Semua Bab The Secret Billionaire in Aisle 9 : Bab 31 - Bab 40

The day started with a power outage.BuyMore’s fluorescent lights flickered once, buzzed like a dying wasp, and then blinked out completely.Half the staff froze. Naomi dropped a stack of clearance signs. Brenda muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in French.In the quiet dark, Eli’s voice cut through:“Okay, show of hands—who just accepted death?”Callie, standing by the front register, rolled her eyes. “Very helpful, thank you.”“I try,” he said cheerfully, somewhere in the gloom. “Do we have a flashlight?”“Top shelf in aisle two,” she called. “Right next to the ‘Help, I’m panicking’ survival kits.”Someone giggled. Probably Marcus.A few minutes later, emergency lights flickered to life, casting the store in moody, amber-tinted shadows.Not ideal for customers. But oddly atmospheric.Callie exhaled, adjusting the radio on her hip. “Brenda, can you check if IT h

The first thing Callie noticed about her new role as Store Manager was how everything felt the same—until it didn’t.Sure, she now had her own logins for the corporate portal, her keycard unlocked a few extra doors, and people started knocking before entering the manager’s office. But the coffee still tasted like regret, and the printers still jammed like it was a competitive sport.What changed most wasn’t the work.It was the weight of being watched.Not by her staff. They respected her—more now, if anything.No. This was something else.Like someone behind the curtain had just turned the spotlight brighter.She chalked it up to nerves. After all, being “the boss” came with new pressures, more responsibility, and about three times the number of emails. But still... there was something beneath it. A current she couldn’t name.And strangest of all?It started the moment Eli began acting weird.

The warehouse loomed large in the quiet hours of the evening, its industrial hum broken only by the clatter of pallets and the occasional hiss of air brakes. Concrete walls soaked in cold, overhead lights buzzing faintly, it was far from glamorous—exactly the kind of place where someone could disappear into work and not be questioned. Eli Whitaker—known here simply as Eli, assistant floor staff—moved through the space with practiced rhythm. The delivery truck had arrived late, and instead of delegating the unloading to the receiving crew, he’d volunteered, sleeves rolled up and scanner holstered on his belt. One by one, he lifted the boxes off the pallet, his posture taut with effort, sweat darkening the back of his collar. Cardboard scraped against his forearms, his boots scuffed against the floor, and still he pressed on. He wasn’t supposed to be here—not in this warehouse, not in this store, and certainly not under this name.

Friday mornings at BuyMore were usually a quiet affair.The rush of weekday commuters had passed, and the weekend crowd hadn’t yet descended. The staff used this window to restock, reorganize, and—in Marcus’s case—quietly judge the state of the breakroom microwave.“Don’t open it,” Brenda warned, standing by the counter with her hands on her hips. “It’s not safe in there.”Marcus held a coffee mug like a hazmat shield. “I’ve seen gas station bathrooms cleaner than this.”She smirked. “Pretty sure whatever’s growing inside has union rights by now.”“I volunteer you as tribute,” he said, gesturing dramatically.Brenda grabbed a Lysol wipe and pointed it like a weapon. “I’ve already cleaned that thing twice this week. If I scrub it one more time, I’m sending it a W-2.”“Fair. Maybe we should just throw the whole appliance away and tell Gloria it caught fire.”“We’d get a bonus,” Brenda deadpanned. “Hazard pay.”

The first time Marcus asked Brenda out, it wasn’t under the soft glow of fairy lights or during a sweeping romantic gesture.It happened at the loading dock.On a Wednesday.While Brenda was wrestling with a box of clearance toasters.“I was thinking,” Marcus said casually, holding a clipboard and leaning against the wall, “we’ve worked together for like two years, shared fifty vending machine snacks, survived three inventory audits, and a fondue pot incident.”Brenda looked up, sweat glistening at her brow. “Is this your way of saying we’re trauma-bonded?”“Partially,” he said. “But also... maybe we take the next step in our complicated, retail-driven relationship?”She straightened, narrowed her eyes with mock suspicion. “Are you asking me on a date?”“I might be. Depending on your response.”Brenda wiped her hands on her apron, heart thudding just a little faster. “Well, if there’s food involved and zero barco