My Billionaire's ex: A love rekindled by fate.

The Los Angeles night air carried the weight of sorrow. The Garcia estate was still on the hill, with only a small light in the blue sky. The fountain in the front was no longer flowing and statues of marble glued there were covered with black cloth. Andrew Garcia passed the time indoors in the studio that his father used to operate. Shelves of ledgers, leather books, he stood between shadows and lamplight looking dopey. He was holding a glass of bourbon in his hand, which he did not touch. Outwardly, he possessed every appearance of an ideal heir—tall, commanding, sharp—but inwardly, he was a kid considering an inheritance which did not in any way belong to him. Williams Garcia had been more than a man. He was an invincible soul, a giant and his empire permeated everywhere, and his word was heeded in the boardrooms. He could still stop his son by various means, even after his death. The family attorney, Mr. Henderson, cleared his throat and presented the piece of paper that everyone was waiting to get. The study was crowded with relatives black suits and dresses blending with the mahogany walls. “In accordance with the will of the late Mr. Garcia,” said Henderson, “The Garcia inheritance, with all the enterprises, is subject to one condition.” The room fell silent. Andrew closed his wine bottle more firmly. “Andrew Garcia should marry,” Harry said. “Until then, the board of trustees, through the management of Mr. George Garcia, have retained control of the estate.” The words dropped like a stone in water A murmur spread. Uncle and aunt glanced at each other and smiled weakly. Andrew was conscious of those gazes on him. "Marry?" he repeated, rolling his eyes. “It was your father’s stipulation,” Henderson answered. Andrew turned over to the man in the corner. His uncle George, the younger brother of his father, sat as though he owned the place. The victory flashed in his keen eyes and a narrow smile drew his lips. “I’ll take care of things, nephew,” said George, raising his glass. When you make your home and marriage. The words hurt like thorns. His father had never stopped referring to him as a reckless boy, the one who was extremely into freedom and late nights. George had been waiting round the empire like a vulture, and he had his power restored to him. Andrew laid aside his glass before it broke. The last thing that came to his mind was marriage. Love was messy, fleeting. Marriage was a chain. But without it, he would lose all that his father had made—and probably turn it all over to George. After the room cleared, the man lingered down by the large windows, seeing the lights in the city twinkling below. His gaze looked back in anger. He can expect to pay marriage a price that he can pay on his own terms. — In one of the cramped city apartments, over a diner, Adelina Jones folded a stack of unpaid bills. Her kitchen table lamp flickered feebly. The fridge was buzzing, and was about to go off. Her eyes, dark brown and full of fire and running, long hair falling down her shoulders, her figure caught your eye when she moved in front of you. She had even dreamed of being an art student and venturing outside her small world. However, dreams do not cover bills, she was getting farther away, seasoned as she was once a girl. She sighed, rubbing her face. Rent was due. The power bill was overdue. Her work at a café barely sustained her. Her phone buzzed. She scowled at the number displayed on the screen which she was not familiar with. "Hello?" "Miss Jones?" The voice was deep, confident. "Yes. Who is this?" "This is Andrew Garcia. We need to meet. Tomorrow." She froze, lips parting. She knew the name. Everyone did. She had read his name in the magazines. Why would he call her? "Why?" she asked cautiously. There was a pause. Then the voice returned. “You see, I have a suggestion to make for you. One that would change your life.” She never got a chance to ask anything more when the call was cut off. Adelina had sat there in paral language. The following day the café was abuzz with the smell of coffee and the chatter of customers. Adelina was wandering between tables and was making her routine. Nevertheless, she heard the call again and again in her mind. The door was opened and all was still. Andrew Garcia walked in. His tailored suit was such a second skin, that it is perfectly hard to avoid attention. The straightening of people started. Adelina's breath hitched. The tray held in her hands shook. His eyes fell on her instantly. "Miss Jones," he said smoothly. "Shall we talk?" She passed away with her heart beating fast. She dotted her forehead with her apron and headed towards her. The sleek black car was parked outside of doors on the curb. Andrew opened the door, and did not see her. She waited a moment and went in. The fabric covering the leather seat was soft, the air was cold and quiet. Andrew followed her and closed the door and then closed it. He looked at her for a long time. She was restless with her fingers crewing and crewing. Finally, he spoke. "I want you to be my wife." The words slammed into her. "Excuse me?" “This is not love, but you see, I told you it was not love,” Andrew hastened. "It’s business. A contract. You will be my aid in getting my inheritance. I will clean out your debts in exchange.” Adelina’s pulse races. The proposal was enticing, indecent. Her bills, her debts, her suffocating life, everything strained against her when she seized her place opposite a man who offered her a way out. She manifested to find a guess of a jest. None. After years, something is aching in her heart. Not hope, not trust, the deadly whisper of possibility.