Elena and the billionaire

CHAPTER THREE

My phone was my worst enemy.

By morning, it was vibrating so violently across my nightstand it nearly flung itself onto the carpet. Groggy, hair a mess, I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen.

And then my blood ran cold.

Heiress Elena Cole & Michael King: A New Power Couple?

From Spilled Champagne to Candlelit Chemistry, Are They the Real Deal?

Elena Cole Tames the Untouchable Michael King?

I groaned and dropped the phone on my face. “No, no, no, no this is not happening.”

The universe, apparently, disagreed.

Because when I opened i********:, a slow-motion video greeted me: Michael leaning close at dinner, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw, his hand brushing mine. Someone had set it to a moody soundtrack. Millions of views. Tens of thousands of comments.

“They’re so magnetic omg 😭.”

“Michael finally SMILING?? Elena you queen.”

“Ship name: Micrena. You’re welcome.”

“Michael wasn’t even smiling, or was he?”

“I’m sooo cooked”

And the worst: #Micrena trending worldwide.

I buried my head under my pillow and screamed.

⸻

My best friend, Lila, barged in without knocking. “Rise and shine, future Mrs. King!”

“Don’t,” I mumbled into the pillow.

“Oh, I must.” Lila flopped onto the bed with the glee of someone who wasn’t currently being roasted alive by the internet. “You and Michael are literally everywhere. Twitter is a battlefield, t****k is obsessed, even my grandma texted me: ‘Who is this man? Very handsome. Tell Elena to marry him quickly.’”

I dragged myself upright, hair sticking out at alarming angles. “I went to dinner. That’s it. Dinner. With a smug billionaire who thinks carbs are sinful.”

“Yeah, well, now you’re his mysterious new flame,” Lila sing-songed, waving her phone. “Don’t fight it, babe. Just lean into it. Free PR.”

I snatched the phone and threw it onto the carpet. “I don’t need PR. I need a time machine.”

“You don’t get it babes, its not good”

“Dad”

“Ohhhhhhh” you’re definitely cooked

“He would probably ask you to marry him immediately”

Lila says as she sits beside me.

⸻

My father, however, disagreed.

By noon, i was summoned to the Cole Enterprises headquarters. His office smelled of leather and authority, all dark wood and towering windows that made me feel smaller than i liked.

“Sit,” he said without looking up from his papers.

I crossed my arms. “This isn’t the nineteenth century. You could say please.”

He looked up, expression flat. “Michael King is good for business.”

My jaw tightened. “Dad—”

“If this… relationship turns into something real, it strengthens our position. It opens doors. It makes us untouchable.”

“So I’m a chess piece now?” I shot back. “Your bargaining chip on the board?”

“You’re a Cole,” he said simply. “Play your role.”

For a moment, the silence between them was deafening. I felt something crack inside my chest; anger, sadness, rebellion. All tangled together.

I stood abruptly. “I’m not for sale, Dad.” and i’m not getting into some business relationship all for your selfish motives.”

I stormed out before he could remind me otherwise.

⸻

By late afternoon, I needed refuge. I slipped into my favorite café, a tiny, cinnamon-scented bakery tucked between high-rises. Nobody bothered me here. No photographers, no headlines. Just strong coffee and pastries the size of my head. It was like my safe space

I had just taken my first blissful sip when a shadow fell across the table.

“Is this seat taken?”

My head snapped up. Michael King. Of course. Looking effortlessly devastating in a navy suit, the kind of man who could walk into a café and make it feel like a boardroom.

I nearly spit out my latte. “Are you stalking me?”

“Relax.” He slid into the chair opposite me, unbothered. “Your bodyguard told me where you’d be.”

“I don’t have a bodyguard,” she snapped.

“You do now.” Michael nodded toward the door, where a man in black sunglasses stood discreetly. “Consider it a precaution.”

My eyes narrowed. “A precaution against what?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Against the circus you seem to attract.”

I set my cup down with a clink. “Oh, I attract the circus? Not the billionaire who just so happens to be trending with me worldwide?”

Michael’s lips twitched. “Touché.”

For a few moments, silence stretched between us, broken only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft chatter of customers. Michael studied me with unnerving calm, as though he had all the time in the world.

Finally, he said, “You hate this.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The attention. The headlines. The appraisal.” His voice was quiet but certain.

I tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “What gave it away? My blood pressure or my eye twitch?”

Instead of smiling, he leaned forward. “Tell me, Elena—why does it bother you so much?”

The directness caught me off guard. No one asked me that. People assumed I thrived on glitter and gossip, that being born a Cole meant I loved the spotlight.

But Michael’s gaze was steady, waiting.

“Because…” I hesitated, then shrugged too casually. “Because I want people to see me. Not just the name. Not just the money. Me.”

For the first time, Michael’s expression softened. “And do you think I see just the name?”

My breath hitched.

Before I could answer, the café door burst open. Flashbulbs exploded, paparazzi flooding inside, shouting my name, Michael’s name, firing questions rapid-fire.

“Elena, are you dating him?”

“Michael, is this serious?”

“Elena, smile for us!”

The cozy bakery transformed into chaos.

Michael stood instantly, his hand reaching for mine. “Stay behind me.”

I didn’t think, I just obeyed, pressed against his back as he cut through the frenzy with cool authority. Cameras popped, voices shouted, but all I felt was his steady grip around my fingers, grounding me.

We pushed out the back door into a narrow alleyway. Breathless, I leaned against the brick wall, my heart racing. Michael’s hand still clasped mine, firm, unyielding.

He looked down at me, his dark eyes burning with intensity that made me shiver.

“This,” he said softly, “is only the beginning.”

I swallowed hard, her pulse pounding. She wanted to scoff, to roll her eyes, to say something witty—anything to break the electricity crackling between them.

“What does that even mean” I muttered

But instead, I whispered, “Then what happens next?”

Michael stepped closer, his thumb brushing against my knuckles. “That depends on you.”

My knees nearly buckled.

And in that dizzy, breathless moment, I realized with terrifying clarity:

I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end.

______

I had survived enough social scandals in my twenty-four years to know how quickly the internet could turn on someone. Still, when I woke up the morning after the gala, bleary-eyed and clutching my phone, I wasn’t prepared for the storm that awaited me.

My notifications had multiplied overnight text messages from friends, calls from my father, and a flood of social media mentions. Headlines screamed at me from every angle:

“Heiress Elena Castellano and Billionaire Michael Drake—A Match Made in Manhattan?”

“The Gala Dance Everyone’s Talking About.”

“Enemies or Lovers? Sparks Fly Between Two Titans’ Heirs.”

I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in my pillow. I had gone viral—and not in the cute, look at this dog dancing in pajamas way. No, mine was the kind of viral that involved strangers dissecting my life, my dress, my body language, and, of course, my accidental almost-romance with Michael Drake.

“Of course,” I muttered into the pillow, “of course it’s him.”

The memory of our forced dance flickered in my mind. His hand firm at my waist, the sharpness of his jaw, that infuriating smirk he wore as if he had already won some unspoken game. It had been mortifying. And yet—my stomach betrayed me with a tiny flutter. I immediately scolded it. No. Absolutely not. I hate him.

The sound of my apartment door clicking open pulled me from my thoughts. Seconds later, Lila stormed in holding two iced coffees and a look of absolute glee.

“Elena Castellano,” Lila announced dramatically, “you are officially the internet’s new favorite ship. The people have spoken, and apparently you and Michael Drake are ‘couple goals.’”

I peeked out from my blanket cocoon, horrified. “You’re lying.”

Lila whipped out her phone and shoved it in my face. “Read it and weep. Or in your case, scream. Look, this thread alone has fifty thousand likes. They’re dissecting the way he looked at you, like…” Lila put on a fake swoony voice—“he was a man finally seeing sunlight after years underground.”

I nearly choked on my own breath. “What?! He wasn’t looking at me like that!”

“He was,” Lila teased, sipping her coffee smugly. “And the world agrees. You’ve got edits, fan accounts, conspiracy theories—girl, it’s a circus.”

I threw my blanket off and scrambled to my mirror. My hair was sticking up in every direction, my eyes still swollen from too little sleep. “Oh God. This is the worst day of my life. Dad is going to—”

My phone buzzed as if on cue. Father.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I paced my room. “I’m doomed. Completely doomed. Michael is probably sitting in his penthouse right now laughing at how easily I handed him more attention.”

⸻

Michael, in fact, was not laughing.

He sat at the head of a long glass conference table on the top floor of Drake Enterprises, his phone buzzing relentlessly with notifications he ignored. The wall of windows behind him displayed a glittering Manhattan skyline, but all eyes in the room were on him.

His senior executives shuffled papers nervously, pretending to focus on quarterly reports while whispering among themselves. His assistant finally cleared her throat.

“Mr. Drake,” she said carefully, “I… suppose congratulations are in order?”

Adrian looked up, his expression cool. “Congratulations?”

She gestured vaguely toward his phone. “You and Ms. Castellano. The press seems… enthusiastic. Investors, too. Your stock went up two points this morning. Apparently, people like the idea of you settling down.”

A low murmur of agreement spread around the table. Michael’s jaw tightened. Settling down. That phrase again. It was like everyone in the city had decided his life was incomplete without a ring and a wife to smile on magazine covers.

“I don’t make business decisions based on gossip,” he said flatly, shutting down the conversation. But when the meeting ended, he lingered at the window, staring down at the ant-like chaos of the streets below.

Against his will the image of Elena came back to him. Her emerald dress catching the light, her fiery glare when she accused him of being arrogant, the stubborn lift of her chin. She had been chaos wrapped in silk, and he hadn’t been able to look away.

He shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t have time for this.

And yet, hours later, he found himself in a part of town he rarely visited. Standing outside a small, stylish café with a discreet Closed for Private Event sign hanging on the door. He didn’t know why he came—only that the thought of her hiding away, bracing for the storm alone, unsettled him.