Bound to the billionaire

Back To Reality

Alison stood at her apartment door, hand on the knob, taking a deep breath. She could hear Maya inside—the familiar, restless energy of her best friend pacing around. Probably wearing a path into the cheap carpet.

She turned the key and pushed the door open.

Maya was on her instantly.

"Oh my God, finally!" She grabbed Alison’s shoulders, eyes scanning her face like a detective hunting for clues. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Should I call the police? And why are you still wearing that dress—did you seriously just get home?"

"Maya. Breathe." Alison freed herself from her friend’s grip and kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief. Her feet were screaming in gratitude. "I’m fine. I’m not hurt. No police needed."

"Then where the hell have you been?" Maya demanded, following her into the tiny living room. "You disappeared with some guy, and I didn’t hear from you for twelve hours!"

Alison collapsed onto her worn couch—the one she’d bought secondhand years ago, with its faded floral pattern and the spring poking through on the left side. After Damian’s sleek leather furniture, it felt like stepping onto another planet.

Her apartment was small. Smaller than she remembered after a morning in that penthouse. Living room and kitchen were basically one space, separated by a breakfast bar with two stools. Her bedroom barely fit her bed and dresser. The bathroom had a leaking shower and tiles that had once been white, sometime in the previous century.

But it was hers. Every mismatched piece of furniture. Every framed poster. Every plant she was slowly killing despite her best efforts. Hers.

Maya stood over her, arms crossed, waiting.

"Coffee first," Alison said, spotting the two corner-shop cups Maya had brought. "Then I’ll tell you everything."

"You better." Maya handed her a cup and settled beside her, tucking her legs under herself. "Start talking."

So Alison did.

She told her everything. About losing Maya in the crowd and heading to the bar alone. About the man—Damian—who’d appeared beside her and ordered her a drink. How they’d talked for hours. How the vodka loosened her tongue until she spilled things she’d never told anyone—her hate for her job, her dreams of starting a fashion brand, the feeling that she was wasting her life.

"You told a complete stranger all that?" Maya’s eyes were wide.

"I was drunk." Alison sipped her coffee, letting the warmth ground her. "Apparently, I turn into an oversharing disaster with vodka."

"Okay, but then what? How did you end up at his place?"

Alison explained how she tried to leave but was too drunk to stand properly, and how Damian insisted on taking her somewhere safe.

"He took you to his place," Maya said slowly. "A strange man took you, drunk and vulnerable, to his apartment."

"I know how it sounds—"

"It sounds like the setup for a horror movie, Ali."

"But it wasn’t." Alison met her friend’s eyes. "He let me sleep in his shirt, on his bed. He slept on the couch. Nothing happened, Maya. He was... decent."

Maya studied her, then nodded slowly. "Okay. I believe you. So what next? You woke up this morning and...?"

"And he made breakfast." Alison smiled despite herself. "He had some hangover remedy that tasted awful but worked. We talked. He asked about my fashion stuff."

"Wait." Maya sat up straighter. "He asked about your designs?"

"He seemed genuinely interested," Alison shrugged. "Even asked to see my sketchbook."

"And did you?"

"Obviously not. I don’t carry it to clubs." She paused. "But he said... he thought my brand could be extraordinary."

Maya went quiet, processing. Then: "What’s his name?"

"Damian."

"Damian what?"

"I don’t know. Reeves, maybe? His driver called him Mr. Reeves."

"His driver." Maya’s voice went flat. "He has a driver."

"And a penthouse in Gold Coast. A private elevator. A garage full of cars that probably cost more than this whole building." Alison laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He’s rich, Maya. Ridiculously rich."

"How rich?"

"The kind of rich where you stop counting zeros." Alison hugged her knees. "Original artwork on the walls. Coffee machine that looks like it belongs in a museum. The shirt I slept in probably cost more than my rent."

Maya’s eyes narrowed, calculating. "And he was interested in you."

"He was polite."

"Ali. Men don’t make breakfast and ask about your dreams just to be polite."

"Men like that don’t—" Alison stopped. "It doesn’t matter. It was a one-time thing. I left, his driver took me home, and that’s it."

"Did you get his number?"

"No."

"Did he ask for yours?"

"No."

"So you’re just... never seeing him again?"

"Why would I?" Alison’s voice was defensive. "We’re from completely different worlds. He lives in a tower. I live in a fourth-floor walkup with a radiator that sounds like it’s talking to ghosts. What exactly do you think would happen?"

Maya sipped her coffee, quiet. Then: "Did you like him?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

"I don’t know him."

"That’s not what I asked."

Alison thought about his dark eyes, the way he listened when she talked about fashion, the touch on her lower back that sent electricity through her. The way he called her scared and was devastatingly right.

"It doesn’t matter if I liked him," she said. "It’s over. Done. Tomorrow I’ll go back to work and pretend this weekend never happened."

Maya looked like she wanted to argue but let it go. "Okay. But for the record? You’re an idiot."

"Noted."

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping coffee. Outside, a car alarm went off and quickly died. Normal Sunday sounds. Normal life.

"So," Maya said eventually, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Was he hot?"

Alison laughed. "Devastatingly."

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Twelve."

"Damn." Maya grinned. "At least you have that. Not many people can say they woke up in a billionaire’s bed looking at a twelve."

"I’m never drinking vodka again."

"Please. You’ll be drinking again next weekend."

"Absolutely not." Alison shook her head. "I’m done with clubbing. Terrible idea."

"It was your birthday!"

"And look how that turned out."

They laughed, the tension easing. Despite everything—the confusion, the embarrassment, the ache in her chest—Alison laughed too.

This was familiar. Safe. Maya’s terrible jokes and worse advice. Corner-shop coffee. Her cramped, flawed apartment. This was real.

The rest—the penthouse, the breakfast, the man who saw through her defenses—was a dream. Fading in the harsh light of day.

It had to fade. Better that way.

The rest of the afternoon passed like any Sunday. Maya ordered Thai food from the place down the street—the one that knew their orders by heart. They watched awful reality TV, made fun of the contestants. Maya painted her nails purple while Alison pretended to care about the dating drama on screen.

Normal. Comfortable. Hers.

But when Maya finally left, Alison was alone with her thoughts.

She showered, scrubbing off the night—makeup, scent of expensive cologne clinging to Damian’s shirt. Emerging in her ratty bathrobe, her apartment felt emptier than usual.

She reheated leftover pasta for dinner, eating standing at the counter. Her phone sat silent. Damian didn’t have her number. She didn’t have his. A clean break. No complications.

And yet, the silence felt loud.

She opened her laptop, checked work emails—sixty-three unread messages. Each urgent, each a reminder of the life she’d chosen, the life she was trapped in. Damian’s words echoed in her head: You’re scared.

She slammed the laptop closed.

He didn’t know her life, her choices. But there had been something in his voice—a recognition of fear she couldn’t shake.

Alison collapsed onto her bed, lumpy mattress, worn sheets. Not like Damian’s silk bed, not like the penthouse dream.

She stared at the ceiling, the water stain her landlord had promised to fix, feeling the weight of tomorrow pressing down. Monday. Work. Endless coffee runs and scheduling conflicts and dreams deferred.

And somewhere across the city, Damian Reeves probably had a different Sunday evening—wine she couldn’t afford, dinner by a chef, the city beneath him like a kingdom.

He’d probably forgotten her. A drunk girl at a bar. A fleeting moment.

But it felt like losing something she never had.

She rolled over, punched the pillow, closed her eyes.

Tomorrow. She’d deal with that then. Tonight, she needed sleep. Needed to stop thinking about dark eyes, careful hands, and someone who really saw her.

It had been a mistake. All of it.

Tomorrow, she’d go back to being careful, safe. No risks. No vodka. No believing someone like Damian Reeves could be interested.

Tomorrow, normal would resume.

But as she lay in the dark, Alison couldn’t shake the feeling that normal would never feel the same again. She’d glimpsed what else was possible, even for a morning.

And that made settling for less harder.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Sleep took her, dreams tangled with penthouse views, coffee cups, and eyes that saw too much.

Tomorrow loomed. Inevitable.

Monday at Morrison & Klein.

Back to reality.

Back to the small, safe, insufficient life.

But still hers.

Even if tonight, alone in the dark, it didn’t feel like enough.