Bound to the Billionaire

The scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faint buzz of office chatter and ringing phones. Eva Thompson sat at her cluttered desk, nervously tapping her fingers against the chipped edge. The morning had already started off badly—her alarm hadn’t gone off, she’d missed her bus, and now her manager, Claire, was eyeing her like a predator circling its prey. Eva adjusted the cuffs of her white blouse and forced a small smile as Claire strutted toward her, heels clicking against the marble tiles. “Eva,” Claire said, lips curling into something that tried to pass for a smile. “Do you have those reports I asked for yesterday?” “I-I sent them to your email last night,” Eva replied softly, avoiding direct eye contact. Claire raised an eyebrow. “No, you didn’t. I checked.” Eva’s heart skipped. She had definitely sent them. She’d double-checked. “I’ll resend them right away,” she said, fingers already flying over the keyboard. Claire crossed her arms. “It’s always excuses with you. I don’t have time to babysit incompetence. Do you know how many people would kill for your position?” The words stung more than Eva wanted to admit. She bit her bottom lip and nodded silently, the sting of humiliation rising up her throat. Claire didn’t wait for a response. “Come to my office.” Once inside the glass-paneled office, Eva stood still while Claire took her seat, scanning a file with performative disinterest. “You’re fired,” she said without looking up. Eva’s knees nearly gave out. “W-what?” Claire shrugged. “You’re too slow. Too soft. This is a fast-paced company, and we need people who can keep up.” Eva swallowed the lump in her throat. “Please. I need this job. My mother—she’s sick. I’m the only one—” Claire held up a manicured hand. “I don’t care.” Just like that, Eva’s world tilted. She walked out of the office dazed, her belongings hastily packed into a cardboard box. No warning. No mercy. Her phone buzzed as she stepped outside. A text from her landlord. Rent due. Final warning. Eva leaned against a pillar, heart pounding, eyes burning. What now? --- The café smelled of cinnamon and ambition. Eva sat alone at a corner table, clutching a warm mug she could barely afford. Her thoughts swirled — bills, her mother’s medication, the shame of unemployment. Then, as if summoned by her despair, a deep voice sliced through the soft café noise. “Eva Thompson.” She looked up. A tall man stood before her, dressed in a charcoal suit so sharp it looked tailored to his soul. His dark eyes were unreadable, his jawline chiseled like a sculptor’s final touch. “Do I know you?” she asked, wary. He slid into the seat across from her without invitation. “Andre Lancaster.” Her breath caught. The name wasn’t unfamiliar — he was the Andre Lancaster. Billionaire. CEO of Lancaster Holdings. Ruthless. Intimidating. Tabloid gold. “I’ve reviewed your file,” he said smoothly. “You were an assistant at Doyle & Co.” “Until this morning,” she replied bitterly. He nodded. “Unfortunate timing. But perhaps… an opportunity.” Eva blinked. “What kind of opportunity?” Andre leaned forward, eyes cold but calculating. “I need a wife. Temporarily.” She gaped at him. “Excuse me?” “A year. Maybe less,” he continued, his tone businesslike. “In exchange, I’ll cover your mother’s medical expenses, your living costs, and offer you a compensation package—” “Is this a joke?” “No.” Eva stared at him, trying to piece together what kind of man makes marriage proposals to strangers over coffee. “Why me?” “You’re… invisible,” he said bluntly. “No scandals. No baggage. No ambitions that threaten mine. You’re perfect.” His words burned, but Eva didn’t have the luxury to be offended. The desperation gnawed at her, whispering cruel truths — she was broke, jobless, drowning. Still, a contract marriage? She shook her head. “Why do you need a wife? You're rich, powerful—” “My image needs... softening. Investors like a man with stability. Sentiment. Not someone who chews through women like gum.” Eva blinked at his unapologetic bluntness. “You’d live with me,” he said. “Attend functions. Just play the part. I don’t expect you to love me, and I won’t pretend to love you.” She laughed weakly. “Romantic.” He didn’t smile. “Think it over. You’ll receive the contract by tonight.” And with that, Andre stood, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked away — leaving Eva reeling in his wake, her heart racing, her life suddenly balanced on the edge of something far more dangerous than poverty: him.