Billionaire’s Bleeding Heart on Bleecker

With her arms folded and her chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders in runway-worthy waves, Lorinda Christian stood in the center of her West Village apartment. She was twenty-eight years old and had the kind of beauty that attracted attention: high cheekbones, fire-glinting hazel eyes, and a figure that, had she not chosen ink over catwalks, could have made her a supermodel. But now that fire was aimed at her mother, Diane, who sat on the edge of Lorinda's couch from a thrift store, clutching a coffee mug as if it were her lifeline. "Lora, honey, you're not getting any younger you know," Diane said softly but firmly. "This isn't how you just cut yourself off. What about that nice guy at church? Mark? He would take you out in an instant," she remarked before taking a sip of her coffee. Lorinda rolled her eyes and paced the hardwood floor of her studio apartment on Jane Street. "Mom, I don't need Mark or any other man to 'fix' me. I'm doing just fine. I don't need love to ruin my friends, my job, or anything else.” Diane clinked the mug onto the coffee table. "Lorinda, you're not okay. You treat every man who approaches you rudely. Not all men are jerks, despite what transpired with Tom and that editor creep. You must give someone a chance.” "A chance?" Lorinda laughed bitterly and sharply. “Like I allowed Tom to have s*x with my roommate? Or an opportunity for Daniel to fabricate a story about his wife? Thank you, but no. That fairy-tale nonsense is over for me.” Diane stepped forward, her graying bob bouncing. "You're afraid, but you're not finished. I understand that your heart has been crushed. But, Lora, locking it up isn't living. You're too lively for that. What's wrong with going on a date? Only one?” "I don't trust men, and I don't trust myself to avoid choosing another loser, which is the problem!" Lorinda's voice reverberated off the bare brick walls as she snapped. "Mom, I am not you. To feel complete, I don't need a husband.” Diane's eyes flashed with pain as her face tensed. "That is unfair. Your father and I—” "Yes, I am aware of the story; had a wonderful life until he abandoned us." Lorinda took her leather jacket off the door's hook. "I'm not going to do this today. I've got work." "Lora, hold on—" Lorinda was already pulling the door open when Diane reached for her. She slammed it behind her and said, "See you later, Mom." As she rushed out onto Jane Street, her breath hazy in the clear March air, the sound echoed down the small stairwell. Despite the fact that it was a Saturday, neither she nor The American Observer slept. She staggered out onto the sidewalk, her boots pounding the asphalt as she turned down Hudson Street. The West Village throbbed around her—couples drinking lattes outside of Café Cluny, a dog walker and three leashes, the sounds of traffic rolling in from Seventh Avenue. She did not care. With her phone, she checked what time it was, as she is still trying to forget what her mother had said. 9:47 a.m. She had an appointment with Clara, her boss scheduled for 10:30 a.m. at the office and she doesn't want to be late. She waved her hand at a yellow cab parked at the corner of Greenwich Avenue. The driver, an aged man wearing a Mets cap, rolled down the passenger side window. "Where to?" he asked. "The Flatiron District. 23rd and Fifth," she said, settling into the backseat. On a day like today, the cab was preferred to the subway, despite the cab's odor of pinewood air freshener and outdated coffee. As he drove into traffic jams, the driver looked at her in the rearview mirror and said, "Rough morning?" As she looked out of her window at the brownstones that were fading by, she muttered, "You could say that. Just get me there quickly." She came to a conclusion. He chuckled. "You got it, lady." It was a quick ride—down Eighth Avenue, through the galleries of Chelsea, and into the Flatiron's chaos. At 10:15, she stepped out onto East 23rd Street and saw the American Observer's sleek office building across from the Nomad Hotel's gothic façade. She tipped the cab driver, hanging her bag over her shoulder, and strolled inside. The press room was bustling with interns rushing between desks, phones ringing, and keyboards clacking. Despite everything, Lorinda remained grumpy until she reached Carla's glass-walled office. Her boss, a wiry woman in her fifties with a long-lasting coffee stain on her blouse, was looking up from her laptop. “I’d rather stand,” Lorinda replied, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s up?” Carla smirked, pushing a file across her desk. “Big fish, that’s what. Xyon Corp. You’ve been chasing their CEO for months, and I finally got the green light. Kelvin Isaac’s agreed to an interview.” Lorinda’s heart skipped, though she kept her face neutral. Kelvin Isaac—mid-thirties, husky, commanding, a multibillion-dollar titan who’d inherited an empire spanning Tech, Real Estate, Pharmaceuticals, and Airline after his father’s death. His presence filled boardrooms and headlines alike, but he rarely spoke to the press. This was huge. “When?” she asked, stepping forward to snatch the file. "Monday. His office is located at 250 West 34th Street, One Penn 1. precisely 10 a.m." Carla eyed her and leaned back. "Lora, don't mess this up. We need something juicy because he's a tough nut. The Observer is counting on you." Lorinda flipped through the file—photos of Kelvin at galas, a bio listing his Columbia MBA, a clipped article about his father’s mysterious plane crash five years ago. She felt some sort of curiosity, maybe even excitement, but she buried it. This was not a date; it was work. She tucked the file under her arm and declared, "I won't mess it up. Is there anything else?" "Indeed. Take a moment to smile. You appear to have just returned from war." Lorinda shot back, "Close enough," and turned to go. Her phone buzzed as she was halfway to her desk; it was a text from Mia, her best friend: "Eating dinner tonight? It sounds like you need some wine." With her thoughts already racing toward Monday, she typed a brief "Yes" and continued on. However, she couldn't get rid of a weird feeling as she sat at her desk and looked at the picture of Kelvin Isaac—dark eyes, square jaw, and a faint smirk. He had an air of inevitableness about him. As if he could see right through the barriers she had built over the years. She dismissed the idea, attributing it to her mother's persistent pestering. She didn't notice the man across the room that evening when she and Mia were laughing over pinot noir at Buvette on Grove Street. He watched her with quiet intensity, tall and imposing, his face partially obscured by shadows. In the file his assistant had created for the interview on Monday, he had noticed her photo. And Kelvin Isaac experienced an unexpected change inside of him for the first time in years.