THE BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

TERMS AND MORE CONTROL

ETHANS

I watch from my glass window. She crosses the street exactly the way I told her to.

Walking. No phone in her hand. No hesitation this time. Just fear wrapped tightly around determination. I see it in the way her shoulders are drawn in, the way she keeps her head down like she doesn’t want the world to notice her unraveling. The gates automatically opened once I pressed the button, and I watch as she makes her way up to the door.

I don’t open the door until she reaches it. When I do, she startles slightly. Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and red-rimmed, like she’s been crying and refuses to admit it.

“Come in,” I say.

She steps inside without a word.

I close the door behind her and lock it. The sound echoes louder than necessary in the quiet house. She flinches, just a little, and I clock it immediately.

Good. She understands this isn’t casual.

She stands in the middle of the living room, clutching her hand like it’s armor. She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m the last door left in a burning building.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says finally.

I nod once. “You did the right thing coming here.”

Her laugh is short and brittle. “I don’t know if I did.”

That irritates me more than it should.

I gesture toward the couch. “Sit.”

She hesitates.

“I said sit.”

She does.

I remain standing, arms crossed, watching her the way I’d watch a volatile deal—carefully, calculating, alert for cracks. She smells like rain and hospital antiseptic. Her hands are shaking, though she’s trying to keep them still.

“Talk,” I say.

“My brother,” she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “He… he went to confront Rico and his men.”

I already know this. Still, I let her speak.

“They called me,” she continues. “They want money. A lot of it. And they sent an address.”

“Which you are not going to,” I say flatly.

She looks up at me sharply. “I was thinking maybe I should go to the police.”

The words hit wrong. Sharp. Careless. I laugh. Once. No humor in it.

“The police?” I repeat.

She straightens, defensive. “I don’t know how else to—”

“That,” I cut in, my voice colder now, “is the stupidest thing you could possibly do.”

Her eyes flash. “I might need your help but you don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“I absolutely do,” I snap, stepping closer. “Because you clearly have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

She stands abruptly. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my brother—”

“I know Rico,” I say sharply. “And that’s enough.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Her voice drops. “The police help people.”

“They clean up bodies,” I reply. “And they’re usually too late to save them.”

She goes still.

I continue, because once I start, there’s no point stopping. “Rico doesn’t negotiate with law enforcement. He retaliates. And if you think your brother is scared now, wait until he thinks you betrayed him.”

Her breath comes uneven. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” I tell her, “that Josh isn’t in trouble.”

She looks at me, confused.

“He’s already past that,” I finish. “You’re the leverage now.”

The realization hits her slowly, cruelly. I see it settle in her eyes, the guilt, the panic, the weight of responsibility snapping into place.

“I just wanted to help him,” she whispers.

“I know.”

That’s the problem.

She rubs her arms like she’s cold. “Can you really do something about this?”

There it is. The doubt. The insult, unintentional but sharp all the same.

I stare at her. Really stare. “You came to my house,” I say quietly. “You walked across the street instead of dialing emergency services. And you’re asking me if I can really do something?”

She flushes. “I just mean—maybe you know people, but this is serious. Maybe I should—”

“Stop,” I say, my voice rising now. “Stop talking.”

She freezes.

“You don’t get to question me and ask for my help in the same breath,” I continue, anger burning hotter now. “Pick one.”

Her lips tremble. “I’m scared.”

“So am I,” I snap. “But I’m not stupid.”

Silence crashes down between us.

Then she exhales shakily. “Okay.”

One word. Heavy.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” she adds. “Just… help him.”

Something in my chest tightens. Not triumph. Something darker. More dangerous.

I step closer until we’re only a foot apart. She doesn’t step back.

“Listen to me carefully, Emma,” I say. “I don’t help people for free.”

Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t give favors,” I continue, my voice firm, controlled. “I take control of situations. And once I do, they belong to me.”

Her breath catches. “I don’t understand.”

I raise my voice then. Not shouting—but sharp enough to cut.

“That’s exactly what you need to understand.”

She stares at me, eyes wide.

“If I fix this,” I say, “you do exactly as I say.”

Her heart is pounding. I can see it in her throat.

“I own the situation now,” I continue. “And when I call you, you answer. When I need you, you show up. No questions.”

She shakes her head slightly. “That sounds like—”

“Like what?” I challenge. “Control?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Because that’s what this is,” I say. “I don’t rescue people. I employ them.”

Her voice is barely audible. “For how long?”

“As long as I decide.”

She looks like she might break.

And then I see it—something behind the fear. Strength. Fire. Something that doesn’t bow easily. It unsettles me in a way I don’t expect.

I shouldn’t notice the way her lips part. Or the way her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second too long.

I do anyway.

I force myself to step back.

“I heard you’re a nurse,” I say.

She nods slowly. “At Maplewood General.”

“Good,” I reply. “You work for me now.”

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“I have influence there,” I continue calmly. “You’ll find it very easy to leave when I need you. Schedules will adjust. Permissions will be granted.”

“That’s—” She swallows. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is your brother being hunted,” I reply.

Silence.

Then, quietly, “Do I have a choice?”

I meet her gaze. Don’t soften. Don’t lie.

“No.”

“You want me to clean up your brother’s mess? Fine. Then you’ll work for me and answer to me until his debt is settled. And you don’t get to question a single thing. No arguments. No exceptions. Understood?” I add

She closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, something has shifted. Acceptance. Resignation. Resolve.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

The word settles between us like a contract signed in blood.

I nod once. “Good.”

As she turns slightly away, I catch myself thinking how easy it would be to reach out. To pull her closer. To feel that tension snap into something else.

I don’t. Because this isn’t about want. It’s about ownership. And from the moment she said okay—

She was already mine.