THE BILLIONAIRE'S WEAKNESS

Emma I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring like it’s got something personal against me. 6:00 a.m. My eyes are so heavy, I swear I didn’t sleep at all. My bones feel like bricks, and my brain is foggy, but I don’t get the luxury of five more minutes. I never do. The second I silence the alarm, I hear the faint creak of my little brother’s bedroom door. “Emma?” His voice is soft, groggy. “I’m up,” I say, pushing myself up from the mattress with a groan. My room, or more accurately, my corner of the apartment, is barely big enough to fit the old twin bed I sleep on. A few cardboard boxes stacked against the wall serve as shelves. It’s not glamorous, but it’s home. Noah pops his head in. Seventeen, mop of dark brown curls, still looks like a kid when he’s half asleep. “We still got cereal?” “We still got rent, so… no. Toast it is.” He snorts and disappears into the kitchen. I swing my legs out of bed and stretch, wincing at the tightness in my shoulders. My whole body is sore. Long shifts on your feet in cheap shoes will do that for you. But that’s life. My life. After a quick shower in the cramped bathroom we share, I threw on my uniform, black jeans and a burgundy polo with the café’s faded logo stitched on the breast. I swipe on some lip balm, tie my hair into a low ponytail, and call it good. There's no time or money for fancy things. In the kitchen, Noah is already sitting at the tiny table with two pieces of burnt toast. He pushes one toward me with a smirk. “Bon appétit,” he says, and I roll my eyes. I take a bite anyway. “You burn this on purpose?” “I like to keep breakfast exciting.” “You’re a menace.” He grins, but it fades a little when he studies my face. “Are you okay?” I nodded, chewing. “Just tired." I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t believe me, not really. But he lets it go. He always does. After grabbing my backpack and checking that he'd got his books and bus pass, we stepped out into the morning rush of New York City. The air is already thick with exhaust and city heat. Honking horns, people yelling at phones, heels clacking on the pavement, it’s a whole orchestra of chaos, and somehow it energizes me more than the toast ever could. We walked to the corner together. “You sure you don’t need anything for school?” I ask, more out of habit than anything. I already know the answer. “Nope. Got my notes, my brain, and a terrifying math quiz.” “Want me to pray for you?” “Pray for my teacher. She’s going to need it when I bomb it.” We both laugh, and for a second, it feels normal, easy. But then his bus pulls up, and he climbs aboard with a half-wave. I stand there until it drives off, then turn and start the twelve-block walk to Bean & Barrel, the café I’ve been working at for the last year and a half. It’s not glamorous. It’s not even decent. But that’s what I’ve got. By the time I arrive, sweat is already clinging to my back. The morning rush is in full swing. People with Bluetooth earpieces and attitudes bark orders like we’re machines, not humans. The café itself is small, with chipped wood counters and vintage posters peeling off the walls. The smell of burnt espresso lingers no matter how much Febreze we use. “Cutting it close again, Emma,” my boss calls from behind the counter. Mr. Randall is a wiry man in his forties who always looks like he’s one missed coffee away from a breakdown. His tie is crooked. His patience, even more so. I offered him my best “I’m trying” smile. “Sorry. The bus was late.” He grunts and tosses me an apron. “Get to the register. Liz is swamped.” Liz is my favorite person here: older, sharp-tongued, and fiercely kind in the way tough women are when life hasn’t exactly gone their way. She’s already dealing with a line five-deep, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun and her mouth working faster than the espresso machine. “You’re late,” she says as I slide in beside her. “You’re welcome for saving your ass.” She snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.” We work in sync. I take orders, she makes drinks. When things slow down, I restock the napkins and wipe down the tables. The hours pass like sludge. Slow and sticky. At some point, the door swings open and in walks Caleb. “Thank God,” I mutter under my breath. He grins when he spots me and makes his way over. Caleb’s one of those people who’s impossible to dislike. Tall, charming, and annoying in a way that somehow makes you like him more. He’s not just a coworker; he’s the closest thing I have to a real friend outside of Noah. “You look like you got hit by a truck,” he says, grabbing a rag and helping me clean up the counter. “Wow, thanks. That’s the confidence boost I needed.” “Anytime.” He nudges me gently. “Rough night?” “Rough week. A rough month. Rough life, honestly.” “Well, you’re still standing. That’s something.” “Barely.” Around noon, the crowd thins out, and I get a ten-minute break. I sit out back on a rusting metal chair, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through job postings on my phone. Every listing feels like a cruel joke: five years of experience for entry-level pay, or ‘must be bilingual’ for a receptionist gig. I graduated at the top of my class with a degree in business administration. And here I am, making minimum wage and praying for tips that don’t bounce. Caleb comes out a minute later and sits beside me, flicking a cigarette between his fingers. “Still job hunting?” “Always.” “You’re too smart to be stuck here.” I glanced at him. “Tell that to the people who won’t hire me.” “You’ll catch a break. One of these days.” I want to believe him. But I’ve been waiting for ‘one of these days’ for a long time. The rest of the shift is a blur of spilled coffee, impatient customers, and aching feet. By the time the dinner crowd rolls in, I’m running on fumes. We’re short-staffed, as usual, and I barely get a chance to breathe. It’s after 7:30 when Mr. Randall finally lets me clock out. “Don’t be late tomorrow,” he says without looking at me. I want to snap back, tell him I’m doing my best. But I don’t. I just nod and leave. The streets are still buzzing when I step outside. I could take the bus home, but walking clears my head. Kind of. The city doesn’t sleep, and sometimes, neither do I. When I finally reach the apartment, I can hear music playing from Noah’s room, something loud and bass-heavy. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of cheap detergent and something that might be instant noodles. Noah walks out of the kitchen holding two bowls. “Dinner is served.” “You cooked?” “Define ‘cooked.’” I collapse onto the couch with a groan and accept the bowl gratefully. It’s ramen with scrambled eggs mixed in. Not gourmet, but warm. Filling. We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the hum of the fan in the corner. “Are you okay?” he asks again. I nod. “Just tired.” “You always say that.” “Because it’s always true.” He doesn’t press me. Just nudges his bowl toward mine when he’s done, and I take them both to the sink. My feet hurt so bad I want to cry, but I don’t. I never do. After a quick shower, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, phone in hand. A new job posting flashes across the screen. Executive Assistant Needed. Confidential Employer, Competitive Pay. Something about it feels different. There’s no company name, no flashy promises. Just a l Ist of responsibilities and a phone number. I should scroll past it. I should. Instead, I click Apply. Because something’s got to give. Right?