Love Unexpected, The Billionaire's Disguise

Bank Card

After a while, Ryan reached out. “Here, let me help you with that.”

She hesitated for only a second before handing him the grocery bag. It was heavier than it looked, the weight of small, careful purchases. They continued walking side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly as they reached the main road.

It was unusually deserted.

Ryan slowed to a stop.

“I… erm… thank you,” he said, a little awkwardly. “For always looking out for me.” He offered her a cheerful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I can find my way from here.”

He handed the grocery bag back to her.

Claire took it, glancing down the empty stretch of road, then back at him. Uncertainty crossed her face. The wind had picked up, cool and restless, carrying the promise of rain. She seemed torn, between leaving him and walking him farther.

But Ryan stood there easily, relaxed, as if he knew exactly where he was headed.

“Alright then,” she said at last. “Take care.”

“You too.”

She turned and headed toward her apartment, stealing one last glance over her shoulder before disappearing down the side street.

Two hours later, rain began to pour from the sky in heavy sheets.

Claire, now changed and preparing for bed, paused as thunder rolled in the distance. She hoped, vaguely, that Ryan had found somewhere dry. That he wasn’t wandering the streets again.

She had just settled onto her bed when a soft knock sounded at her door.

Not loud, not urgent, just simple raps on her door, Claire froze, she had never had anyone knock on her door before

The knock came again, soft, and hesitant.

Claire’s heart thudded as she slipped off the bed and crossed the small room. She hesitated at the door, fingers curling around the handle.

“Who is it?” she asked quietly.

“It’s… me.”

Ryan’s voice was barely audible over the rain. She opened the door.

He stood there drenched to the skin, rainwater dripping from his hair, his black shirt plastered to his frame. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, and despite the calm he usually carried, he was shivering, whether from the cold or something else, she couldn’t tell.

“Oh my God,” Claire breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, almost sheepish. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just...everywhere was closed, I thought I could make it, but…” He trailed off, the lie slipping into place as naturally as breath.

Rain lashed down behind him, the night dark and unforgiving.

“You’re freezing,” she said, already stepping aside. “Come on in. Don’t just stand there.”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then stepped inside. The door shut behind him, cutting off the storm.

Water pooled at his feet as he stood there, he, a billionaire, the untouchable titan of industry reduced to a soaked man in a dim, rundown apartment. His teeth chattered softly despite his effort to suppress it. Never in his life had he been washed by the rain like now.

“I’ll get you a towel,” Claire said, rushing toward the cupboard. “And new clothes, well, not new, but something cleaner.”

She pressed a thin towel into his hands. “Dry your hair before you catch a cold.”

He obeyed, even though the towel is thin and smell of cheap soap.

As she turned away, Ryan watched her move about the room with practiced urgency, and for the first time in his life, the walls of wealth and power felt useless.

Out there, he owned the world.

In here, he was just a man, cold, wet, and standing at her door because he had nowhere else he wanted to be.

Ryan cleared his throat, water still dripping from his clothes onto the cracked floor.

“I don’t want to impose,” he said quickly, the lie settling into place with practiced ease. “The rain caught me off guard. I wouldn’t have come back if I had anywhere else to go.” He gestured toward the door, where the storm raged relentlessly. “I’ll leave as soon as it lets up.”

Claire studied him in silence, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and assessing. She didn’t look entirely convinced—but she looked convinced enough.

“You’re shaking,” she said at last, unimpressed by his explanation yet unwilling to ignore what was obvious. “Until the rain stops, you’re staying. Let’s get you dried off.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Ryan added softly, forcing a note of regret into his voice. He felt the need to keep reassuring her, to make it clear he wasn’t taking advantage, that he totally hadn’t waited somewhere deliberately until the rain grew heavy enough to justify showing up at her door soaked and miserable.

Because if she ever suspected that…he didn’t know what he’d do.

Claire sighed, already turning away. “Stop apologizing. You’ll catch a cold if you keep standing there.”

And as she moved around in the room, Ryan became acutely aware that for once in his life, being pitied felt far more dangerous than being feared.

“Sit,” she ordered, then paused, eyes narrowing. “Actually, no. You need to get out of those clothes.”

He blinked.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“You heard me.” She pointed toward the small corner near the bed. “Strip. Those clothes are dripping everywhere.”

Ryan actually laughed once, short and disbelieving. “You… you want me to st-strip?” he asked again, as if repeating it might make it less absurd.

No one in his world had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever told him to strip. Requests like that came wrapped in flirtation, power games, or expectation. This was none of those things.

She stared at him as if he’d just said something incredibly stupid.

“Yes,” Claire reiterated firmly. “Unless you want to freeze to death.”

There was no embarrassment in her tone. No teasing. No awareness at all of how exposed the request made him. To her, this wasn’t a man standing in her room, it was a problem that needed fixing.

And that, somehow, made it worse, Ryan hesitated, caught between instinct and pride. He had negotiated billion-dollar contracts without blinking, faced hostile takeovers and public scrutiny without flinching, but this? This was unfamiliar territory.

To strip or not to strip.

It felt ridiculous that the decision even mattered. Yet his hands hovered at the hem of his soaked shirt, tension running through him like a live wire, while Claire turned her back and muttered something about finding him dry clothes, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

Ryan stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, rainwater still dripping from his sleeves, his fingers frozen at the hem of his shirt.

Claire didn’t notice. She had already turned away, rummaging through a narrow cupboard with single-minded focus. To her, this wasn’t awkward or intimate, it was practical. A problem. A solution.

“Put the wet ones there,” she said over her shoulder, pointing vaguely toward an old plastic basin. “I’ll hang them near the heater. They won’t dry completely, but it’s better than nothing.”

That was it, no hesitation, no second thoughts.

Ryan swallowed.

He turned slightly, giving himself the smallest shred of dignity, and peeled off the soaked shirt. The fabric clung stubbornly before coming free with a wet sound. Cold air hit his skin immediately, making him suck in a sharp breath. He stripped out of the rest just as quickly, every movement stiff, controlled, and deliberate.

This was absurd. He owned cities worth of real estate. And here he was, half-naked in a crumbling apartment, following orders from a woman who barely registered his existence as anything other than a freezing human being.

“Done,” he said stiffly.

Claire glanced back once, and only to check that he’d complied. No lingering look. No flicker of awareness. She tossed him a large, threadbare T-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants.

“They’re clean,” she added. “Too big for me, but it'll do.”

He caught them automatically.

“…Thank you,” he said.

She shrugged, already turning back to her task. “Sit, when you are done.”

Ryan pulled the clothes on slowly. They hung loose on him, the fabric was softened by countless wash. It was the first time he’d ever worn something this cheap, that didn’t belong to him. The material carried the faint scent of harsh soap and worn cotton, unmistakably lived-in.

When he sat on the sofa, the cushions dipped under his weight with a tired sigh. A moment later, Claire returned and pressed a chipped mug into his hands.

“Drink.”

He looked down at it. “What is it?”

“Tea,” she said simply. “Nothing fancy.”

He almost smiled.

The warmth bled into his palms, then slowly spread through his chest. The shivering eased, though the tight knot lodged deep in his stomach refused to loosen.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” she said suddenly, not harshly, just honest. “I meant what I said earlier. You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”

Ryan watched the steam curl upward.

“I know,” he replied quietly. “I didn’t plan to.”

That part, at least, wasn’t a lie.

Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable, broken only by rain drumming against the roof. Claire sat on the edge of the bed, absently picking at a loose thread on the blanket, the weight of the day finally catching up with her.

After a moment, she nodded toward the sofa.

“You can sleep there,” she said. “Just for tonight. Tomorrow… you really need to figure things out.”

Ryan tightened his grip on the mug.

For the first time in years, he had nowhere else he wanted to be. But he nodded.

Tomorrow.

The word echoed strangely in his mind.

Because sitting there, wrapped in borrowed clothes, and holding a mug of hot water given without question, Ryan Pierce knew one thing with unsettling clarity: This wasn’t a night he would ever forget.

He lay awake long after the rain softened into a distant patter.

He stared at the ceiling, at the faint cracks tracing paths he hadn’t memorized yet, and reminded himself, again, that he had agreed to stop lingering. This was temporary. A mistake. An anomaly he needed to correct before it rooted itself too deeply.

Pay her, he decided. Everybody liked getting paid for their services.

Ryan almost kicked himself for not realizing this before, the solution to his problem is so simple.

People helped because they were compensated. Balance restored. Debt cleared. The unease in his chest would disappear once everything was settled neatly, the way it always was.

He sat up quietly.

Leaving money in her room was out of the question, that'd be too obvious, too suspicious. It would raise questions he didn’t want to ask. Dropping the cash outside was worse; anyone could find it first, and the thought irritated him more than it should have.

Then the idea formed, clean, and controlled.

A bank card.

He would load it with enough money to make a difference. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough. If she found it, used it, benefited from it… then this strange pull would fade. He would have done his part. He could walk away.

Convincing. Logical.

Ryan moved silently, careful not to wake her. Claire slept curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, exhaustion etched even in rest. He paused only for a second before turning away.

Outside, the night air was damp and cold. He retrieved the card from his car, a plain one, untraceable at a glance, and slipped it into his pocket.

I’ll drop it where she can’t miss it, he told himself.

And I’ll make sure she’s the one who finds it.

That was the plan.

He would watch from a distance, unseen. Once she picked it up, once the balance was settled, he would leave. Return to his world of glass towers and iron rules.

Then, they would be finish, no need to see each other again, except. Ryan didn’t notice the flaw in his plan.

He had already stayed too long.

Morning came too quickly.

Ryan got up with a restless urgency, the kind that came from having already decided to leave but needing one last thing to go right. He dressed in his own clothes, movements efficient, and controlled. The clothes Claire had given him, was neatly folded and placed carefully on the sofa..

When she stirred, rubbing sleep from her eyes, he offered a casual smile.

“Good morning, thanks again for last night,” he said lightly. “I’ll get out of your way.”

She looked at him, confused, still half-asleep. “Already?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, and before she could ask anything else, he stepped outside, leaving her standing there, bewildered.

Ryan moved fast.

He placed the bank card deliberately on the ground along with other debris, her usual path, right where her eyes should fall if she was paying even the slightest attention. Then he retreated to a discreet distance, half-hidden, half watching like a sentry.

The plan was simple. A few pedestrians passed by, some were too close. others walked too slow.

One man noticed the card, bent to pick it up. Ryan intervened immediately.

The exchange was brief, ugly, and decisive. The man left clutching his ribs, the card dropped where it belonged. A second attempt followed, another opportunist, more stubborn than the first. Ryan disliked the escalation, but refusal left him no choice. The message was delivered clearly enough.

The card lay undisturbed again.

Good.

At last, Claire appeared. Ryan watched her with bated breathe.

She walked briskly across the street. Looking tired, and preoccupied, already thinking about the long day ahead. Ryan held his breath as she walked closer.

Closer.

And then, she walked right past it.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t even notice.

Ryan stared, for a moment, he thought she might stop, turn around, realize what she’d missed. But she didn’t. She adjusted her bag, crossed the street, and disappeared down the road like the card didn’t exist at all.

His chest tightened in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

How do you not see it? he thought, frustration flaring. Anyone else would’ve...but that was the problem.

Claire wasn’t anyone else.

She hadn’t looked down because she wasn’t searching for gain. She hadn’t trained her eyes to scan the ground for opportunity the way the rest of the world had. Ryan slowly straightened.

The card remained on the pavement, useless, and unclaimed.