Billionaire I Wrote Down

Nessa Avalon followed three rules for surviving Manhattan before nine in the morning. Never trust a man carrying a smoothie. Never get into an elevator with someone smelling like expensive cologne and desperation. And, under absolutely no circumstances, let a billionaire ruin your day. The first two rules served her well. The third became complicated. She stood beneath the awning of the Beaumont Hotel with a paper cup of tea warming her palms and stared at the rain-darkened sidewalk. Her hair lost its battle with the weather. One curl escaped the clip at the back of her head and clung stubbornly to her cheek. Her left shoe caught a tiny splash of gray water. She buttoned her coat wrong after dressing while answering emails. The morning lacked any design for elegance. Nessa swallowed a careful sip of tea. Too strong. She grimaced. “Perfect.” “Talking to yourself?” Clara Bennett stepped beside her, shaking an umbrella hard enough to send droplets flying onto the hotel entrance. Nessa stepped away. “Watch it.” “You're welcome.” “For what?” “For giving you the opportunity to complain about something new.” Nessa looked at her best friend. Clara's red lipstick looked perfect. Her black boots shined spotless. Her coat rejected the weather entirely. Nessa narrowed her eyes. “You've been awake for hours.” “Two hours.” “That's disturbing.” “I had coffee.” “That explains the expression.” “What expression?” “The one that says you've made peace with capitalism.” Clara laughed. “You're the one who asked me to come.” “I asked you to come because I need moral support.” “For a meeting?” “For a meeting.” Clara looked up at the hotel. The Beaumont rose above them in polished stone and glass, its entrance framed by massive flower arrangements costing more than Nessa's monthly rent. Clara whistled sharply. “Your little publishing meeting is happening here?” “Apparently.” “Very subtle.” “What?” “Nothing says we care about independent literature like a chandelier the size of my apartment.” Nessa smiled entirely against her will. Her boss, Sophia Reed, called the meeting an opportunity. Nessa called it suspicious. Clara called it rich people feeling guilty. Nessa entirely agreed. The invitation arrived from a private investment group claiming an interest in funding arts and literary projects in New York. Nessa immediately questioned their true demands. People rarely handed money to struggling publishers due to a sudden passion for poetry. A hidden agenda always existed. Control. Publicity. Influence. A tax benefit. A board seat. Something. “Just promise me,” Clara said, “that you won't insult anyone important.” “I never insult anyone important.” Clara shot her a hard look. “You once told a bestselling author that his novel had the emotional depth of a hotel brochure.” “He asked for my honest opinion.” “He asked whether you liked it.” “That was my honest answer.” “You're impossible.” “And yet you came.” “I love watching disasters.” Nessa laughed. Then the hotel doors opened. A man stepped through. She entirely missed him. Not at first. He wore simple clothes—dark trousers, white shirt, charcoal coat—but his movements forced people to shift aside completely unprompted. A hotel employee rushed toward him. “Mr. Cole, your car is—” The man raised a hand. “Not yet.” The employee stopped instantly. Nessa noticed. Clara noticed too. Clara leaned toward her. “See?” “What?” “That.” “The man?” “The way everyone jumps when he moves his hand.” Nessa checked the entrance. The man spoke quietly with another man near the reception desk. He stood tall. Broad-shouldered without projecting a daily three-hour gym routine. His dark hair sat untidy, projecting an accidental look that required calculated effort. And his face— Nessa looked away. No. Absolutely not. She carried enough problems. She entirely rejected adding an attractive stranger to the list. Clara watched her closely. “Don't.” “I didn't say anything.” “You were about to.” “I was going to say he looks expensive.” Nessa snorted. “That is not a thing.” “It absolutely is.” “You've been designing wedding invitations for too many rich women.” “I'm a graphic designer. It's my job to notice things.” “Your job is to make fonts behave.” “And he looks expensive.” Nessa swallowed another sip of tea. “He looks like a man who has never had to ask for ketchup at a restaurant.” Clara laughed. “That's oddly specific.” “You know I'm right.” They turned toward the elevators. Neither of them caught the man across the lobby checking their direction. They entirely missed the exact second his attention locked onto Nessa. They lacked any reason to notice. He remained a stranger. And to Nessa, that status stood entirely permanent. The elevators opened. Nessa stepped forward, then glanced at Clara. “You’re coming?” Clara checked her phone and grimaced. “Actually, Sophia just texted me. She wants me downstairs with the registration people.” “Of course she does.” “She said she’d explain later.” “She always says that.” Clara tucked her phone into her handbag and pointed at Nessa’s tea. “And don’t start a fight with anyone important.” Nessa offered an innocent look. “I never start fights.” Clara raised an eyebrow. “You finish them.” “That’s different.” “Not in a hotel full of investors.” Nessa laughed despite her frustration. Clara stepped backward toward the reception desk. “I’ll see you upstairs.” “You’d better.” “I mean it, Ness.” “I’ll behave.” Clara shot her a long, skeptical look. “No, you won’t.” Then she turned and vanished into the crowd. Nessa stepped into the elevator. Right before the doors shut, Clara shouted her name. “Nessa!” She looked back. “What?” “Try to look like you actually want to be there.” Nessa smiled. “No promises.” The heavy doors slid shut. She turned around. And immediately regretted standing alone. A man waited at the opposite side of the elevator. He stood tall. Dark suit. No tie. One hand rested loosely in his trouser pocket, the other gripped a phone he completely ignored. He projected an absolute stillness proving he expected people to step aside for him. Nessa hated that. Not even a little. She moved farther into the corner and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. The man checked the panel. “Eighteenth?” “Yes.” He pressed the exact same button. Nessa glared at him. “You could've waited for the next elevator.” His mouth twitched. “Could have.” That answer irritated her entirely too much. She snapped her eyes back to the doors. For three solid seconds, dead silence filled the box. Then he said, “You were in a hurry.” “I still am.” “Clearly.” She turned. “Do you always narrate other people's behavior?” “Only when it's interesting.” There it hit her. That specific tone. Not openly rude. Infinitely worse. Calm. Amused. Acting like he already owned the conversation entirely. Nessa crossed her arms. “You must be very popular.” “Depends who you ask.” “I wasn't asking.” “I noticed.” She stared directly at him. He stood entirely unbothered. The elevator climbed higher. Nessa locked in her dislike for him. It proved remarkably efficient. Usually, the process required at least five minutes. This man accomplished the feat in under thirty seconds. The elevator slowed briefly between floors. The man checked her tea. “That's going to spill.” Nessa looked down. The lid slipped loose. She tightened her grip. “Thank you.” “You're welcome.” She looked at him. He smiled. Not kindly. Not warmly. More like a man claiming a victory. Nessa narrowed her eyes. “You enjoy being annoying, don't you?” “I'm beginning to.” “That's unfortunate.” “For you?” “For everyone who has to meet you.” That forced a quiet laugh from his chest. It avoided loud noise. It hit low and surprised, proving she caught him completely off guard. For one split second, a smile fought to break across Nessa's mouth. Then she locked her annoyance back into place. She looked away. The elevator reached the eighteenth floor. The doors opened. Nessa stepped out first. She completely ignored looking back. “Have a pleasant day,” the man said behind her. She stopped. Turned halfway. He remained standing inside the elevator. She failed entirely to read his sincerity against blatant mockery. That irritated her entirely. “You too.” The doors slammed shut between them. Nessa walked toward the ballroom. Clara's voice echoed loudly in her head. Try to look like you actually want to be there. She straightened her shoulders. Fine. She planned to behave. She intended to smile. She prepared to sit through two hours of wealthy people explaining why literature required better business models. And she resolved to completely forget the irritating man in the elevator. By the time she hit the ballroom doors, she fully convinced herself she succeeded. Completely. ******************************************************** Adrian watched the elevator doors close. Logic demanded he forget her immediately. He encountered hundreds of people in hotel elevators. Investors. Politicians. CEOs. Celebrities. People demanding introductions and people begging for favors. Most of them blurred completely together before he hit the next floor. This woman successfully irritated him in under sixty seconds. He failed to categorize the feat as impressive or infuriating. Definitely both. His phone vibrated. Marcus. Adrian checked the screen. Marcus: Where are you? Adrian typed back. Adrian: Beaumont. Three dots appeared. Marcus: You're actually going? Adrian: Apparently. Marcus: I thought you said these meetings bored you. Adrian looked toward the ballroom doors. He pictured the woman from the elevator. The unimpressed expression. The crossed arms. The absolute refusal to impress him. He frowned. Adrian: They do. Marcus replied instantly. Marcus: Then why are you still there? Adrian stared at the message. Good question. He shoved the phone away without answering. He lacked the answer completely. And he hated that fact worse than he hated the woman. Nessa walked into the ballroom and found Clara near the back, talking to one of the event coordinators. Clara spotted her. “There you are.” “I survived.” “You've been gone four minutes.” “It was a difficult four minutes.” Clara shot her a suspicious look. “What happened?” “Nothing.” “Nessa.” “An elevator happened.” “That sounds ominous.” “There was a man.” Clara's eyes brightened. “A man?” “Don't.” “I haven't said anything.” “You were about to.” Clara smiled. “What was he like?” “Annoying.” “That wasn't my question.” “It was my answer.” Clara laughed. Nessa grabbed the program resting on the nearest table. “He was arrogant.” “Handsome?” Nessa shot her a hard look. “That is completely irrelevant.” “So yes.” “No.” Clara's smile widened. Nessa flipped the program open. “He was just irritating.” “Uh-huh.” “He had that whole…” She stopped. “That whole what?” Nessa hunted for the exact word. “Confidence.” Clara laughed loudly. “That's not usually a crime.” “It should be when a man has too much of it.” Before Clara offered an answer, the lights at the front of the ballroom dimmed. A representative from the investment group stepped onto the stage. Nessa locked her focus onto the presentation. She arrived entirely for work. That defined her sole purpose. The man in the elevator mattered absolutely not at all. Completely irrelevant. Until the heavy doors at the side of the ballroom pushed open. Nessa checked the entrance. And caught sight of him again. The irritating man. He walked into the room radiating the quiet certainty of a man owning the building. A few attendees immediately snapped their heads toward him. One of the senior executives onstage froze his speech for a split second. Then smiled. Nessa frowned. Why did everyone suddenly snap their attention directly to him? The man scanned the room. His eyes locked onto hers. For a full second, neither of them broke the stare. Then a man beside him leaned closer and spoke words Nessa failed to hear. His face shifted. Not much. Just enough. He checked the stage. Then stared directly back at her. And a strange dread hit Nessa, proving their elevator conversation remained completely unfinished. She lacked his name entirely. She possessed no knowledge of his occupation. And she completely failed to understand why half the room recognized him instantly. But one fact became brutally clear. She faced the reality of dealing with him again. And judging by the faint, infuriating curve of his mouth—he knew it entirely too well.