The Billionaire's Cure

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Ayla’s POV

My wrist is still throbbing after my encounter at the bar today, the risk comes with the job.

It's not the first time I've seen those men, but it's the first time someone stood up to them on my behalf.

I press the ice pack against my wrist wincing in pain.

The bruises are already blooming, their ugly purple fingerprints wrapped around my bones.

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.

Fiona: How are you feeling? Did you call in sick?

I type back quickly.

Me: Yeah, I called in. Resting, don't worry about me.

Fiona: You sure? I can bring soup.

Me: I'm fine, really. Just tired.

Fiona: Okay. Call me if you need anything.

I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.

I didn't call in sick.

I resigned.

So now I'm unemployed and broke, I still have 23 months left on my car payment.

I fish the card out of my pocket.

DERRICK ASHFORD

ASHFORD INDUSTRIES

CEO

He flinched when I tried to touch him, but he gave me his card.

I grab my phone and search his name.

Derrick Ashford. CEO of Ashford Industries. Worth twelve billion dollars. Philanthropist.

The articles are all about his business, his acquisitions, his empire.

The next morning, I take the bus to Ashford Industries.

I'm wearing my best outfit, a black dress that's a little too tight, a blazer that's a little too worn.

I look like what I am: a waitress with no job and no prospects.

The lobby is cavernous, marble floors, amassive waterfall feature against the back wall, security guards at every corner.

I approach the front desk.

The receptionist is a woman in her forties with the name tag "Margaret."

"I'm here to see Derrick Ashford."

Margaret's eyebrows rise.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I—"

"Then I'm afraid Mr. Ashford isn't available."

Her tone is polite but firm.

"If you'd like to leave a message, I'll make sure he receives it."

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

What was I thinking?

I can't just show up at a billionaire's office and demand to see him.

I'm a nobody.

I turn to leave, defeated and feeling even more stupid, but Margaret's voice stops me.

"Ms. Ellison?"

She's staring at her computer screen, her eyes wide.

"Mr. Ashford has you on the visitor list," she says. "He's been expecting you."

I freeze.

Expecting me?

"Take the private elevator to the top floor," Margaret continues.

"He'll meet you there."

I don't ask how he knew I'd come, I just walk to the elevator and press the button.

The elevator opens onto the top floor.

A view that steals my breath, the entire city sprawled beneath me like a glittering map.

And then I see him.

Derrick Ashford.

Standing by the window with his back to me and his hands are shoved in his pockets.

He turns.

"Ms. Ellison." His voice is low. Rough.

"Thank you for coming."

"You knew I would."

He steps closer, closer than necessary.

Close enough for me to smell his cologne.

"Of course I knew." His eyes drop to my lips.

Arrogant bastard.

"I had you investigated."

He says it like it's nothing.

"After the bar. I needed to know who you were."

"Who I was?" I laugh. A hysterical sound.

"I'm nobody. I'm a waitress who resigned from a toxic work environment"

"You're not nobody." He steps closer.

"You're the only woman I can touch without feeling like I'm dying."

The words hang in the air between us.

"I need to tell you something," he says.

"But this is hardly the place to discuss such matters."

"There's a private bar downtown," he says.

"The Red Note. I'll meet you there at closing time. I'll send a car."

I should just say no and walk away.

But I don't.

The car arrives at 11 PM.

Black with tinted windows, and a driver that doesn't speak.

I told Fiona I was going to bed early.

Another lie!

I hate lying to her, but I can't tell her where I'm going.

The Blue Note is a jazz bar in the older part of the city, made with brick walls and dim lighting.

A small stage with a piano that no one is playing.

The sign on the door says CLOSED.

But the door is unlocked so I push it open.

The bar is empty except for one figure sitting in the corner booth.

Derrick Ashford.

He's wearing a simple black shirt, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are tan and muscular.

He looks up as I enter, his eyes find me immediately.

Ayla.

He doesn't say it, but I see it in his face.

"Ms. Ellison." He stands.

"Thank you for coming."

"You said you'd explain."

He nods. Gestures to the booth.

"Please. Sit."

I slide in across from him.

"Drink?" he asks.

"I don't—"

"Please." He pushes a glass toward me.

"You’ll need it."

He watches me. His eyes never leave my face.

"I'm sorry about the theatrics," he says.

"The private bar, the NDA, I needed to make sure we could speak freely."

He slides a document across the table.

Single page, legal language.

"This is a non-disclosure agreement," he says.

"It states that anything we discuss tonight stays between us. You can't tell anyone, not your best friend, not a therapist, not a priest. No one."

I read it. It's simple and clear.

"And if I sign it?"

"Then I'll tell you everything."

I pick up the pen and sign my name.

Ayla Ellison.

Then, I slide it back to him.

He reads it, nods and sets it aside and looks at me.

"Five years ago, my fiancée died in a car accident," he says.

"I was driving. I held her as she bled out in my arms. She begged me not to let go, I held on but she died anyway."

His voice is controlled, but I see the pain in his eyes.

"After that, something changed," he continues.

"I couldn't touch anyone, especially women.

Every time someone touched me, I'd flinch, vomit and have panic attacks that left me unable to move for hours."

I stare at him.

"You can't touch women," I say.

He meets my eyes. "Except you."

My heart pounds.

"At the bar," he says.

"When I saved you, when my arm brushed your shoulder, I didn't flinch."

He shakes his head.

"Derrick—"

He pulls out a thick folder and drops it on the table between us.

"This is a contract," he says.

"I want you to live with me for a year.

Touch me, seven times a day, thirty minutes each."

I stare at the folder.

"Seven times a day," I repeat.

"Thirty minutes each."

"Yes."

"What's in it for me?"

"Ten million dollars." He says it like it's nothing.

My head is spinning.

"What if I say no?" I ask.

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Then I'll respect your decision," he says.

"I'll never contact you again, you'll go back to your life, and I'll go back to mine."

"And what if I say yes?"

He looks at me. His eyes are dark, intense.

He leans forward, his hands are flat on the table. He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.

"Then I need you to touch me."