One night and a billionaire obsession

Kelly's POV The shrill beeping of my phone, obviously a final plea from its dying battery, was what finally dragged me awake. It was a sound was familiar and unwelcoming as the cold seeping into my bones from the futon I now called a bed. My blanket, if I could call this tattered looking piece of cloth a blanket, did nothing to stop it. I blinked against the weak gray light that was already shining through my cheap curtains. My brain, heavy with sleep and stress, was slow to register what time it was. When I finally managed to push myself up, the clock on my phone confirmed my dread: 10:46 a.m. “Shit.” Once again I woke up late. I pushed off the futon and padded barefoot across the freezing floor, my socks were missing again. I couldn't find it last night before going to bed, it was probably a casualty of my dryer that only worked when it felt like it. This studio apartment wasn't much bigger than a college dorm room, it was just one rectangular space holding a worn futon, a chipped table, a one-burner stove, and a mini-fridge that sounded like it was about to break down. A handwritten note fluttered slightly on the refrigerator door, held in place by a weak magnet. “RENT DUE, LAST NOTICE.” I had gotten the notice the previous day. I peeled it off, the paper feeling thin and fragile in my hands, just like my life. I dropped it into a drawer that already held at least three identical notes. I didn’t need the reminder that I was late on my rent, because my landlord had a talent for passive-aggression and an uncanny ability to know when my bank account was at its lowest. Wandering to the sink to wash my face, I twisted the tap, and there was nothing, not even a drop. "Seriously?" I whispered, the quiet of the apartment swallowing the sound. The water bill, I’d paid half of it, hoping that would buy me a week, a few more showers, and some coffee. But it seemed the water company had a different opinion. I grabbed my phone again, it screen was a testament of my current life’s failures. There were missed emails from job sites, unopened debt reminders, and one particularly aggressive message from a loan shark that simply read: “You can’t run forever.” My thumbs hovered over the "Apply Now" button on a job listing for a Pet Grooming Spa receptionist. It was probably the fifth one this week, and the thought of spending my days around a bunch of pampered dogs filled me with an exhaustion I couldn’t explain. Me, the former owner of a boutique fashion company, now applying to scoop dog poop. The irony of it all was almost as sharp as the hunger pangs I was feeling at this moment. The phone buzzed suddenly with an incoming video call. Of course it was Dylan, I groaned. My older brother was punctual to a fault, and worse, he was too perceptive for my own good. I took a deep breath and hit accept, trying to adjust my messy hair like it would change how I looked. “Hey,” I said, forcing a cheerfulness into my voice I didn't feel. Dylan’s face popped up on the screen, he was clean-shaven as usual, his hair neatly styled, and his background was a perfectly curated wall of books and a thriving houseplant that somehow wasn't dead. He looked like the picture of success, a stark contrast to my current reality. “Hey yourself. You look tired.” “Do I?” I angled the phone away from my crusty eye and the wild bun I'd slept in for two days. “I was just, uh, checking emails, busy morning.” He squinted, a classic Dylan move. “And sleeping in.” “I work better at night,” I said, my smile feeling tight on my face. “You know that.” He tilted his head, his expression softening, he didn't immediately say what he saw on my face, but his eyes did all the talking. They looked right through my brave front, seeing the exhaustion and the fear I worked so hard to hide. “Kelly, are you… are you okay? Really?” I felt my stomach clench, he was so close to knowing the truth. “I’m managing,” I replied quickly, my voice a little too firm. "What made you ask?" “You haven’t called in days and you rarely pick up when I do. Also, you sound… like you’re doing that thing where you pretend everything is fine when it's not.” He leaned a little closer to the camera. “What’s the latest? Still no new job leads?” I hated how easily he read me. “Actually, I have interviews lined up, starting tomorrow,” I lied, the words feeling dry and tasteless in my mouth. “I just need a little time.” His brows pulled together in a familiar frown of concern that looked so much like our father. “You know I can help, with the job and everything else, you don't have to go through this alone, you know.” “No.” The word was a reflex, a shield I now raised every time he offered to help. I forced a bright smile. “I appreciate it, but I’m good really, I’ll get a job, and I’ll be fine. I don’t need you to be my personal bank, Dylan." He let out a long sigh, the sound carrying a weight of resignation. “Alright, little sis, but if anything changes, call me, I mean it, anytime.” “I will,” I promised, though in my mind I knew I wouldn't. The moment the screen went black, my smile vanished. The silence in the apartment felt loud again, I walked to the edge of the table where a worn spiral notebook sat beneath a pair of old measuring tapes. It was an involuntary motion, a pull toward the past. I flipped it open, there were pages after pages filled with color sketches, fabric swatches, and handwritten notes about bespoke designs. A beautiful ink sketch of a flowing dress, a chic suit jacket, and a bold, elegant trench coat. At the top of one page, in my own confident handwriting, were the words: “Kelly Robert Designs.” and below it, a tagline I'd been so proud of: “Bold elegance for real women.” The memory of the six months my business was alive was both a warm blanket and a sharp knife. I could remember the thrill of my first sale, the long nights spent hunched over my sewing machine, the endless optimism. And then I could remember the crash after that, the bank refusing another loan, the investor who pulled out, the unpaid orders I couldn’t fulfill, the stack of bills that grew taller every day. I closed the notebook slowly, the finality of it a familiar ache. The only sound in the apartment was the low hum of the fridge and the distant city noises that managed to sneak through my single, drafty window. I checked the cracked mirror near the door and saw my reflection. I looked tired and puffy-eyed, I was still wearing the hoodie from two days ago. My fingers curled around the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. "I can't keep living like this."