Falling For My Billionaire Boss

The water stain on my ceiling looked exactly like my bank account. Empty, ugly, and about to collapse. I stared at it from my mattress on the floor - yes, mattress on the floor, because my bed frame broke three months ago and I couldn't afford a new one - and tried to convince myself that today would be different. My phone screamed. 6:00 AM. I had exactly forty-two dollars and eighteen cents to my name. I knew because I had checked Chase at 3:12 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. "Sloane Hart, you are not going to cry today," I whispered to the water stain. "You are going to get up, you are going to nail this interview, and you are going to stop being the girl who eats ramen for dinner." My apartment in Queens was the size of a walk-in closet. If the walk-in closet was in a building from 1974 that had never heard of insulation. The heat didn't work. The AC didn't work. But the cockroaches? Oh, they worked overtime. On my fridge - which was making that weird buzzing noise again - there were three things taped with old tape: 1. An eviction notice. Red letters. FINAL NOTICE. Pay $2,800 in 7 days or get out. 2. A hospital bill for my mom. $11,430. 3. A job listing I had printed at the library because I couldn't afford printer ink: *EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT - GREY ENTERPRISES - MANHATTAN - $75k/year + benefits* Seventy-five thousand dollars. Benefits. In Manhattan. In the Grey Enterprises tower that touched the sky. That job was my lottery ticket. My only ticket. I peeled myself off the floor. My body ached from sleeping on the floor, from the three shifts at the diner last week, from carrying my life on my back for the last twenty-four years. In the tiny bathroom, I looked at myself in the cracked mirror. Brown hair I hadn't been able to afford to cut in six months, so it was long and wavy and messy. Green eyes that were always tired. Lips that I tried to make look professional with a $2 lipstick from CVS. I had one good blazer. H&M, 2019, on sale for $29.99. I ironed it with my old iron that spat water everywhere and burned my finger. "Ouch! Damn it!" I hissed, sucking my finger. My phone rang. Maya. "Are you up? Are you ironing that ugly blazer again?" Maya was my best friend since college, my only friend who still picked up my calls after my ex, Jake, told everyone I was crazy. "I'm up, and this blazer is not ugly, it's vintage," I lied. "Sloane, babe, you have an interview at the most powerful company in New York in two hours. You need to eat." "I'm eating," I said, looking at the empty cabinet. "You are not eating. You have $42, I know. Come over, I have toast." I smiled for the first time that morning. "I can't. I have to catch the 7:15 train or I'll be late. If I'm late for Grey Enterprises, Lennox Grey will personally throw me out the window. I read on Forbes he fired a guy for being two minutes late." Lennox Grey. Even his name sounded expensive. Dangerous. The billionaire heir who took his father's company at 28 and turned it into an empire. No photos, no interviews, no girlfriends. Just rumors. Cold. Ruthless. Gorgeous enough to make Wall Street cry. And I was about to beg him for a job. I put on my blazer, my only black pants that had a small hole I had sewed shut, and my heels from Payless that were killing my feet. I grabbed my old bag, my resume printed on cheap paper, and looked at the eviction notice one more time. Seven days. I had seven days to save my life. Outside, Queens was already loud. Sirens, cars, people shouting. The subway was packed like sardines. I squeezed in, holding onto the pole, my resume getting crumpled against someone's backpack. A man stepped on my heel. The heel - of course - snapped. Half off. I stood there in the middle of the 7 train, one heel broken, blazer ironed but cheap, with $42 in my account and a dream that was bigger than this whole city. I didn't cry. I took off both heels, put them in my bag, and walked barefoot on that dirty train floor in my stockings. Because Sloane Hart doesn't quit. Not when rent is due. Not when her mom is sick. Not when the whole world says a girl from Queens can't work in a Manhattan penthouse. The train pulled into Midtown. Through the dirty window, I could see it. The Grey Enterprises tower. Sixty stories of black glass and steel, reflecting the morning sun like a blade. The tallest building on the block. The building where Lennox Grey ruled. I put my broken heels back on, wobbling, and whispered: "Okay, New York. You hate poor girls. I get it. But today, this poor girl is coming for you." I stepped off the train and walked - limping, broken heel and all - toward the tower. I had no idea that in thirty minutes, I was going to spill coffee all over the most dangerous millionaire in New York and change my life forever. (! !) > > >