THE BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

RECURRENT ENCOUNTER

ETHAN

The house is quiet again.

Too quiet, and I’m beginning to resent it.

For a long time, I thought silence was what I wanted — what I had earned after years of noise, meetings, fake smiles, and the constant hum of people asking for something. But silence has a way of becoming a sound of its own. Loud. Relentless. Especially in this house.

Elena’s perfume still lingers faintly in the hallway, though she’s been gone since last night. She always leaves before sunrise, claiming she “hates goodbyes.” Maybe she does. Or maybe she just doesn’t like lingering around long enough to face what we both already know — that none of this means anything.

I stand by the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of black coffee that’s already gone cold, scrolling through unread emails on my phone. My assistant, Marcus, has sent me the morning schedule — three meetings, two calls, and a report review. Boring. Necessary. Unavoidable.

I toss the phone on the counter and look around the kitchen. Everything’s in its place — stainless, spotless, soulless. The sunlight filters weakly through the blinds, cutting the marble counter into perfect strips of gold and grey. I should probably head to work, but the thought makes me tired.

I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly. I didn’t sleep much, kept on having too many thoughts. Not because of work — because of that her.

The thought surprises me every time it happens — that she still crosses my mind. The stubborn, sharp-tongued woman next door who glared at me like she was ready to poke me with her properly manicured nails the day I accidentally splashed her. I don’t even know why it bothers me. Maybe because she didn’t look at me the way everyone else does. No deference, no interest — just pure, unfiltered irritation.

I should’ve apologized. Properly, at least. But I didn’t. Because that’s not what I do.

I down the rest of the cold coffee and grab my keys from the counter. The sound echoes too loud in the empty house.

On my way out, I pass through the foyer and glance at the framed photo on the wall — my parents, smiling in front of the old Hayes Industries building. My father’s hand on my shoulder, my mother’s soft grin. The photo was taken a month before the accident. My throat tightens, like it always does, but I look away before the memories take root.

Outside, the morning air is sharp, crisp. My car beeps as I unlock it. I’m starting to enjoy driving to work myself without a driver. I slide in, start the engine, and pull out of the driveway.

I could head straight to the office. Or — I could make a quick stop.

That small café a few blocks from the town hospital. I’ve been there a few times and twice since the mud-splash incident, not that I’d admit that to anyone. It’s quiet, good coffee, and the owner doesn’t try to talk too much. But maybe, if I’m honest with myself, there’s another reason.

Maybe I’m just hoping I would see her again.

Stupid.

Still, as I drive through town, I find myself taking the familiar turn anyway.

The café’s parking lot is half full. A few regulars sit at the outdoor tables, clutching their cups and chatting quietly. I park at the far end, tug my coat tighter, and step out. The bell over the door chimes as I enter.

Warmth. The smell of roasted beans and cinnamon hits me instantly. I scan the small space — two college kids in the corner, an elderly man reading the paper by the window, and—

Her.

She’s by the counter, hair pulled back in a loose bun, she’s in scrubs. A cup in hand. She looks tired — but the kind of tired that’s earned, not given. She’s saying something to the barista, smiling faintly.

And just like that, the air shifts.

I stand there for a second longer than I should, debating whether to turn around and leave. But before I can decide, she turns — too quickly — and walks straight into me.

Hot liquid splashes across my shirt.

“s**t—” I cuss, jerking back instinctively as the coffee seeps through the white fabric, burning against my skin.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, her eyes widening. “I’m so— I didn’t see— I’m really sorry—”

I glance down at the dark stain spreading across my chest. The heat, the smell of coffee, the shock — it all mixes with something else. Frustration. The kind that has been building for days.

“Of course,” I mutter, louder than I mean to. “Of course it’s you.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Do you just make a habit of running into people?” I snap. “First the mud, now this. What’s next, throwing a tray at me?”

Her mouth parts slightly, somewhere between offended and stunned. “I said I was sorry. It was an accident.”

“Yeah,” I say sharply, grabbing a napkin from the counter and dabbing at the stain, though it’s useless. “You seem to have a lot of those.”

Her tone changes — softer, but sharper. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

That stops me. For a second, I just stare at her. Most people don’t talk to me like that. They don’t look me in the eye, either. But she does — with that same look from before, the one that says she doesn’t care who I am or how much money I have.

I should walk away. Instead, words spill out before I can stop them. “You know, some people pay attention to where they’re going.”

She exhales, clearly trying to hold her patience. “You walked right into me.”

“I was standing still.”

“Well, then congratulations,” she snaps back, “you make a great human wall.”

For a heartbeat, there’s silence — just the low hum of the espresso machine and the awkward cough from someone in the corner.

Then, absurdly, I laugh. Not out loud, not completely — just a small, involuntary sound that escapes before I can stop it.

She crosses her arms, glaring at me. “Glad you find this funny.”

“It’s not,” I say quickly, clearing my throat, but the edge in my voice softens. “Just— forget it.”

I grab my wallet, toss a few bills on the counter for another coffee, and turn to leave. But then she sighs — that tired, half-defeated sound again.

“Wait,” she says. “Let me get you a napkin. A clean one. You’ll stain your shirt if you don’t—”

“Don’t bother,” I interrupt, more harshly than I mean to. “I have others.”

Her jaw tightens, and I see it — that flicker of hurt she tries to hide. It hits me unexpectedly hard.

I turn back, ready to apologize, but she’s already stepping aside, her cup now trembling slightly in her hand. “Have a good day, Mr. Hayes.”

The way she says my name — polite, clipped — feels like a dismissal. She knows my name.

Of course, everyone in this town knows my name.

I leave the café without another word.

Outside, the cold hits harder than before. I sit in the car for a long moment, watching her through the glass as she talks to the café lady again, laughing awkwardly, trying to shake off the encounter.

I run a hand over my face.

Idiot.

I didn’t mean to snap at her. I didn’t mean any of it. But every time she’s around, something in me short-circuits. Maybe because she reminds me of everything I’ve spent years avoiding — the past, the guilt, the fact that no amount of money or walls can keep you from feeling something.

I start the engine and drive off, the scent of coffee and regret still clinging to me.