BILLIONS AND BROKENNESS
955 Words
MR. RIGHT AND THE CRAZY TOMBOY
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CHAPTER TWO
BILLIONS AND BROKENNESS
Alexander Knight sat at the long glass dining table, the untouched pizza box resting like a foreign object between his Montblanc pen and a half-finished glass of sparkling water. Across the room, his assistant, Ethan Crane, adjusted his tie and glanced at his watch. They had fifteen minutes before the quarterly board meeting. Alexander hadn’t moved.
“She spilled coffee on me this morning,” Alex said abruptly, eyes still fixed on the brown grease-stained cardboard.
Ethan blinked. “Sir?”
“The girl who delivered this. Jayda Brooks. We collided earlier outside Lombardi Avenue. Coffee exploded. My suit—ruined.”
Ethan raised a brow, unsure where the conversation was headed. “Should I get security involved?”
“No,” Alex said too quickly. He paused, narrowed his eyes at the box. “She called me Moneybags. Then insulted my phone addiction.”
Ethan stiffened, then coughed to hide a chuckle. “And you didn’t fire her on the spot?”
“She doesn’t work for me,” Alex replied flatly. “She works for the street.”
That line lingered, tasting more like admiration than disdain. Ethan said nothing.
Alex stood, pulled off his blazer, and ran a hand through his hair. “She had this energy. Combative. Fierce. Zero filter. It was...unsettling.”
Ethan smiled now, full. “Sir, are you saying you met someone immune to your usual charm?”
“There was no charm. Only insults and pepperoni.” He glanced back at the table. “She called me Mr. Monopoly.”
Ethan’s brows lifted high. “Wow.”
“Shut up, Crane.”
But Ethan didn’t. Not with the glint forming in his eye. “You want to see her again.”
“No,” Alex lied smoothly.
“You’re curious.”
“She’s not even in my world.”
“And yet she’s still in your head.”
Alex straightened his cufflinks. “Focus. We’ve got a room of blood-sucking investors to pacify.”
Ethan nodded, but the smile didn’t leave his face. Alexander Knight didn’t get rattled. He dominated boardrooms, silenced competitors, and crushed deals like candy wrappers. But today, some wild-eyed girl in ripped jeans and street attitude had tilted his axis—and whether he liked it or not, that wasn’t going away anytime soon.
**
Five subway stops away, Jayda collapsed onto the creaky leather couch beside Grandma Louise’s hospital bed. The TV hummed in the background, but she barely noticed. Her throat hurt. Her bones ached. Her tips sucked. And the arrogant rich jerk from earlier still clung to her thoughts like unwanted gum on a shoe.
“I delivered pizza to the devil today,” she muttered.
Grandma Louise looked up from her crocheting, her dark skin soft with age, her eyes wise and half-asleep. “The devil, huh? He tip you?”
“No. But he stared at me like I ruined his universe.”
“Well,” Louise smiled, “maybe you did. Men like that, they don’t get told the truth often.”
Jayda pulled off her sneakers. “I told him too much. I couldn’t help it. The man practically screamed ‘privilege’ with every breath.”
“Then maybe he needed to hear you scream back.”
Jayda let her head fall back. “I need a break, Grams.”
“You need a miracle,” Louise said gently. “But keep working like you are, and God might just send one.”
Jayda nodded, even though her soul was burning out like a dying candle. She was taking eighteen credit hours, working two jobs, applying for a third, and babysitting her professor’s cat on weekends. All for a dream she wasn’t even sure she still believed in—graduating, getting out of Brooklyn, and maybe one day opening her own youth center for kids like the one she used to be.
But dreams cost money.
And she had none.
So she pushed herself off the couch, kissed her grandma’s forehead, and went to study until her eyes gave up.
**
Later that night, in a penthouse blanketed by silence and moonlight, Alexander scrolled through security footage from the building’s camera, watching her walk away from his door. He paused at the frame where she turned slightly, that flash of defiance still in her expression. He didn’t understand it—this fascination, this itch in the back of his mind that refused to settle.
He could have her background pulled with a single call. Name, age, GPA, criminal records—if any. But something in him held back.
He wanted to figure her out the hard way.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Hope your expensive suit survived the trauma. Next time, try decaf. —The Delivery Girl
Alex blinked.
How the hell did she get his number?
Then his lips twitched into something dangerously close to a grin.
He typed back.
Alex: You texting all your customers or just the ones you burn?
A minute passed.
Jayda: Only the ones who look like they haven’t laughed in five years.
Alex: You think you’re funny.
Jayda: I know I’m broke. Funny comes free.
Alex leaned back in his chair.
This was going to be interesting.
**
And across the city, Jayda smirked at the phone her best friend Amara had hacked to get the penthouse client’s number. She told her not to. Said it was a bad idea. But her fingers had already typed the message before her conscience could win.
She didn’t know what she was doing.
But she knew one thing.
This story—whatever it was—was only just beginning.
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- Writer
