Bound to the billionaire

Crossroad

Amira pov

The evening air was thick and the hum of traffic as I made my way down the familiar street. Our spot wasn’t anything fancy just a small café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop but it was ours. Maya and I had been meeting here since high school, sharing secrets over cheap coffee and greasy fries. Tonight, though, my chest felt so heavy I wondered if the walls themselves would collapse on me.

I slid into our usual corner booth, resting my chin on my palm, staring blankly at the table’s scratched surface. My phone buzzed once On my way, Maya had texted and I tried to straighten my shoulders, not wanting her to see how broken I felt. But when she finally came in, with her curly hair bouncing and her smile wide as always, one glance at me was enough to wipe the grin off her face.

“Amira,” she said softly, sliding across from me, “what happened? You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the whole world.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Because I have, Maya. I went to the loan office today. They didn’t approve it. Said my income’s too low and my credit score’s a joke.” I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. “It’s like every door I knock on slams in my face.”

Maya reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Mira…” Her voice was thick with sympathy, but she didn’t pity me. She never pitied me. That’s why I could talk to her.

“And the worst part,” I continued, my throat tightening, “is that Mom doesn’t even know. She keeps telling me not to worry, but the doctor said her condition is worsening. Ten thousand dollars, Maya. I can’t even wrap my head around it. I barely make enough to pay rent and keep food on the table.”

Silence settled between us, filled only by the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine in the background. Finally, Maya leaned forward, her eyes bright with determination.

“Listen, there’s something I heard about at work. A charity gala happening this weekend. The host is loaded, Mira. Like, real money. They’re hiring waitresses to serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres. It’s just one night, but the pay” She whistled low. “The pay is triple what you make in a week at the café.”

I blinked. “A gala? Like… rich people in gowns and tuxedos?”

“Exactly. And you’ll be in uniform, just serving, not mingling. No one will care if you’re nervous. You need the money, Mira. Don’t turn this down because of pride.”

I looked down at my lap, twisting my fingers together. The thought of walking into a place filled with people who’d never worked a day of real labor in their lives made my stomach clench. What if I spilled something? What if they laughed at me? But then my mind snapped back to Mom, lying weak in that hospital bed, her smile still soft even through the pain.

“You think I can do it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Maya’s smile returned, warm and unwavering. “I know you can. You’ve been juggling two jobs since high school. If anyone can handle snooty guests with champagne glasses, it’s you.”

A laugh escaped me, small but genuine. For a moment, it felt good to imagine a way out, even a temporary one. “Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” She squeezed my hand again. “And don’t worry about the gown-wearing crowd. Just keep your head high and think of your mom. Every tray you carry brings her closer to treatment.”

Her words sank deep into me, grounding me. I leaned back, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease ever so slightly. We talked a little longer about Mom, about old memories, even about silly things like the awful pop song playing in the café. But when we finally parted ways, the weight on my chest hadn’t disappeared. It had simply shifted lighter , yes, but still there.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, I whispered a silent promise into the darkness. “I’ll find a way, Mom. I don’t care how much it costs me I’ll find a way.”

Damien pov

I hated coming home late. Not because I cared about the empty echo of the mansion or the pile of documents waiting in my briefcase, but because it meant I’d have to pass through the living room where my grandmother always waited.

Sure enough, she was there, perched elegantly on her favorite armchair, a silk shawl draped over her thin shoulders. The years had etched fine lines across her face, but her eyes were as sharp as the day I’d taken over the company. And tonight, they were fixed squarely on me.

“You’re late,” she said simply.

I dropped my keys on the side table. “Meetings ran over. You know how it is.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she reached for the teapot beside her and poured a cup, sliding it toward me on the low table between us. “Sit.”

I sighed but obeyed, loosening my tie. I knew this routine too well. She never poured tea unless she wanted to trap me in a conversation I didn’t want to have.

“You work too much,” she began.

I smirked. “Says the woman who built her own company from scratch and didn’t retire until seventy.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “That’s exactly why I know what I’m talking about. Work will always be there. But family, Damien? Family doesn’t wait forever.”

There it was the inevitable shift. I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Not this again, Grandma.”

“Yes, this again.” Her voice sharpened, though not with anger with urgency. “You are thirty-two years old. You run a billion-dollar company, yet you come home to an empty house every night. Don’t you want someone to care for you? Someone to share your life with? And what about me? I want to see you happy. I want to see great-grandchildren before I die.”

“Grandma”

“No, Damien.” She cut me off, her frail hands clutching her shawl tighter. “If you don’t find someone soon, I swear I will stop speaking to you. Or worse” her eyes glinted mischievously “I’ll start arranging blind dates again.”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. Memories of awkward dinners with women who only saw dollar signs flashed through my mind. “Please, spare me the torture.”

“Then do something about it,” she snapped, her voice cracking with emotion. “Your father worked himself to the grave. I don’t want that for you. I want to know that when I’m gone, you won’t be alone.”

The words stung, not because I believed them, but because a small part of me feared they were true. Still, I couldn’t give her what she wanted not yet. “I’ll think about it,” I muttered, though the words tasted like ash.

Her sharp gaze softened just a little. “That’s all I ask.”

We sat in silence after that, the tick of the antique clock filling the room. I sipped the tea, though it had already gone cold, and thought about how ridiculous it was that I, Damien Cole, CEO of one of the largest companies in the city, could be cornered so easily by a woman barely five feet tall.

But as I retired to my study later that night, her words lingered, no matter how hard I tried to shake them.