THE BILLIONAIRE’S DEBT

My bank account was a funeral. Four dollars and twelve cents staring back at me in cold, digital ink.

​In a city like New York, four dollars doesn't even buy you the right to breathe the air in a subway station. It definitely doesn't pay the rent on a Brooklyn studio that smells like damp laundry and broken dreams. I sat on my floor, the only piece of furniture I still owned, and stared at the sleek black laptop resting on my knees.

​I’d swiped it from a high-end estate sale in the Hamptons while I was working as hired help for a catering company. The owner was some fossil who had more yachts than heirs, and he hadn't even noticed it was gone. It was encrypted, heavy, and smelled like old money and expensive cigars.

​I wasn't a professional hacker. I was just a girl who had been hungry long enough to learn how to pick digital locks. Hunger is a hell of a motivator. It makes you sharp where the world expects you to be soft.

​After three days of staring at a locked screen, the pixels finally flickered to life. There was no password prompt, no security question. Just a direct line to an encrypted messaging server. And one name at the top of the contact list that made the air in my lungs feel like lead: Julian Thorne.

​Everyone knew Julian. He was the kind of billionaire who didn't just buy companies; he dismantled them for sport. He was young, famously cold, and had a reputation for being a shark in a five thousand dollar suit. He lived in a penthouse that touched the clouds while I was sitting on a floor that was probably infested with roaches.

​I looked at my four dollars. Then I looked at the messaging window.

​I didn't think about the consequences. If I thought about it, I’d get scared. And fear doesn't pay for a flight to Bali or put food on the table. I moved my fingers over the keyboard, the plastic clicking in the silent room.

​I typed out the first thing that came to my mind.

​"You’re late on your payment, Julian. Five thousand. Now. Or the files on this drive go to the press."

​It was a total bluff. I didn't even know what was on the drive yet. I hit enter and felt my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I waited for the police to show up. I waited for the screen to go black and my life to be over.

​One minute passed. The silence in my apartment was deafening. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator and the distant siren of an ambulance on Flatbush Avenue.

​Then, my phone buzzed on the floor next to me. It wasn't a text message. It was a notification from my banking app.

​Deposit Confirmed: $10,000.00.

​I stopped breathing. He hadn't just paid the five. He’d doubled it. It was like he was laughing at me through the wire, showing me how little ten thousand dollars meant to a man like him.

​The laptop chimed. A message appeared from the private server.

​"I don’t respond to threats from amateurs," the message read. I could almost hear the cold, bored tone of his voice through the screen. "But I do pay for audacity. You have ten minutes to tell me how you got this number before I track your IP and make sure you never see a positive balance again. The clock is ticking, little thief."

​My blood ran cold. He wasn't scared. He was interested. And in Julian Thorne’s world, being the object of his interest was usually a death sentence for your bank account or your reputation.

​I looked around my crumbling apartment. I had nothing to lose but a landlord who hated me and a pile of past-due bills. I leaned back against the wall, a manic sort of energy bubbling up in my chest. If he wanted to play, I’d give him a game he couldn't afford to quit.

​I typed back, my movements fast and aggressive.

​"Ten thousand was just the greeting, Julian. If you want to know who I am, it’s going to cost you a lot more than that. And don't bother with the IP tracker. I’m already gone."

​I slammed the laptop shut and grabbed my bag. I had ten thousand dollars and a billionaire’s private attention. I needed to move. I needed to disappear into the bright lights of Manhattan and turn myself into someone he couldn't ignore.

​I ran down the stairs, the adrenaline making my vision sharp. I hailed a cab, something I hadn't been able to afford in months.

​"Soho," I told the driver. "And drive fast."

​As the car pulled away, my phone buzzed again. Another notification.

​Deposit Confirmed: $5,000.00.

​Followed by a text from an unknown number.

​"That’s for the cab. Don't keep me waiting, Elara."

​I froze. He knew my name. He’d found me in less than three minutes. The game hadn't even started yet, and I was already trapped in his web.

​I looked at the driver, then back at my phone. I could run, or I could lean in. I could be the victim, or I could be the one who drained the shark dry.

​I took a deep breath and typed two words.

​"Watch me."