THE BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

BREAKING POINT

EMMA

I walk out of the café and the first thing I want to do is crawl into the nearest hole and never come out again.

My shirt smells like coffee. My hands are still shaking. My heart is doing this weird thing where it won’t slow down no matter how many deep breaths I take. First mud, now coffee. I’m starting to think the universe is setting me up.

Of course it had to be him.

Of course, out of every single person in Maplewood, I had to spill coffee on the one man who looks at people like they are interruptions in his perfect, yet miserable life.

I pull my sweater tighter around me, hoping it’ll squeeze the embarrassment out. It doesn’t. The cool air hits my face, sharp and clean, but my cheeks are still burning. I can still hear his voice — low, short, annoyed in that way that doesn’t need to be loud to sting.

“I’m sorry,” I had said, over and over. Like saying it enough times could undo it. Like it could erase the way his eyes pinned me, cold and unreadable.

I keep walking. My shoes scrape the pavement as I cross the street, and the world just… goes on. Cars, laughter, the sound of someone sweeping the front of a bakery. Normal things. Things I wish I could disappear into.

“Nice job, Emma,” I whisper to myself, sarcastically.

It’s not even the coffee that bothers me. It’s how he looked at me, like he’d built his walls so high he forgot what it felt like to be human — and I’d somehow managed to chip one.

I unlock my car and slide in, letting my forehead fall against the steering wheel. The air smells like burnt espresso and bad decisions. I let out a long breath, then laugh quietly because if I don’t laugh, I might scream.

I don’t even know why it gets to me so much. Maybe because I saw something in him — just for a second — that didn’t match his anger. Something… tired. Sad, even. But maybe that’s just me, always trying to find cracks in people who clearly don’t want to be seen.

I lift my head and glance toward the café window one last time. He’s still there. His shirt’s ruined, his jaw’s tight, his hand moving in slow, controlled motions as he wipes at the stain. He doesn’t look up. Not once.

Good.

I tell myself that’s good.

Because I’m not doing this again — not the fixing, not the trying, not the hoping.

“New rule,” I say out loud, my voice small but certain. “No more broken men who don’t want to be saved.”

Just immediately my phone buzz, I take it out from my bag and stare at the screen: ‘Good morning Emma. Do you think we can grab lunch later or dinner? Whatever works for you. I’m still in town.’

I tap the message and realize I had missed other texts from him last night: ‘Hi Emma, it’s Scott. It was nice seeing you again.’

Not you too. I scoff and toss my phone back into my bag. I start the car, the sound breaking the quiet like a decision.

Then I drive off to the hospital.

---

The day goes by in a blur and by the time my shift ends, I’m running on caffeine and muscle memory.

The fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway feel like they’re burning through my skull, and my scrubs cling to me in all the wrong places. I wave goodbye to Sandra, half-listen to her talk about her teenage son’s football game, and promise to text her later even though I know I won’t.

Outside, the air is cool enough to make me shiver. Maplewood looks softer at dusk—the hospital lights glow against the fading blue sky, and for a second, everything feels almost peaceful. My phone vibrates in my bag, pulling me back to reality.

It’s a message from Scott. ‘You didn’t reply my previous texts but I’m still hoping we can grab lunch or dinner before I head back to the city. Any day that works for you?’

I stare at it longer than I should. Scott has always been sweet, the kind of familiar face that reminds me of when things used to be simple. But I’m not in the mood for small talk or nostalgia. Not after the day I’ve had. Not after the coffee incident that is still burned into my brain.

I type out a reply: ‘Hey, Scott. I’d love to, but this week is really hectic. Maybe some other time?’

Then I hit send before I can overthink it.

My reflection on the car window looks tired. My hair has escaped its bun, there’s a faint brown stain on the edge of my sleeve, and my eyes look… heavy. Like they’ve seen too much today.

I start the car and head home, letting the low sound of the engine drown out my thoughts. By the time I pull into the driveway, the mansion next door is dark again—no sign of life, no movement behind those massive windows. For a split second, I wonder what he’s doing. Then I remind myself I don’t care.

I unlock the door and step inside. The house greets me with it’s usual silence. I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and head straight to the kitchen still in my scrubs. There’s leftover pasta from last night; I toss it in the microwave and lean against the counter, scrolling through my phone just to keep my mind busy.

That’s when it rings.

Josh.

I hesitate for a second before swiping to answer. “Hey,” I say carefully, already bracing myself. “You okay?”

His voice comes out rough—too fast, too shaky. “Em?”

My stomach tightens. “Yeah, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

He exhales hard, like he’s been running. I can hear noise in the background—muffled voices, a car door slamming, someone cursing under their breath. Then his voice drops low, almost like he’s afraid someone will hear.

“I need your help.”

My body goes still. “Josh, what did you do?”

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly. “It’s not about money this time, I swear. I just— I’m in trouble, Em. Bad trouble.”

There’s panic in his tone, real panic, and suddenly I’m wide awake. My hand grips the edge of the counter to steady myself. “Where are you?”

He hesitates. “I can’t really say. Not over the phone.”

“Josh.” I press my palm to my forehead. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“I owe someone. Not money, not really… it’s complicated.”

My heart sinks. “You said it wasn’t about money.”

“It’s not,” he insists. “It started that way, but it’s more than that now. Please, Em, I just need you to come get me. I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

The microwave beeps behind me, the sound jarring in the middle of his fear. I ignore it. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Not yet.”

That one word—yet—makes the room tilt.

“Josh,” I whisper, gripping the phone tighter, “you’re scaring me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” His voice breaks on the last word. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

And just like that, the walls I’ve been trying to build since I came back to Maplewood start to crack. The same old ache crawls back in—the one that comes with loving someone who never stops breaking your heart in new ways.

“Where are you?” I ask again, softer this time.

He hesitates, then mutters something under his breath that sounds like a street name. “Corner of Pine and Ridge. There’s an old auto shop there. I’m out back. Just… please, come alone.”

By ‘come alone’ I knew he meant not the involved the police or any feds. I grab my keys before I even realize I’m moving. “Josh, listen to me. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m coming.”

“I’ll wait.”

The line clicks dead before I can say anything else.

For a long second, I just stand there, phone still pressed to my ear, the silence roaring. Then I grab my jacket, my bag, and head for the door.

The air outside feels colder now, sharper. The streetlights blur in the distance as I drive, my pulse pounding so hard I can feel it in my neck. The whole way there, I keep thinking about his voice—how scared it sounded. Josh has made bad choices before, plenty of them, but this feels different. Like the kind of trouble you don’t talk your way out of.

The town looks different at night. Familiar roads turn eerie in the dark, and every passing car makes me flinch. I grip the wheel tighter, my mind running in circles—What if he’s hurt? What if I’m too late? Oh Lord!

When I finally turn onto Pine, the road narrows. The old auto shop sits at the far end, half its sign broken, the windows clouded with dust. I park a little distance away and kill the engine. The world goes quiet again, except for the faint buzz of a streetlamp and the sound of my own breathing.

I get out, pull my jacket tighter, and start walking toward the back lot. The smell of oil and rust hangs thick in the air.

“Josh?” I call, my voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

I try again, louder this time. “Josh, it’s me.”

Then I hear it—a muffled sound, like a scuffle, from behind the dumpster. I take a hesitant step forward, and a shadow moves. My heart stops.

“Emma,” he whispers, stepping into the dim light. His face is pale, his hair a mess, his hands trembling. There’s a bruise blooming near his jaw.

“Jesus, Josh,” I breathe, rushing toward him. “What happened?”

He grabs my wrist, his grip too tight. “We have to go.”

“What? Why? Who did this?”

But before he can answer, a door slams open behind us. The sound echoes through the lot.

Josh’s eyes widen. “It’s them.”