Bound to the billionaire

Line crossed

Damien pov

The day dragged on, but not because of the files scattered across my desk. My mind wasn’t on contracts or mergers it was on the girl I saw yesterday running out of that loan office with her clothes torn and tears in her eyes.

“Sir.” John’s knock broke through my thoughts before he stepped in, a manila folder in hand.

“What did you find?” I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming the polished mahogany desk.

He placed the folder neatly in front of me. “Her name is Amira blake. Twenty-two Works at Bloom Café. Lives in a small apartment downtown. Her mother is in the hospital critical condition. Treatment requires ten thousand dollars urgently. That’s why she went to the loan office. The man there…” He hesitated, almost disgusted to speak further. “He tried to force her when she refused his terms. She fought him off.”

I stiffened, anger sparking in my chest. “And you let someone like that keep running a loan business in this city?”

John cleared his throat. “We’re… handling him, sir.”

I nodded. Good. But what caught my attention was the other detail her desperation. A thought formed, sharp and strategic. Since the girl John last introduced me to was unbearable loud, shallow, the complete opposite of what Grandma wanted I needed someone different. Someone who could pass as my wife long enough to ease my grandmother’s pressure. Amira needed money. I needed a wife.

“Have the car ready. I’m going to Bloom Café.”

The moment I stepped into Bloom Café, the rich aroma of roasted beans filled the air, but my focus wasn’t on the coffee it was on her. She moved between tables with effortless rhythm, tray balanced, polite smile fixed in place. If I hadn’t known her circumstances, I might have believed the act.

When her eyes finally flicked to me, recognition dawned, and her expression hardened instantly. She didn’t pause. Didn’t falter. Just set a cappuccino down in front of a customer and turned away.

I followed her toward the counter.

“Miss bIake”said evenly.

She froze. Then slowly turned, her jaw tight. “It’s Amira. And unless you’re ordering something, I’m busy.”

“I want a word with you. Outside.” I tilted my head toward the sleek car parked in front.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Outside? In your car? No, thank you. This isn’t the movies where rich men summon women like servants.” She shifted the tray higher against her hip like a shield. “If you want coffee, order here like everyone else.”

Her defiance almost made me smile. Almost. “This isn’t about coffee.”

“Then it’s not about me either,” she snapped, spinning on her heel.

I didn’t move. I just watched her retreat until she disappeared into the kitchen. That stubborn streak was admirable, but I wasn’t walking out of here without a conversation.

So I went straight to the manager. After a brief discussion and the subtle reminder of who I was she hesitated, then called Amira over.

She stormed out a minute later, cheeks flushed with anger.

“You can’t just buy my time like that,” she hissed, folding her arms.

“I didn’t buy it,” I replied calmly. “I asked for it. And he agreed.”

Her laugh was humorless. “Of course he did. Because who says no to Mr. Perfectly Rich?”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Five minutes, Amira. That’s all I’m asking. If you still want to walk away afterward, I won’t stop you.”

She studied me, suspicion clouding her dark eyes. “And if I say no now?”

“Then you’ll keep wondering what I had to say,” I countered. “And something tells me you hate unanswered questions.”

Her lips pressed together, and for a second, I thought she’d walk off again. But finally, with a sharp breath, she muttered, “Fine. Five minutes. No more.”

I gestured toward the car, pulling the door open for her. She slid inside with rigid posture, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was preparing for battle.

“Talk,” she said coldly.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat, studying her for a beat longer than necessary. Most people fidgeted under my gaze. She didn’t. She was too angry to care.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll get straight to the point. I know about your mother.”

Her head snapped toward me, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”

“She’s in the hospital. She needs treatment. Ten thousand dollars, isn’t it?” My tone was level, businesslike, though I caught the quick rise and fall of her chest as my words hit home.

Her fingers clenched tighter around her arm. “How the hell do you know that?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek envelope, and placed it on the console between us. “One hundred thousand dollars. All yours.”

Her eyes darted to the envelope, then back to me. Suspicion, confusion, and anger all battled across her face. “What’s this supposed to mean? A handout? Pity money?”

“No,” I said firmly. “It’s an offer. Be my wife contractually, for one year. Nothing more, nothing less. At the end, you walk away with enough money to cover your mother’s treatment and rebuild your life.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “You’ve lost your mind.”

I stayed quiet, letting her words echo in the enclosed space.

“You seriously think you can throw money at me like I’m some desperate charity case? Or worse, a… a woman for sale?” Her voice cracked, but she caught it quickly, straightening in her seat. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Damian Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is.”

“Cole ,” I supplied quietly.

She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re a Cole , a King, or the President himself you don’t get to waltz into my workplace, drag me into your shiny car, and insult me with this kind of this kind of garbage.”

Her anger was fire, and it burned hotter with every word.

I leaned forward slightly, voice lower, calmer. “It’s not garbage. It’s practical. You need money. I need a wife on paper. You get what you need, I get my grandmother off my back. No feelings. No strings. Just business.”

She shook her head, a humorless smile tugging at her lips. “Business? You think life is just about business. You don’t get it, do you? Some of us actually still have pride. Dignity.”

I didn’t flinch at the venom in her words. Instead, I watched her, silently.

Her voice rose, shaky now. “I may be poor. I may be struggling. But I’d rather work ten jobs, scrub toilets, starve than sell myself to a man who thinks money is the answer to everything.”

The car felt suffocating with her anger. She reached for the door handle, hand trembling. “Keep your envelope. And keep your money. I don’t need your charity. Or your arrogance.”

“Amira”

But she was already shoving the door open. She stepped out, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame.

I stayed in my seat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as I watched her storm back into the café, shoulders stiff, head held high even though I caught the quick swipe of her hand across her eyes.

She hated me for it. I could see that.

But I also knew something else she’d think about that envelope long after the anger faded.

Amira pov

I slammed the car door so hard I half-expected the window to shatter. My chest was burning, my throat tight, and every step I took back toward the café felt heavier, shakier.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Walking into my workplace like he owned the entire world, tossing money around like it was some magic wand that could fix people’s lives.

By the time I pushed through the back door of the café, I was trembling. Not just with anger but with something uglier. Shame.

I ducked into the staff bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, my breath coming in short gasps. My reflection stared back at me from the cracked mirror above the sink: red eyes, flushed cheeks, lips pressed together so tight they hurt.

My mom.

The hospital bill.

The two days left.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars, fighting back the sob that threatened to escape. If I let myself cry now, I wouldn’t stop.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out with shaky hands. It was Maya.

I hesitated before answering, trying to steady my voice. “Hey.”

“Amira?” Maya’s voice was thick, almost broken. “Can you talk?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, though my throat was raw.

There was silence for a beat, then a ragged laugh. “Daniel’s getting married.”

I froze. “What?”

“My Daniel,” she said bitterly. “Three years of my life wasted. And now he’s marrying some rich heiress. I saw the pictures on social media. The ring, the announcement. Like I never existed.”

Her voice cracked, and my heart clenched. I knew exactly how it felt, that sharp sting of betrayal and helplessness.

“Maya…” I didn’t know what else to say. Words felt useless.

“I need a drink,” she said suddenly. “Please. Tonight. I can’t sit in my apartment and cry alone.”

I swallowed hard. The day had already drained every bit of strength I had, but hearing her pain tore at me. “Okay. I’ll come. After my shift.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When the call ended, I leaned against the bathroom sink, staring down at my phone. For a moment, I considered calling her back and telling her everything about the loan office, about the man in the car, about the envelope with money I desperately needed but couldn’t bring myself to accept.

But I didn’t.

Because if I said it out loud, it would make it real. And I wasn’t ready for that.

I stuffed my phone back into my pocket, splashed water on my face, and forced myself to walk out of the bathroom. My manager gave me a curious glance but didn’t ask. Thank God.

The rest of my shift dragged on in a haze. Customers came and went, and I plastered on the fakest smiles I could manage. All the while, my mind kept circling back to the man in the car. His calm voice. His cold eyes. That damned envelope.

By the time I clocked out, I was exhausted. Not just physically but in my bones, in my heart. But I still headed out to meet Maya, because she needed me.

And maybe… I needed her, too.