The Delivery Guy Is A Secret Billionaire

Zayne’s POV My father summoned me to his study like I was still some sixteen-year-old who had just crashed his vintage Ferrari. I stood there, watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey with that usual air of importance as though the very earth waited for his command before it spun. Leonard Kingston. Billionaire. Tycoon. King of Manhattan’s elite. The one who owns more than five estates in each city. The owner of the most luxurious boutique ever, without a card no entry is approved. And the man who had ruled every chapter of my life like it was a chessboard and I was just one of his pawns. He didn’t look up as he took a sip. "You’re getting married." I blinked. “Sorry?” That got his attention. He turned, eyes narrowing. "You heard me. You’re getting married, Zayne. And not to just anyone. As the son of Leonard Kingston, you must get married to fame. The girl's family must have a name that matches my standards." My stomach tightened. Not because of the girl he spoke about, I know he's aiming at me marrying Marissa—I'd met her once, she was stunning, poised, and absolutely empty—but because of the weight in his voice. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was a declaration. “Dad…” I started slowly, stepping closer, “You can’t be serious.” He raised a brow. “You’re twenty-seven, Zayne. No wife. No children. You own a lot for you not to be married.” “No love either,” I muttered under my breath. He ignored it, or maybe he just didn’t care. “You’re the heir to Kingston Group. You carry our blood, our name. That name demands a woman who reflects it. Not some— street girl who paints walls or posts dance videos on TikTok.” I felt something burn in my chest. I wasn’t even dating anyone. But the fact that he immediately reduced love—real love—to a meaningless fling with someone beneath him made me want to throw the glass in his hand across the room. “I’m not asking to marry a street dancer, Dad. I’m just asking for time.” He scoffed. “Time for what?” “To find someone I actually love.” Now he laughed. Not just a chuckle—but a full, rich, mocking laugh that echoed off the walls. “Love? Don’t be ridiculous. You think love built this empire? You think your grandfather married your grandmother for love? Or I married your mom for love?” “No, Zayne.” “He married her because she was powerful. Connected. Because she was a step toward something greater. And she had all it takes to be married into the Kingston family.” “Love is a stupid thing, what matters is fame, respect and power. You’ve got all this, so certainly any woman would grow to love you.” “I’m not you,” I said, stepping closer, trying hard to keep the shake out of my voice. “I don’t want a merger. I want something real. I don’t care if she’s famous or not, if she’s got a last name people can spell. I just want someone who sees me. Not the Kingston fortune.” He finished his drink and walked to his desk, sliding open a drawer like this entire conversation bored him. “If that’s what you’re aiming at—a waitress, a florist, or one of those ridiculous charity girls—forget it. I’ll never accept a lowlife into this family. Never.” My hands curled into fists. “And what if that ‘lowlife’ stays even when things get bad?” He looked up, sharp and unimpressed. “Then I’ll know you’ve lost your damn mind. This fame and everything would last you forever.” “Listen Zayne, I won't be here forever. I want to see you settled before I die, you know about my illness right?” The room went quiet. The tension coiled between us like a live wire. I sighed and stepped back, rubbing a hand down my jaw. I could’ve walked out. Slammed the door and swore to never speak to him again. But that’s not how power works. And Leonard Kingston held all of it. “Give me one week,” I said finally. He stilled. “What?” “One week,” I repeated, holding his gaze. “Give me seven days. If I can’t find someone I feel something real for, someone I actually want to build a life with, then fine—arrange the marriage. I won’t fight you.” His eyes searched mine for a long moment, like he was scanning me for weakness. Then he slowly nodded. “You have one week,” he said flatly. “But if you come back empty-handed, Zayne, you’ll marry whoever I choose without a single complaint. You’ll wear the damn tux and smile for the cameras and you’ll be grateful for what you’re getting.” “I don’t care about fame.” “No,” he said. “But you do care about the company. About what I leave behind. Don’t make me regret handing you the keys.” “You never know when my time on earth will expire.” I turned and walked out without another word. --- Outside the study, the air felt colder. Or maybe it was just my nerves. I made my way to the elevator, pressed the button, and leaned back against the marble wall. My mind was racing. One week. What the hell was I going to do with one week? Find love? That wasn’t even realistic. I hadn’t dated seriously in years, and now I was expected to fall head over heels in a matter of days? But this wasn’t just about me. It was about refusing to become my father’s puppet. About making sure the woman standing next to me wasn’t just another pawn in his precious legacy. And deep down, maybe it was about proving to myself that love still mattered. That somewhere in this city full of smoke and mirrors, there was someone who wasn’t dazzled by my last name or my net worth. Someone who saw me. The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside, ran a hand through my hair, and looked at my reflection in the mirrored panel. I didn’t look like a man who knew what he was doing. But I did look like a man who had nothing left to lose. And maybe that was enough. Maybe it was time to finally meet the one I've built without her knowledge.