Taming the billionaire's heart

"They say love is the most powerful force in the world. But if you've only seen it as a weapon, how do you ever learn to trust it?" She should have written the house number down. Or maybe asked one more time before hanging up. But she’d been in a rush, standing at the payphone with her heart hammering in her chest, too afraid her father would walk in and snatch her right back to that miserable house. Now, standing in front of a row of identical apartment doors, dragging her ugly, beaten suitcase behind her, she realized she was lost. Again. The night air was thick with the city’s scent—fried food, car fumes, and something sharp she couldn’t place. The hum of traffic filled the silence between her breaths. She wasn’t used to this. Back home, nights were quieter, broken only by the occasional shouting match between her parents or the sound of a bottle smashing against a wall. Here, everything felt bigger, faster, like she might get swallowed whole if she stood still for too long. A group of boys and girls stood by the sidewalk, their laughter cutting through the night like small, cruel knives. She didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying. She’d heard it all before. That she looked ridiculous. That she was ugly. That she didn’t belong. "Is she serious?" One girl giggled, eyeing her outfit—a long, faded dress that looked straight out of a history book, paired with a dull brown coat too big for her frame. "Maybe she’s a runaway maid," another boy whispered, sending the group into another round of laughter. She clenched the suitcase handle tighter, willing herself not to react. She’d learned long ago that reacting only made it worse. Her mother had always said, “If you ignore them, they’ll get bored.” But that had never been true. Whether it was the neighborhood kids or her own father, ignoring them only made them angrier. Her father’s voice slithered into her thoughts: "You’ll never make it past this town. You think anyone out there will want an ugly thing like you?" Her mother hadn’t been much better. "You’re just like me. You’ll end up with a man just like your father. That’s just life." She wanted to prove them wrong. She wanted to be more than the girl who flinched at raised voices and lived in the shadows of other people’s lives. But standing there, cold, lost, and humiliated, she wondered if maybe they had been right. She turned back to the apartment doors, scanning the numbers again. 21B. Was that what her friend had said? Or was it 12B? She bit her lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. No phone, no way to call and double-check. The only thing she could do was knock. Dragging her suitcase up the short steps, she rapped her knuckles against the door. Once. Twice. The wood was cold against her skin. She waited, heart thudding. Nothing. She knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing. Her fingers curled into a fist. Did I get the wrong building? A shiver ran through her as the night air pressed against her thin coat. The idea of standing out here any longer, being stared at like a sideshow, made her stomach twist. With a heavy sigh, she lowered herself onto the steps, pulling her suitcase close and wrapping her arms around her knees. Maybe her friend was still at work. Maybe she had forgotten she was coming today. Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all. She lowered her head onto her arms, shutting her eyes for just a second. She wasn’t going back. Not now. Not ever. Even if it meant waiting here all night. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. The laughter of the boys and girls had faded, replaced by the occasional footsteps of strangers walking past. She felt their glances, quick and dismissive. No one stopped. No one asked if she was okay. Her fingers numbed against the cold metal handle of her suitcase. She hesitated, then reached for the old notebook tucked inside. Its cover was faded, the edges curling from years of handling. The pages smelled of home—not the screaming, the breaking glass, or the suffocating weight of her father’s presence—but the quiet moments she had stolen for herself. The nights spent sketching under the dim glow of a cheap lamp, drawing a world softer than the one she lived in. She flipped to a blank page and let her pencil move. The strokes were slow at first, uncertain, but soon they took shape—her grandmother’s face, lined with time yet still kind. Her grandmother had been the only one who ever looked at her with warmth, the only one who didn’t call her worthless. "You have a gift, child," she had once said. "One day, people will pay for your paintings. You’ll see." She wished she could believe that. She was almost done when a pair of voices drifted toward her. "Since when does our block have homeless people?" Her grip on the pencil tightened. She looked up to see two women walking by, their heels clicking against the pavement. They were beautiful—perfect hair, flawless makeup, wearing tight dresses that barely covered anything. The city is kind of beautiful. The kind she could never be. One of them reached into her bag, pulled out a sandwich still wrapped in plastic, and tossed it onto the step beside her. "Here," she said, not unkindly but not kindly either. "Hope it helps." Then they were gone, their perfume lingering in the air. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and the smell of the sandwich was overwhelming. But as she glanced up, she saw the boys and girls still watching from across the street, their eyes filled with amusement. She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to prove them right. That she was homeless. Ugly. Nothing. Her fingers shook as she opened her palm and counted the last of her coins. Barely enough for anything. And even if she had money, she didn’t know where to go. This was a city full of strangers. She could end up lost—or worse. Her gaze flickered back to the sandwich. It would be so easy to just eat it. But then what? What if her friend showed up and someone told her that a beggar had been sitting on her steps? What if her friend got embarrassed? What if she was seen as a burden before she even stepped inside? Her stomach growled again, sharp and insistent. She exhaled slowly and pushed the sandwich aside. She would rather starve than let them be right about her. Kyrie was still staring at the sandwich when a voice cut through the night, sharp and familiar. "Kyrie? Oh my God, is that you?" Her head snapped up. Standing a few feet away was a woman she barely recognized—but the voice, was unmistakable. "Mandy?" Her friend’s name tasted strange in her mouth, like a word from another lifetime. Because the Mandy she had known—the one with wild dreadlocks, baggy jeans, and scuffed sneakers—was gone. In her place stood a woman straight out of a magazine cover. Mandy’s hair was cut short, sleek, and styled, framing her sharp cheekbones. Her skin glowed under the streetlights, her lips painted the kind of red that demanded attention. She wore a fitted crop top that hugged her curves, ripped high-waisted jeans, and platform heels that made her look taller than Kyrie remembered. And her nails—long, painted glossy pink, the kind that made Kyrie wonder how does she even cook with those? Or take a bath? "Damn, girl," Mandy laughed, stepping closer. "Look at you, dragging that old-ass suitcase like you just walked outta a history book." Kyrie opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was still processing. Mandy sighed, shaking her head. "I hope you didn’t wait too long. Work was mad today, I was stuck in the salon forever. But I brought food, so you’re about to eat good." Before Kyrie could answer, Mandy’s eyes flickered down to the sandwich sitting beside her. A frown tugged at her lips. She didn’t say anything, but Kyrie saw the way her expression hardened. Without a word, Mandy bent down, grabbed the handle of Kyrie’s worn-out suitcase, and with a casual swing of her foot, kicked the sandwich far into the street. It landed near the curb. "Come on, babe. Let’s go." Kyrie swallowed the lump in her throat and stood, brushing the dust off her dress. As they walked up the apartment steps, kyrie paused, squinting at the number on the door. Then she burst out laughing. "Kyrie… girl, you knocked on the wrong damn door. It’s 12B, not 21B!" Kyrie stared at the number, then at Mandy. A slow, tired smile pulled at her lips. Of course. Mandy unlocked the door and pushed it open with a dramatic sweep of her arm. "Welcome to the city, babe."