THE VOSS DEAL

The rain on the avenue didn’t care that I was broke. It just kept falling—hard, cold, relentless—washing the neon from Carl’s Diner sign into the gutter like even the lights were trying to run away. Carl’s Diner was open 24 hours. Which meant the world never really slept here… it just got uglier after midnight. My shift was supposed to end at 12:00 a.m. It was 2:13 a.m. now, and Boss was being an ass like it was part of the uniform. “You broke the last clean plate, Amara!” he barked, loud enough for the empty booths to hear. “That’s coming out of your check.” As if I wasn’t already f****d. My hands were shaking from a fourteen-hour shift. My back ached. My feet felt like they belonged to someone I hated. I still looked him dead in the face. “Deduct it.” For a second, the diner went too quiet—just the hiss of the coffee machine, the rain tapping the windows, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Boss’s eyes narrowed like I’d just challenged him in his own kingdom. “Get your stuff,” he snapped. “Don’t come back!” I blinked. Once. Then reality hit me like a wet slap. “…Damn,” I said out loud. “I’m fucked.” I shoved my apron into my bag along with my little cash—$40 in tips—and my Columbia law textbook that was way too heavy for a life that kept getting heavier. My phone buzzed. A text from my landlord: rent due on friday or you're out My throat tightened. Mom’s chemo was $3,400 next week. And my F-1 visa expired in 89 days. Perfect timing. Of course. I stared at the screen until my eyes stung. Lagos was six hours ahead. Which meant Mom was awake… or pretending to be. I called. She picked up on the second ring like she’d been waiting. “Hey, baby,” she said softly. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Hi, Mama. How’s the treatment?” “God is good. Don’t worry about me.” I almost laughed, but it came out broken. Of course she’d say that. She always did. “Mama… don’t worry,” I lied. “I’m trying hard over here. I’ll call you later. I love you.” “I love you too.” We hung up. And we both knew we were lying. I pushed the door open and stepped into the rain—into the cold, into the smell of wet concrete and cheap hope. That was when I noticed him. Standing beside a black car like the storm didn’t have permission to touch him. Lim Voss. I knew his face. Everyone did. Voss Corp. Wall Street. Headlines. Money that moved like a god. The kind of man who bought the building across from campus and evicted twelve tenants without losing a second of sleep. He walked into Carl’s like he owned the air inside it. Black suit. Black watch. Sharp jaw. The kind of face that belonged on a magazine cover… but never smiled like it owed anybody warmth. He slid into a booth. My booth. My section. And of course he did. He looked up at me like he’d been waiting. “Coffee,” he said. Black. No sugar. Who the hell still drank black coffee? But with a face like that, maybe he needed the bitterness to match. I wasn’t his waitress anymore. Didn’t matter. I walked over anyway, because survival doesn’t clock out when you get fired. “Can I help you?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Coffee.” “You know we’re closing, right?” “I know.” I stared at him, irritated. “Then why are you here?” He didn’t answer. He just drank slowly, calm as a sinner in church, watching me wipe down tables like I was still on his payroll. I turned to walk away. His voice stopped me. “Miss Eze.” My body went still. Every nerve in me snapped awake. I turned back. “How did you know my name?” He didn’t even blink. “My driver was outside,” he said. “He heard Mr. Carl.” Like being fired was gossip worth collecting. He reached into his coat and slid a black card across the counter. No name. Just a number. My stomach twisted. “I have a business proposition,” he said. I laughed, but it came out sharp. Bitter. “Sorry, Mr. Voss. I don’t do billionaires, and I don’t do business propositions at 2 a.m.” His gaze didn’t change. “Marry me.” The words rang louder than the diner bell. No one walked in. No one gasped. It was just me, him… and the rain outside like the world was holding its breath. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “Marry me,” he said again, like he was ordering coffee. Like it was simple. Like I was simple. My mouth went dry. He placed a folder on the table. “It’s a contract.” He opened it. And my entire life unfolded on paper like a crime scene. My visa details. My address. My bank balance: $212.43 My mom’s hospital in Lagos. My throat closed. “You’re joking,” I whispered. It had to be a joke. A sick billionaire joke. Who brings a deal to a diner at midnight like it’s sss delivery? He didn’t smile. “12 months,” he said. “$790,000. A green card. And your mother’s medical bills paid in full by Monday.” My heart stuttered. I felt dizzy. Like the floor shifted under my feet. “You’re insane.” “The board is forcing me to marry within sixty days,” he said flatly. “Or I lose control of my company.” He leaned back like this was just business. “You need money. You need status. You need time in this country.” His eyes locked on mine. “It is mutually beneficial.” It sounded too good. Which meant it was dangerous. My hands clenched. “A lot of men with money think they can buy anything,” I said quietly. His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t soften. “So what’s the catch?” I asked. “No s*x,” he said. I froze. “No feelings.” His tone didn’t waver. “Separate bedrooms. Public appearances twice a month.” I swallowed. “After twelve months,” he continued, “we divorce. Clean break.” Outside, a siren wailed down 10th street. Inside, my pulse screamed. “Why me?” My voice cracked, and I hated that it did. His gaze sharpened. “Because you argued with your boss instead of begging,” he said. “Because you’re desperate enough to accept.” He stood, smooth and controlled. “And because you and I both know you need this as much as I do.” He dropped $100 on the counter like it was nothing. “Think about it for twenty-four hours,” he said. “Call me when you’ve made up your mind.” He paused at the door. “My driver will be outside your house by 6 p.m.” Then he walked out. The door shut behind him. The rain was still there. Like it never left. My phone pinged. Unknown number. **section 4 clause 2: Either party may terminate with 30 days notice.** **Don't be late, Mrs. Voss.** — L I stared at the message. Then at the black card. Then at the $100. Then at my landlord’s text. My chest tightened until it hurt. God help me.