Signed to Mr. Billionaire

I couldn't cry when my landlord slid a sudden eviction notice under my door. I felt sick in my stomach as tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I could hardly hold them back but somehow I did.

But on a second thought, I shouldn't have. I should have rolled up on the floor of my tiny apartment, screaming at the unfairness of life. But I didn’t have the luxury of breaking down not when my Dad was lying in a hospital bed, his medical bills piling up faster than I could count.

I really wanted to cry, but I remembered it was not going to change or pay the bills, so instead of crying, I did the only thing I thought would be best: I grabbed my apron and dragged myself to work.

It was not the life I had dreamed of. For a very long time, I had wanted to be a writer, not just a regular writer, but a well-known writer worldwide. A big dream, yeah? Well, I know too well but, still wanting to write stories that would make people feel something, I mean something different and deep, more like a connection to every word I write, and emotions they can’t help but feel. I have two dreams though but will keep the other anonymous for now. It's the biggest dream that I call an impossible crazy dream. I realized dreams don't pay rent. Dreams don't stop you from facing the embarrassment of not being able to pay your bills, just like it doesn’t stop landlords from knocking on your door and demanding money you don’t have.

 The coffee shop was hell that morning.

The line stretched to the door, the espresso machine was making a sound I was pretty sure it meant it was dying, and the broken register beeped in distress every time we tried to process an order.

  And my manager was already on my case for being five minutes late.

“You’re late,” my manager, Leonard, snapped angrily as I quickly tied my apron.

“Five minutes,” I shot back.

“Five minutes closer to getting fired.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a notepad. Like I could afford to lose this job.

Then he walked in.

The shift in the room was subtle at first. A few people straightened, whispers bouncing around like a secret too good to keep. Alexander Pierce.

I didn’t recognize him at first, not by name, at least. But could at least recognize his type. Expensive suit, sharp jawline, the kind of presence that sucked the air out of a room. Power clung to him like a second skin, and people moved out of his way without him asking.

I barely spared him a glance as I slammed a cup onto the counter and called out, “Double espresso for Mr. Too Important To Stand In Line.”

Laughter rippled through the shop.

Alexander Pierce didn’t laugh.

Instead, he gently stepped forward, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” Alexander murmured calmly, his voice smooth like whiskey.

“And you have quite the ego,” I shot back.

His gaze held mine for a moment longer, indistinct and intense. Then surprisingly, he smirked.

That should have just been the end of it. A random encounter with a rich stranger. But surprisingly two days later, I found his business card tucked into my tip jar, along with a note.

Call me. I have an offer.

I didn’t call.

Not right away.

But when my dad’s hospital bill came in, which left me in a serious state of confusion, just then my landlord knocked again with a final notice, and desperation sank its claws into me.

And suddenly, I had no choice.

Sitting outside my dad’s hospital room, I twirled Alexander Pierce's business card between my fingers.

I shouldn’t have been considering this. Whatever “offer” he had, it couldn’t be good.

But a hundred thousand dollars.

That was the number on the bill in my lap. That was the amount I owed, how much I didn’t have.

Call him.

I thought for a few seconds, still contemplating but it was as if my hands had a mind of their own. Cause before I could talk myself out of it, I took my phone and dialed the number on the card.

He answered on the first ring.

“I was wondering when you’d call.” His voice was as smooth as I remembered.

I clenched my jaw. “You said you had an offer for me,” I said calmly.

A pause. Then, “Meet me tomorrow. 9 AM. Pierce Enterprises.”

But I just had this feeling I was making a deal with the devil.

But I know too well my instincts are correct.

But at this point, I had no other choice.

I could barely sleep that night.

But when I arrived at Alexander's company Pierce Enterprises, I felt my stomach was in knots. Forty-two stories of glass and power, just then I got a quick yet immediate reminder that I was stepping into a world I didn't belong in.

My fingers were tightened around the strap of my purse, as I took a resounding breath. I stepped in, and the receptionist barely looked at me before directing me to the top floor. As the elevator mounted I felt my heart pounding very fast, my reflection staring back at me in the polished walls. I had dressed as best as I could, blue jeans, and a nice fitted blazer I’d found in a thrift store, knowing it couldn't be compared to the wealth and luxury surrounding me, I felt out of place. As the numbers on the panel blinked higher, my pulse climbed with them. The space felt too small, the air too thick.

When the elevator doors slid open, Alexander Pierce was waiting.

“Eleanor Jett,” he said smoothly, his eyes flickering over me in quiet assessment. “ Hmm, you’re punctual.”

I lifted my chin. “And you’re cryptic. What’s this offer?”

He gestured toward the sleek, modern office behind him. “Let’s talk inside.”

I hesitated, but then I thought of my dad, the machines keeping him alive, the bills I couldn’t pay, and followed him in.

His office turned out to be exactly what I had pictured. Cold, expensive, and impersonal. Floor-to-ceiling windows all showcased a beautiful breathtaking view of the city, but the man sitting in front of me? He was more unreadable than the skyline.

“I need a wife,” Alexander said, looking directly at me.

I blinked in surprise .“Excuse me?”