THE BILLIONAIRE NOBODY KNEW

(Elara’s POV) They told me not to bring my expectations. That was the first warning I ignored when I joined Haven Group. Everyone said the same thing—Don’t dream too big here. Don’t expect kindness. Don’t think you’ll ever meet him. “Him” being Klaus Hale—the man who built empires out of glass and silence. The ghost billionaire of Manhattan. The man whose shadow stretched longer than any tower he designed. People said he never showed his face in public after the scandal three years ago. No press, no photos, no interviews. Just whispers. They called him “the phantom of Haven,” as if saying his name too loud would summon him. When the elevator doors opened to the thirty-fourth floor that first morning, I stepped into a world made of mirrors and ambition. Everything gleamed—chrome edges, glass walls, and faces too polished to read. My heels clicked on marble like a heartbeat I couldn’t slow. I caught my reflection in every window: one nervous intern with trembling hands, trying to look like she belonged among the gods. Haven Group wasn’t just an architecture firm. It was a monument to power. Every blueprint was a billionaire’s dream, every design a promise that beauty could be bought and controlled. And me? I was the girl who still used dollar-store pencils to draw. “New intern?” a sleek woman in black heels asked without glancing up from her tablet. “Yes—Elara Myles,” I said, trying to sound confident. She looked me over, unimpressed. “You’ll learn fast. Don’t touch anything that looks expensive.” I smiled weakly. “Everything looks expensive.” “Exactly.” By the end of the week, I’d learned that Haven didn’t run on ideas—it ran on fear. Silence was the office currency. People spoke only when it benefited them. Smiles were rehearsed; gratitude was extinct. I spent nights fixing other people’s mistakes and mornings being ignored for it. But that’s when I saw him. It was late—close to midnight. The city outside was a sea of lights, each window glowing like a tiny heartbeat against the dark. I was still at my desk, redrawing a section that refused to align. My eyes burned from the screen glare, and my patience had packed up hours ago. That’s when I heard it—the soft squeak of a mop bucket. I turned and saw him. He was tall, dressed in a navy janitor’s uniform, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms dusted with ink stains. His dark hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he moved—unhurried, sure of himself, like the world didn’t scare him. He noticed me staring and nodded politely. “You should fix the perspective lines. They’re slightly off.” I blinked. “Sorry?” He pointed toward my sketch on the desk. “The vanishing point’s wrong. That’s why the structure’s collapsing inward. See?” I frowned, more confused than offended. “How do you know that?” He dipped his mop back into the bucket. “Used to draw.” “Used to?” “Yeah.” His tone was dry, almost amused. “Then life got messy. So I clean now.” I laughed before I could stop myself. He didn’t smile, but his eyes did—a small glint of warmth, gone almost instantly. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Dean,” he said simply. “And you?” “Elara.” He said it slowly, as if he liked the way it sounded. “Pretty name.” Something about his voice stayed with me after he left—a low, steady rhythm that felt like calm in a place built on pressure. After that night, I saw him often. Always when the floor was empty, when the silence became too loud. He never asked why I stayed so late, and I never asked why he looked like a man who didn’t belong behind a mop. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn’t. But his presence was enough. He had a way of asking questions that didn’t feel invasive—just real. “Why architecture?” he’d ask. “Because it’s the closest thing to magic,” I’d answer. “Turning imagination into something people can live inside.” He’d smile faintly. “You sound like you actually believe in beauty.” “Don’t you?” He looked at me then, his eyes unreadable. “I used to.” I couldn’t explain it, but there was something familiar about him. The way he spoke—measured, deliberate. The way he observed the room, like every wall carried a secret. Sometimes I’d catch him staring at the skyline, his jaw tight, as if trying to remember a place he once belonged to. One night, after another long shift, I was gathering my things when he said, “You ever wonder what it’s like to stand at the top of this tower?” I smiled faintly. “Every day. But people like me don’t belong up there.” He tilted his head. “Who told you that?” I hesitated. “Reality.” He stepped closer—close enough that the scent of rain and cedar reached me. “Maybe reality needs to be redesigned.” I froze. The words lingered between us like smoke, heavy and intimate. I should’ve laughed, brushed it off—but I couldn’t. His voice carried something dangerous, something that felt too knowing. I looked up at him. His gaze met mine, steady, dark, unreadable. For a second, it felt like he could see everything I tried to hide—my ambition, my fear, my hunger to be more. And then, just as quickly, he looked away. “Goodnight, Elara,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, Dean.” The elevator doors closed behind him, and I stood there in the empty corridor, feeling something I hadn’t felt in years—seen. A janitor had noticed me in a building full of people too busy to look. I didn’t know then that his name wasn’t Dean. That the man holding a mop in his hand was the same man whose name was etched in gold at the top of the tower. Klaus Hale—the billionaire nobody really knew. But I would. And when I did… nothing in my life would ever look the same again.