“Change of plans,” Lila said, breathless. “I’m outside your building. Come down. Now.”

“What? Why can’t you come up?”

“Just—trust me. Bring the card. And maybe a jacket. It’s cold.”

Evelyn frowned. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird. This is important weird. Five minutes.”

The line went dead.

Evelyn stared at the phone, then at the card. She grabbed her coat from the hook by the door an old army jacket covered in paint stains, shoved her feet into boots, and tucked the black card into her pocket.

Downstairs, Lila leaned against her beat-up Honda, holding a paper bag from Evelyn’s favorite bagel place and two coffees. Her dark hair was twisted up in a knot, eyes wide and bright.

“Okay,” Evelyn said, taking the offered coffee.

“What’s the emergency?”

Lila thrust her phone forward. The screen showed Page Six.

A blurry photo: a tall man in a dark coat stepping out of Bean & Leaf last night, umbrella angled against the rain.

The caption read:

Ice King Spotted in Brooklyn: Alexander Knight Makes Rare Non-Manhattan Appearance. At a Coffee Shop?

Evelyn’s stomach dropped.

“That’s him,” Lila whispered, like someone might overhear them on the empty street. “That’s the guy from last night. The one who gave you his card.”

“Yeah,” Evelyn said faintly. “I know.”

“There’s more.” Lila scrolled. Another photo—this one clearer, from a few months ago. Alexander at some gala, arm around a stunning blonde in a red dress.

Caption: Knight and socialite Victoria Langford fuel reunion rumors.

Then another article: 10 Things You Didn’t Know About Billionaire Alexander Knight.

Lila looked up.

“Ev. This guy isn’t just rich. He’s, like… terrifyingly rich. And famous. And apparently single again.”

Evelyn took a long drink of coffee to buy time. “He wanted to buy a painting.”

“Or he wanted to buy the painter,” Lila said, waggling her eyebrows.

Evelyn snorted. “Please. Look at me. I have paint in my hair and haven’t slept in three days.”

“You’re gorgeous and you know it. Also, men like him don’t wander into Brooklyn cafés by accident.”

“Maybe he likes coffee.”

“Girl. He has people who get his coffee. People who have people.”

Evelyn pulled the card from her pocket, turned it over in her fingers. “He said to call when I decide on a price.”

Lila stared at her. “You’re not actually thinking about it.”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

Lila softened. “Hey. I get it. Money’s tight. Like, scary tight. But this guy… he’s not playing in our league.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Lila stepped closer. “Because if you call him, it’s not just about selling a painting anymore. Guys like that—they collect things. Art. People. Experiences. And when they’re done, they move on.”

Evelyn looked down at the card. The numbers stared back, simple and black and terrifying.

She thought about the eviction notice.

About her mom’s medical bills still trickling in.

About the canvas waiting upstairs, half-finished because she couldn’t afford new paints.

About the way Alexander had looked at her painting not like it was pretty, but like it hurt him a little.

“I’m not calling,” she said finally.

Lila exhaled. “Good.”

“But I’m not throwing the card away either.”

Lila raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous game.”

“Maybe.” Evelyn slipped it back into her pocket.

“But right now, I can’t afford to throw away any options.”

They stood in silence for a moment, sipping coffee while the city woke up around them.

Evelyn glanced at her phone. 8:47 a.m.

She had a shift at noon. Bills to ignore. A life to keep scraping together.

But in her pocket, ten digits burned like a secret she wasn’t ready to tell.

Or let go of.

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.

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