Pulled Into The Billionaire's Redemption

CHAPTER 5

Anna POV: Rent Paid, Find A Job Next

I come out of the elevator wiping fresh tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. The humiliation lodged in my throat is unbearable.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" a voice calls out.

I look across the lobby to see the night guard. He’s sitting with his feet propped up on the edge of the reception desk, a Batman comic gripped in his hands. He's looking at me with mild curiosity.

I nod.

A taxi pulls up in front of me as I come out of the building, surprising me.

The driver rolls down the passenger window and peers out at me.

"Anna Uris?"

I give the man a wary, guarded look, my hand instinctively tightening on the strap of my bag.

"Look, lady, I just got a dispatch call from this building for an Anna Uris," the man says, gesturing at the lobby behind me. "That you?"

I hesitate, then nod slowly.

"Get in," the driver says, flicking the meter. "Their tab is already running."

I get into the back seat, pull the door shut against the cold night, and clutch my bag tightly against my body. I sniffle, as the driver pulls out.

He peeps through the rearview mirror, his expression blank, indifferent.

"Who called the cab?" I ask quietly.

"A Mr. Hammer," the driver replies.

I shake my head.

What is wrong with him? Why does he hate me so much one minute, only to turn around and do these small things for me the next? Why?

And honestly, why do I hate him too with such visceral intensity? Caine wasn't the one who ruined my career. Caine didn't fire me from my job at Vanguard Analytics.

George did.

George, my former regional manager, who had spent two years trying to get me into his bed. When a faceless conglomerate suddenly bought out Vanguard Analytics, layoffs swept through the department.

Even though I was the best data analyst in my section, George had deliberately put my name on the chopping block. He had walked into my cubicle on that final afternoon, cornering me, and blatantly offered s*x in exchange for leniency. He had told me he could make the layoff vanish if I just became 'compliant.'

I had thrown a stapler at his head and walked out.

I sigh and rest my head on the cool glass of the taxi window.

Caine reminds me of George. That must be it. They share the same cockiness, the same arrogant, Mr. Know-It-All air that makes my blood boil.

But George wasn't half as nice as Caine. George would have absolutely left me stranded tonight. He wouldn't have called a cab for me at two in the morning.

The apartment is dark and empty when I finally unlock the door. Beth isn't back yet.

I call her phone and she answers with a muffled, exhausted groan. Alarmed, I sit up straight on the edge of my bed.

"Beth? Are you okay?"

"Are you okay?" Beth asks back, her voice thick with sleep. "You sound way too awake."

"I should be awake," I say. "You sound drunk."

"I'm not drunk, stupid," Beth murmurs. "You just woke me up. What's up? How did it go with the billionaire?"

"As horrible as you can imagine," I reply tiredly, kicking off my hated stilettos and rubbing my aching toes.

Beth groans with sympathy. "Oh, no, not again. Did he pay you, at least, for your services tonight?"

The thought of payment hadn't even crossed my mind during the shouting match in the hallway.

"I didn't ask for any money, Beth. I was just returning the favor for the bail, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure," Beth says, her voice drifting off. "Well, I'll be back in the morning. Right now, I'm stuck in some stinking basement apartment with a drunk college student who passed out an hour ago."

"Be careful, Beth," I say softly.

"Always," my friend replies, and the line goes dead.

I strip out of my tight dress, and take a long, hot shower. Afterward, I try to watch some early morning TV, but nothing exciting is on. I finally fall asleep until around 4 a.m.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

My eyes snap open. The morning sun is streaming through the cracked blinds, blinding me. I fumble over the nightstand to grab my buzzing phone. I look at he caller and my stomach drops.

"s**t," I mutter under my breath. "Hello?"

"Anna," Lucy’s harsh, grating voice squeaks. "I am on my way up the stairs to your apartment right now. You better be in there, and you better have your rent, which has been due for two weeks."

"Um, Lucy, wait. I'm not in my room right now—"

"Well, then, your things will be sitting on the sidewalk by the time you get back," Lucy snaps coldly.

"No, no! Lucy, wait!" I yell, throwing the sheets off my legs. "I've got it! I swear I've got your money. I'll be back shortly."

"Jesus, Anna. You've said that same thing twenty times in the last week," my landlord grumbles. "Get my money."

The beep of a dial tone replaces Lucy's voice.

I scramble out of bed and rush over to the dresser where the pile of hundred-dollar bills Caine gave me the other night still sits. My hands shake as I count out the rent. I pause, looking at the remaining cash, and count out five hundred dollars. I walk into the kitchen and leave it tucked safely under a coffee mug.

Twenty minutes later, I am standing in the dingy downstairs hallway of my apartment building, face-to-face with a fiercely scowling Mrs. Lucy.

The older woman snatches the thick stack of bills from my hand and counts them slowly. Her eyes narrow as she verifies every single hundred. Satisfied, she stuffs the cash into her apron pocket and glares up at me.

"Next time you try to run from your debt, Anna, I won't call you first," the woman warns. "I will call the cops."

I force a wan, exhausted smile. "Have a great day, Lucy."

I walk back up to my apartment, lock the door behind me, and literally collapse into bed, my face in the pillow. Rent is paid. I am safe for another month. But the cost of that safety keeps my eyes open.

After an hour of staring blankly at the ceiling, I force myself to sit up. I pull a battered manila folder from my desk drawer and check the printed copies of my resume. My credentials are stellar, summa c*m laude, advanced financial modeling certifications, flawless references prior to George.

I walk over to the closet, put on a decent, professional knee-length skirt and a conservative white blouse, and pick up my bag.

Even if it's just an entry-level receptionist job answering phones for minimum wage, I am ready to take it. I am going to walk into every office building in downtown Chicago until someone says yes.

Stepping out into the late morning air, I take a deep breath. Hopefully, I will never have to cross paths with Caine Hammer ever again in my life.