Loving the Billionaire I Hate

"If you don't have the full payment by the end of the month, Miss Villanueva, we will have no choice but to proceed with the seizure." I held the phone against my ear for a few seconds after the banker finished talking, even though there was nothing left to say. Then I put it face down on the counter and stood very still in the middle of my mother's bakery, listening to the sound of the refrigerator humming and the distant noise of traffic outside and absolutely nothing else. It was a Tuesday morning. I had three customers all day. I sat down at the small table near the window, the one my mother used to sit at when she wanted to watch people walk past, and I pulled out every piece of paper I had been avoiding for two weeks. Bank statements, overdue invoices. A final utility notice I had tucked under the register and pretended I hadn't seen. I spread them all out in front of me and looked at the number at the bottom of the bank letter one more time, as if looking at it again would somehow make it smaller. It didn't. My mother opened this bakery when I was four years old. I grew up in the back room, doing homework on flour-dusted tables while she shaped dough and hummed songs I still can't hear without feeling something c***k open in my chest. When she got sick, I dropped everything and came back. When she died, I stayed,not because it made financial sense, not because anyone told me to. I stayed because walking away from this place felt like losing her twice, and I had already lost her once and barely survived it. Two years later, the bakery was still standing and I was barely keeping up with it. I had cut my own salary three times. I had switched to cheaper suppliers. I had started waking up at four in the morning to bake everything fresh so I wouldn't have to hire extra help. None of it was enough. The neighborhood had changed, slowly at first and then all at once, and a lot of the regulars my mother had built her business on had been pushed out by rising rents. The people who replaced them wanted cold brew and avocado toast, not the pan de sal and ensaymada my mother had perfected over thirty years. And somewhere in the middle of all that, Ashford Developments had started sniffing around our block. I had gone to every community meeting. I had spoken to the city council twice. I had organized a petition that got over four hundred signatures from residents and local business owners who didn't want to be swallowed up by another luxury development that would benefit nobody who actually lived here. I had done everything right and it hadn't mattered, because the man behind Ashford Developments had more lawyers than I had customers and he knew exactly how to be patient until people got tired of fighting. Dominic Ashford. I had seen him exactly once in person, at a community meeting six months ago where his representative had shown up to present their development plans and I had stood up in the middle of the presentation and asked, loudly, whether Mr. Ashford had ever actually set foot in this neighborhood or whether he just acquired things from a distance like a habit. His representative smiled tightly and gave me a non-answer. Someone had recorded it and posted it online and for about a week I had been mildly internet famous in local activist circles, which did absolutely nothing to help my electricity bill. I knew what Dominic Ashford was. I had known men like him my whole life, men who looked at a place and saw square footage instead of people, who talked about progress and meant profit. My mother used to say that the most dangerous kind of person is the one who genuinely believes that what is good for their bank account is good for the world. I thought about that every time I saw another Ashford Developments sign go up somewhere in the city. Now I was sitting at my mother's table looking at a number I couldn't pay and thinking about how much she would hate that I was this close to losing what she built. I didn't cry. I had done all my crying in the first year. Now I just sat with it, the way you sit with a bad injury after the initial shock wears off and you're just waiting to understand how serious it is. I took out a pen and started writing down every option I had, which is something my mother taught me to do when a problem felt too big. Write it down. Make it smaller. Look at it like a list instead of a wall. I could ask Carlos. I wrote it down and immediately felt sick. My brother was already working two jobs and sending money to our aunt back home. I couldn't ask him. I wouldn't. I could apply for a small business loan. I had tried that eight months ago and been turned down because my revenue numbers weren't strong enough. Nothing has improved since then. I could sell. The word sat on the page looking back at me and I put a line through it before I finished writing it. I could find an investor. I didn't know any investors. I knew how to make a perfect ube cheesecake and how to stretch a budget until it screamed, but I did not have a single contact who moved in the kind of circles where people had money to spare. I was still staring at the list when the door opened. I didn't look up right away because I assumed it was one of my regulars, old Mr. Santos from down the street or maybe Jess stopping by unannounced the way she always did. I kept my eyes on the paper until the footsteps stopped directly in front of my table and the silence had enough weight to it that I finally looked up. Dominic Ashford was standing in my bakery. He looked exactly like his photographs, tall, dark suit, the kind of face that was handsome in a way that felt almost inconvenient, like it would have been easier for everyone if he were less attractive. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't immediately read, not quite cold but completely unreadable, like a door with no handle. I didn't stand up. I didn't offer him anything. I just looked at him and waited. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down without being invited, and then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a folded piece of paper, and placed it on top of my bank statement. I looked down at it. It was a number. A very large number, written by hand, in clean precise handwriting. "That covers your debt," he said. "The bakery, the utilities, everything is outstanding. With enough left over to keep you running for two years without touching your revenue." My mouth went dry. I looked at the number again and then back at him. "And what exactly," I said slowly, "do you want in return?" He held my gaze without blinking. "I want you to be my wife."