THE BILLIONAIRE'S TERMS: WE NEVER AGREED

Marie's POV The foreclosure notice stares back at me from my desk. Thirty days. That's all I have left. I press my palms against my eyes, but the numbers are burned into my brain. Love Kitchen is dying, and I'm the one holding the knife. "Marie?" I hear Delia's voice cut through my spiraling mind. She stands in the doorway of my office, her face tight with concern. "You need to go home. It's past midnight." "I can't." I gesture at the mess of bills and reports covering every surface of the table "The suppliers are backing out. Reservations are down forty percent this month. Someone is destroying us, Delia, and I don't know how to stop it." She walks in and sits across from me, her eyes soft. She's been with Love Kitchen since my father opened it fifteen years ago. She was with us when cancer took my mother. She was here when we buried my father two years ago. She's seen me at my worst. But nothing compares to this. "There's a rumor," she says quietly. "The competition. People are saying it traces back to Thorne Industries." My stomach drops. "Silas Thorne?" "The one and only." I know the name. Everyone does. Billionaire Playboy. Cold, ruthless. The kind of man who buys companies for sport and discards women like tissues. His face is plastered across business magazines and tabloid covers in equal measure. "Why would he target us?" My voice cracks. "We're nothing to him." Delia shakes her head. "I don't know. But Marie, you can't fight him alone. You need help." A knock interrupts us. Elena pokes her head in. She's one of my best workers, efficient and loyal. Right now, she looks terrified. "Another supplier just cancelled," she says. "They won't say why. Just that they can't work with us anymore." I watch through my office window as the night crew finishes cleaning. Twenty-three people depend on me. Twenty-three families who need their paychecks. My father built this place from nothing. He poured his life into every brick, every recipe, every relationship with suppliers and staff. I promised him I'd protect it. I'm failing to do that. "Go home," I tell Delia and Elena. "Both of you. I'll figure this out." Delia hesitates. "Marie—" "Please." They leave, and the silence crushes me. I pull up my father's last words on my phone. I recorded them in the hospital, three days before he died. His voice was weak but firm. "Love Kitchen is more than a restaurant, Marie. It's our family's heart. Promise me you'll fight for it. No matter what." I made that promise. Now I have to keep it. ************* Morning comes too fast. I barely slept. My reflection in the bathroom mirror shows dark circles under my brown eyes. My long dark hair is a mess. I pull it back into a ponytail and throw on jeans and a clean blouse that looks professional enough for what I'm about to do. Thorne Tower is quite an impressive height. The skyscrapers tower up above me. I have to raise a hand to shield my eyes from the sunlight as I look up at it. The security guard at the front desk looks me up and down. "Do you have an appointment?" "No. But Mr. Thorne will want to see me." "I doubt that, ma'am." I lean forward. "Tell him Marie Presley is here. From Love Kitchen. Tell him I know what he's doing." The guard gives me a puzzled look and then almost reluctantly makes a call. I look away, trying to calm my jumpy nerves. His eyebrows rise. He hangs up and just points to the elevators. "Sixty-fifth floor." My hands shake as the elevator climbs. I clutch my portfolio like it's a shield. Inside are financial reports, supplier contracts, everything I need to prove my case. I rehearse my pitch. Stay calm. Stay professional. Ask for a truce. The elevator dings. I step into a reception area that screams money. Marble floors. Expensive art. A view of the city that makes me hold my breath momentarily. "Mr. Thorne's office is through there," the receptionist says without looking up when I ask her. Really, are they all this rude and condescending? I walk towards the direction I was given and I get to the door. I don't knock. I push through the double doors. And freeze. Silas Thorne sits behind a massive desk. A woman is sitting on it, her dress riding up her thighs. His hand is on her waist, and he's standing in-between her legs. They're kissing and making funny noises too. I grimace and look away, wondering if I walked into the right office. My eyes take a sweep of the elaborately furnished room. It seemed I was in the right place. I clutch my files tightly. He pulls back slowly and looks at me. Those green eyes of his scan me from head to toe. He doesn't look embarrassed. He looks amused. "Can I help you?" His voice is smooth and rather bored. The woman peeks out her head and smirks at me. My stomach turns. This man is everything I hate. Arrogant, entitled. He treats people like toys. But I need him. "Mr. Thorne." I force the words out. "I need to speak with you. Now." He chuckles and waves a hand at the woman. "Give us a moment, darling." She pouts but slides off the desk. She makes sure to brush against me as she leaves. The door clicks shut behind her. Silas leans back in his chair. He's tall, even when he's sitting. Maybe six-one. His black hair is wavy and perfectly styled. His designer suit probably costs more than my monthly revenue. "Marie Presley," he says. "I've been wondering when you'd show up." "You know who I am?" "I make it my business to know my competition." He leans against his desk, his smile widening. "I was wondering when you'd come crawling to me." "By all means, Marie. Beg.”