The Billionaire who swore to end me

Four Years Ago

Zaria. 21 years old. 

The Los Angeles sun is unbearably hot today. The streets buzz with activity, a never-ending symphony of car horns, chatter, and hurried footsteps. Everyone seems to be struggling to shield themselves from the oppressive heat, darting between shaded areas and fanning themselves uselessly. I wince as I squint against the blinding glare, cursing the relentless sun.

Outside the school, the world is always noisy, always moving. The bustling streets of Los Angeles never rest, people are always coming and going, a tradition as old as the city itself.

I have never been fond of the heat. I despise anything remotely warm, let alone scorching. Even my meals have to be lukewarm at best. I much prefer the crisp, controlled coolness of an air-conditioned room.

“Why did you drag me out here, Sam? This sun is unbearable!” I grumble as my older sister—older by just a year and a few months—practically drags me across the busy street outside our school hostel. I have left an important lecture, and the thought of missing even a moment of class irritates me to no end.

“Oh, come on, just be patient!” Samantha beams, unfazed by my reluctance. “You know I promised never to keep secrets from you. Don’t you want to know who I’ve been talking to for the past four months?”

I pause mid-stride and turn to glare at her. “You brought me all the way out here to meet a…boy?” I ask incredulously. I can hardly believe my ears. Did I really just leave an important class just to meet the guy my sister is currently infatuated with?

“I know what you’re thinking, but Zaria, this one is special! I swear to you. Please, just a few minutes. Then you can go back to studying. Please?” Samantha pleads, her eyes wide with the signature puppy-dog look that always works on me.

I sigh, already feeling myself give in. I can never say no to my sweet sister, especially when she makes that face. It has always been my weakness when it comes to Samantha. Though Samantha is the older sister, she certainly acts like the younger one. Our contrasting personalities shocks me sometimes.

“Okay, who is this guy, and where is he?” I ask, relenting.

At that moment, Samantha’s phone rings so loudly that both of us jump, nearly knocking it to the ground.

“It’s him! It’s him!” Samantha shrills excitedly, quickly answering. “Hey, baby, we’re almost there. Okay… See you soon. Muah!” She ends the call with a dreamy sigh before grabbing my wrist again. “Come on!”

As we round the corner and enter the quiet restaurant across from our school, I feel instant relief. The cool air sends a shiver down my spine, washing away the suffocating heat from outside.

“What are you ordering? I think I’ll get a sandwich. I haven’t had one in weeks,” Samantha muses as she pulls me forward.

“Sam, I have a test in twenty minutes, and I haven’t read anything! Can we just meet him and get this over with, please?” I groan as we walk further into the restaurant.

I am acutely aware of the attention we are drawing. It is something I have grown used to over the years. Being a Buckley means standing out wherever I go. Sometimes, I feel proud of my family name. Other times, it feels like a burden, an invisible cage dictating who I can and cannot be.

My father, David Buckley, is a shrewd businessman who never tolerates mistakes. He has drilled into us the importance of upholding our family legacy and maintaining proper associations. That pressure has shaped me into the overly cautious, perfectionist girl I am today. I have a reputation to uphold, and I take it seriously. My dedication to academics has even earned me the nickname “Bookie Zaria,” a title I wear with pride.

I glance at my sister, who is practically vibrating with excitement. Sometimes, I wish I am a little more like Samantha. Samantha is free-spirited, carefree, and effortlessly social. While I bury myself in books, Samantha embraces life, dating, partying, and sneaking out to clubs.

But I have spent years proving my worth to our father, especially as the daughter of the woman the world refers to as “the Buckley baby mama.” I have to work twice as hard to be seen as a legitimate part of the family.

“Oh, there he is!” Samantha’s excited voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I look up just in time to see a man rise from his seat and approach us. His gaze is locked on Samantha, as if I do not even exist. Good. Any man interested in Samantha should be completely obsessed with her.

I watch as they embrace, giving me a chance to study him. He is tall—ridiculously tall—and well-built. His shirt and jeans look like they have been worn a thousand times. His skin is a light olive tone, not dark but not exactly white either. Not my type, I note. I have a thing for darker-skinned men, the kind of deep chocolate complexion that makes me weak in the knees.

After what feels like forever, the couple finally turns to acknowledge me. Plastering an awkward smile on my face, I extend my hand for a handshake.

“Tristan, this is my sister I’ve been telling you about, Zaria. Zaria, meet Tristan King, my boyfriend,” Samantha introduces enthusiastically.

“Hello, Tristan,” I say simply, noting with slight irritation that my hand is still hanging in the air, unshaken.

As if reading my mind, Tristan finally takes my hand in a brief, almost reluctant handshake. Now that I have a closer look at him, I have to admit he is good-looking. His neatly trimmed beard frames his strong jawline, and his dark, slightly curled hair makes him look both rugged and boyish at the same time.

I don’t realize I am staring until he clears his throat. Embarrassed, I quickly do the same, pulling my hand back with a sharpness that almost makes me stumble.

“Sorry, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my upcoming exams,” I say quickly, forcing an apologetic smile.

“Sure,” Tristan murmurs, his expression unreadable. It is clear he doesn’t believe my excuse. I try to ignore the irritation bubbling inside me. My sister’s boyfriend is already testing my patience and we haven’t even spent five minutes together.

We sit down and order some snacks with soft drinks. While we wait, Samantha and Tristan engage themselves in a deep discussion.

“So, what date do you think would be best for the introduction?” Tristan asks, his attention fully on Samantha.

Samantha hesitates before looking at me with a nervous smile. “We were thinking of doing our introduction right after I finish my final papers. But we’re not sure about the exact date yet.”

I frown. “Introduction? As in, the first step to marriage? Isn’t that a bit soon? Do you even know each other well enough?”

Tristan’s eyes darken as he turns to me. “With all due respect, Miss Buckley, Samantha and I have been discussing this since our first month together. We know what we want, and it would be an honor to meet her family and formally ask for her hand in marriage.”

Something about the way he speaks—so smooth, so calculated—unnerves me. His tone carries a quiet arrogance, a confidence that feels almost condescending.

“Alright, I have one question, Mr. King. Do you love my sister?”

The table falls silent.

Tristan’s jaw tightens slightly before he responds. “The feelings between Samantha and me are for us alone to know. That’s none of your business. All you need to know is that we care for each other and plan to spend our lives together. Is that clear, Miss Buckley?”

My instincts scream at me. Something is off about this man. Before I can press further, Samantha suddenly stands up. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

The moment she leaves, I turn back to Tristan. “So… what do you do for a living?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t aware this was an interview. Should I submit my résumé while we’re at it?”

I narrow my eyes. This man is definitely trouble. And I will be damned if I let him hurt my sister. I chuckle lightly, though there is no humor in it. This man is testing my fucking patience. I lean in slightly, my voice cool and measured.

“I only asked a simple question which I expect you to answer like a civilized human being trying to impress his girlfriend’s family.”

Tristan smirks, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “And who exactly am I trying to impress? You?”

My jaw clenches. “I don’t need to be impressed. But you’re dating my sister, which means I get to ask questions and expect respectful answers.”

Tristan leans forward, his expression unreadable. “Respect? And what about you, Miss Buckley? Where’s your respect?” His tone is deceptively calm, but I can feel the venom behind his words.

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “I really don’t know how my sister had the misfortune of meeting someone as arrogant as you. It’s obvious you’re with her because of the Buckley name. A psycho opportunist who thinks he can talk to anyone however he pleases.”

Silence. The kind that feels suffocating. Fuck, I’ve said too much. Why can’t you control your tongue Zaria!

Tristan’s fingers curl around the edge of the table, his grip so tight his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches as his eyes darken with pure, simmering rage. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously low.

“How… dare… you?”

I don’t flinch, though my pulse is hammering in my chest.

His lips twist into a sneer. “Mark my words, Zaria Buckley, you will regret every single thing you just said. You will eat your words and beg for forgiveness. I swear to God, you will.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that.”

I push my chair back abruptly, standing just as Samantha returns to the table, her eyes darting between us with clear unease.

“Zaria! Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

I force a small smile. “I’m happy for you, Sam, but I won’t spend another second sitting across from someone who has zero regard for others. I truly wish you well, but I have exams to attend to.”

Samantha reaches for my arm, but I step back.

“Zaria, wait—”

“I’ll see you at home.”

Without sparing Tristan another glance, I turn on my heel and stride out of the restaurant, my heart still pounding in my chest.

I don’t know why, but something in my gut tells me that this is far from over.

***