The Don's Secret Bride

Lily's POV “Thank you,” I muttered, taking the overpriced coffee from the barista’s hand. Twenty damn dollars. For this. I swear, the world was built to bleed people like me dry. No one really gave a damn about the lower class—we were just ghosts in the corners of their clean, expensive lives. But I hadn’t come here for coffee. I came for that wallet. I spotted him again—the man sitting near the window, half-lost in his phone, his wallet sticking out of his back pocket like a damn invitation. My fingers itched. I just needed to get close, make the lift clean, and I’d refund myself for this robbery in a cup. I lowered my head, tried to keep my breath steady, but it caught in my throat. Jesus. I stank. I hadn’t had a bath in two days. I hadn’t eaten in nearly as long. The only reason I wasn’t barefoot was because some stranger gave me flip-flops out of pity. I needed to get back to the shelter. But that wallet... I needed it more. I walked straight toward him, heart hammering like it always did in these moments. I 'accidentally' bumped into his chair. “Oh—I'm so sorry!” I gasped, my hand moving fast, smooth, clean. He barely glanced up. “It’s fine, it’s all good,” he said, heading to the counter. By then, I was already gone. Out the door, down the street, heart racing faster than my feet. Once I was a block away, I ducked into a quiet corner and opened the wallet. A single fifty. Oh, f**k me. I grabbed the bill and tossed the wallet into the gutter. No ID, no credit cards I could’ve tried to flip. Just a single fifty-dollar note and my shame. Ben would’ve been furious if he knew. He was always telling me to stop, that it was too risky. But he didn’t get it. I wasn’t just broke—I was drowning. I was twenty-five, with no degree, no safety net, and $1.5 million in debt. That wasn’t an exaggeration. My dad’s gambling problems had kicked it off. After he killed himself, the debt fell on me and my mom. I dropped out of college to help pay it off, took whatever jobs I could—anything that paid. But then Mom got sick—cancer. I borrowed more to save her, more than I had any business borrowing. And she still died. Now all I had left was a mountain of interest, a head full of survival instincts, and the constant paranoia that the loan sharks were going to catch up with me. So don’t judge me for stealing a fifty. I didn’t ask to survive like this. I was halfway back to the Community Centre when something caught my eye. A watch. Not just any watch—sleek, expensive-looking, probably worth a couple grand if I could fence it fast enough. The man wearing it stood at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting to cross. He was typing on his phone, oblivious. I swallowed the last of the bitter coffee and tossed the cup, stepping up beside him. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t flinch. Just kept tapping away on his screen. If he was typing, I couldn’t go for the wrist. I needed some kind of physical contact. Something that distracted him just long enough for me to slip it off. The lights were about to change, cars clearing out. If I didn’t move now, he’d cross, and I’d lose my shot. I glanced at him through my peripheral vision. Nada. Zilch. No acknowledgment. Not even of the stink coming off me. Bold. Rich. Distracted. Perfect. Desperate times, right? I stepped off the curb. A car barreled toward me, horn blaring—but I didn’t flinch. He moved faster than I expected. A sharp tug at my collar yanked me backward and I slammed against something solid. Chest. Arms. Him. The car roared past, and I realized I was clinging to his shirt. His arm was tight around my waist, his breath brushing the top of my head. I froze. He didn’t let go. My heart was pounding, but not from the near-death. It was him. The way he was holding me like... like I mattered. I glanced up. His eyes were locked on mine—dark, intense, jaw clenched like he was holding something back. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, his voice low and too calm. But it wasn’t the question. It was how he asked it. Like he was biting back something else entirely. I should’ve nodded. I should’ve thanked him and walked away. But for a moment, I just stayed there, in his arms, like the world wasn’t falling apart and he was letting me. “I’m fine,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I finally tried to stand on my own. He let go slowly, like he wasn’t sure. His gaze didn’t leave my face. God, I must’ve looked terrible. My hair was a mess. Skin unwashed. Cracked lips. My flip-flops were big. Yet he still stared. He reached into his pocket. For a second, I thought he was going to give me money. I wasn’t a beggar—even though I looked like one. Smelled like one too... plus him giving me money would’ve made me feel worse. “You don’t have to—” I started, but stopped when he pressed something into my palm. A handkerchief. Then he turned and walked away without a word. I looked down. The cloth was worn, but soft. There was something sewn into the corner—messy, uneven stitches: D.R. An initial. I glanced up, but he was already gone. I took a slow breath. Then, without thinking, I slipped the watch from my pocket and tossed the handkerchief in a nearby bin. Two grand richer. My stomach growled, loud and angry. Time to get back to the Community Centre. Mr. Parker couldn’t still be pissed. Right?