Mr. Miller the Obsessive Billionaire

POV: Sharee Smith The sound of the washing machines has a rhythm I’ve learned to live by. Whirr. Click. Hum. It’s like the heartbeat of this place—steady, predictable, unlike everything else in my life. The laundromat smells of detergent and rain. The city outside has been wet all day, and every person who’s walked in has brought a bit of the storm with them—muddy footprints, damp umbrellas, the heavy sighs of long days. I don’t mind. I’ve learned to breathe through it, to find a strange comfort in the repetition: soap, spin, dry, fold, repeat. It’s nearly midnight, but I’m still here. I always am. Mom’s nurse called earlier. The clinic wants another payment by the end of the week. I didn’t let her hear the crack in my voice when I said, “I’ll figure it out.” Because I always do. Somehow. The dryer behind me buzzes. I pull out the next batch of clothes—soft cotton shirts, expensive fabric that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Someone’s assistant must’ve dropped them off earlier, the kind who never looks me in the eye, always in a rush to get back to whatever important life they live. I fold each shirt carefully, the way Mom taught me: sleeves in, smooth out the wrinkles, square the corners. She always said folding clothes is like solving a puzzle—you have to find where everything fits. Maybe that’s why I love it. It’s one of the few things in my life that makes sense. When I reach the last shirt, my fingers pause. It’s different—silky, heavier. A custom monogram stitched into the collar: J.M. “Must be nice,” I whisper to myself, brushing my thumb over the gold thread. “Having your name sewn into everything you own.” As I hold it up, something catches my eye—a faint seam near the inside of the collar, as if someone had hidden something there. I tug gently and the thread loosens, revealing a few small words, stitched in darker silk. Some stains never wash out. I freeze. It’s subtle, hidden deep enough that no one would notice unless they were looking closely. But I did. I always notice the stains that don’t come out. A chill runs down my arms. It’s probably nothing—maybe a designer’s joke, or an inside tag mark. Still, the phrase sits heavy in my chest, echoing a little too loud against the hum of the machines. I place the shirt in a separate pile, as if the words might rub off on the others. The door chime rings softly. “Ree!” Claire steps in, shaking off an umbrella. She’s wrapped in a trench coat, hair tied back, eyes bright with the kind of mischief only she can carry at this hour. “You’re still here?” she asks, tossing her umbrella in the corner. “Where else would I be?” I say, smiling faintly. “My social life’s pretty much spin cycle to rinse.” She laughs, the sound warm and alive. “You say that like you don’t have the most exciting job in town.” I raise an eyebrow. “Folding strangers’ underwear at midnight? Riveting.” She grins wider and sets two steaming cups on the counter. “Brought you coffee. Extra sugar, because you look like you’re about to dissolve into soap bubbles.” “Bless you,” I mutter, taking the cup. “You’re my hero.” Claire hops up on the counter, watching me as I fold. She’s been my best friend since high school, the kind of person who turns every room brighter just by walking in. But tonight there’s something different in her eyes—something guarded, hidden behind her teasing smile. “So,” she says, nodding toward the pile of expensive shirts. “Someone’s doing laundry like royalty again, huh?” “Yeah.” I hold up the silk one. “These are too high-end for this place. I swear, one of these days someone’s going to send in a shirt worth more than my rent.” “Who’s it for?” “Jacob Miller,” I say, reading the tag again. The name feels heavy on my tongue. “Probably one of those big city types. The shirt looks custom.” Claire goes very still. It’s so brief I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching her. Then she smiles again, but it’s tight around the edges. “Never heard of him,” she says too quickly. I shrug. “Didn’t think you had. Just saying, he must be loaded.” Claire sips her coffee, eyes drifting to the window. The rain outside streaks the glass like melted silver. For a second, she looks lost—like she’s somewhere far away. I wave a hand in front of her face. “Hey. Earth to Claire. You okay?” She blinks, forcing another smile. “Yeah. Just tired. Long day.” “Join the club,” I mutter, turning back to the shirt. The stitched words inside catch my eye again. Some stains never wash out. I don’t know why, but I feel like those words are meant for someone who’s been hurt deeply—and maybe hasn’t forgiven themselves yet. “I think I’m gonna drop this one off myself,” I say suddenly. Claire looks up. “What? Why?” “It’s… weird. This note thing. What if it’s personal? Maybe the owner doesn’t know.” She hesitates. “Ree, you don’t need to do that. Just call the number on the receipt.” “I tried. No answer. Might as well swing by tomorrow before my shift.” Claire frowns. “You sure? Rich people don’t like surprises. Trust me.” I give her a look. “And you’d know because…?” She laughs too fast. “I’ve had my share of bosses, remember?” I don’t press. She’s deflecting. But that’s Claire—she hides behind jokes when she doesn’t want to talk. I fold the shirt one last time, slip it into a clear bag, and set it aside. The embroidered words still dance in my mind like a quiet warning. ⸻ By the time we lock up, the rain has stopped. The air outside is cool and soft, the streetlights glowing through the mist. We walk side by side, our footsteps echoing on the wet pavement. Claire nudges me. “You ever think about leaving this place? Doing something… bigger?” “Every day,” I admit. “But Mom needs me here. I can’t leave until she’s okay.” She sighs. “You deserve more than this laundromat, Ree.” I glance up at the sky. The clouds are breaking, bits of moonlight peeking through. “Maybe someday,” I whisper. “For now, I just want things to stop falling apart.” ⸻ When I get home, the small apartment feels emptier than usual. Mom’s room smells faintly of lavender and medicine. She’s asleep, the oxygen machine hissing gently beside her bed. I brush a stray hair from her forehead and kiss her cheek. “Hey, Mom,” I whisper. “Bills came again. But I’m working on it. I promise.” She stirs but doesn’t wake. I sit there for a moment, holding her hand, watching the way the light flickers across her fragile skin. There’s something about watching someone you love fade—it teaches you how fragile time really is. In the kitchen, I pour myself another cup of lukewarm coffee. The bag with the silk shirt sits on the counter, the gold initials catching the light. Jacob Miller. Who are you? I trace the letters with my fingertip. I don’t know why I care. Maybe because, for once, it feels like someone else’s life has brushed against mine—and left a mark. Before I go to bed, I pull out my notebook. I keep it under the drawer, filled with little sketches and half-written notes—things I never say out loud. At the bottom of a clean page, I write the phrase from the shirt. Some stains never wash out. Then, beneath it, I add my own words: But maybe some aren’t meant to. ⸻ The next morning, I wake up early. The sky is pale gray, the streets still slick from the storm. I pack the silk shirt carefully into a small bag, double-check the address from the receipt, and take a deep breath. The laundromat will have to wait. Today, I’m returning a shirt. And somehow, deep in my chest, I feel like I’m about to step into something I can’t fold neatly away.