Not just a billionaire

The diner was nearly empty, the kind of quiet that settled over a place after midnight when the city’s chaos dimmed to a tired hum. A radio played something old and jazzy in the background, and the smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air.

Lena Carter wiped down a table with practiced indifference, her movements sharp and efficient. Her feet ached, her back screamed, and she still had two hours left on her shift. But rent was due in three days, her little brother’s school fees were overdue, and the tip jar had only a few crumpled singles.

“Another night in paradise,” she muttered to herself, tossing the rag over her shoulder.

The bell above the door jingled.

Lena didn’t look up right away. Probably another drunk businessman wanting a greasy burger to soak up his regret.

But then she heard the sound—footsteps not hurried, not clumsy, but slow and confident. Like someone who knew the world owed him something and would never rush to collect it.

She turned.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an unbuttoned black suit with no tie, just a white shirt hugging a body built from private trainers and gym memberships worth more than her monthly rent. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it in frustration or boredom. A five-o’clock shadow cut along his chiseled jaw. And those eyes—sharp, cold, and calculating—scanned the diner like it offended him.

Great. One of those.

Lena straightened, grabbed the notepad from her apron, and approached the table he slid into like it belonged to him.

“Welcome to Danny’s,” she said, monotone. “What can I get you, Your Highness?”

He raised one brow, amused. “Excuse me?”

“You look like someone who’s used to being bowed to,” she replied, pen hovering. “We don’t do that here. But we do pancakes and burnt coffee.”

A faint smirk touched his lips. “You’re not very good at customer service.”

“I’m excellent. You’re just not the kind of customer I care to serve.”

His smirk widened like she’d entertained him. “Interesting.”

“Not really,” she said. “Coffee?”

He studied her now, eyes trailing from her messy ponytail down to her cheap sneakers, taking in every inch like he was solving a puzzle. It made her want to throw her notepad at him.

“Yes. Black. And… bring me something edible.”

Lena bit the inside of her cheek. “Right. One edible thing. Got it.”

She turned on her heel and walked back to the counter, aware of his eyes still on her.

“That guy looks like trouble,” muttered Jamie, the line cook, peeking through the pass.

Lena shrugged. “He’s rich, probably drunk, and bored. The holy trinity of annoying men.”

Ten minutes later, she returned with a plate of French toast and the coffee, placing it in front of him with zero ceremony.

“I present to you something edible.”

He leaned back, looking at her more than the food.

“You have a sharp tongue,” he said. “Most women try to impress me.”

“Must be exhausting,” she said.

“You have no idea.”

She crossed her arms. “So, are you going to eat, or sit here judging the working class for kicks?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. For a moment, his face changed—not in expression, but in the way it seemed to lose its armor.

Then it was back. Cold. Controlled.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Lena snorted. “I’m guessing someone rich, powerful, and incredibly used to hearing the word yes.”

“Rafael Blackthorne.”

Her hand paused mid-air. The name was familiar. The tabloids. The real estate empire. The luxury clubs. The model girlfriends. The lawsuits.

She glanced at him again—yep. It tracked.

“Cool,” she said, unfazed. “Still going to need you to pay in cash if your card has more scandals than credit.”

He chuckled then—low and genuine, catching her off guard.

“You’re not impressed.”

“Should I be?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re interesting.”

The next night, he came back.

This time, he ordered eggs, toast, and smiled faintly when she rolled her eyes.

“You’re persistent,” she said, placing the plate down.

“I like places where people aren’t fake.”

“Then you’re in the wrong zip code.”

He watched her, studying her every move, every word. It made Lena uneasy—like she was under a microscope.

“Why are you really here?” she asked.

“I had a meeting. Got bored. Found this place.”

“And decided to torment the staff for fun?”

His lips twitched. “No. I came back for you.”

She laughed, loud and hard. “You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“You’re not my type.”

“I didn’t ask if I was.”

He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the table.

“I need a personal assistant,” he said. “Mine quit. I think you’d be perfect.”

Lena blinked. “You want me… to work for you?”

“You’re smart. Sharp. You don’t flinch around power. I could use someone like you.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough. You work hard. You don’t suck up. And you didn’t bat an eye when I dropped my name.”

She frowned. “Why me?”

He sipped his coffee. “Because you’re not for sale. Which is exactly why I want to buy your time.”

The audacity. The arrogance. The gall.

Lena leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “Let me make something clear, Mr. Blackthorne. I’m not some charity case or plaything for bored billionaires. I have a job. A life. A brother to support. I don’t need your money or your pity.”

“I’m not offering pity. I’m offering a job. Ten thousand a week.”

Her jaw dropped slightly. He said it so casually, like it was pocket change.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

Her heart skipped. Ten thousand. That could change everything. Bills paid. Debts cleared. A proper home for Noah.

Still, she shook her head. “I don’t trust men like you.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “That means you’re smart.”

He pulled a sleek black card from his wallet and dropped it on the table. “My office. If you change your mind.”

Lena stared at the card after he left. Elegant lettering. Blackthorne Enterprises. 77th floor.

She should throw it away.

But she didn’t.