Loving The Hot-Tempered Billionaire

—Elizabeth POV— New York never waits for anyone. I learned that at five-thirty in the morning, when my alarm went off in our small apartment in Queens and the city outside was already awake, already honking, already moving. I sat up slowly, careful not to wake my mother in the next room. Her breathing was steady, which was a relief. Two months ago, it hadn't been. Two months ago, I had slept on a plastic chair beside her hospital bed, listening to machines beep, praying that the treatment would work. Now she was home. She was better. She still got tired easily, and she still had to go back for checkups every two weeks, but she was alive, and she was smiling again, and that was because of one man. I made coffee in our tiny kitchen, the one with the chipped tiles and the faucet that leaked if you didn't turn it just right. I made toast for my mother and left it on a plate with a note. Eat this before your medicine. Love, Eli., and then I got dressed for work. I was twenty. Twenty for four months, and still learning how to be an adult in a city that did not slow down for anyone. My name is Elizabeth. I work as a secretary for Mr. Robert Smith. People hear that and think it sounds small. Secretary. Like I only answer phones and bring coffee. But Mr. Smith's office is on the thirty-second floor of the Delaware Enterprises building in Midtown, and his calendar is my calendar, his meetings are my meetings, and if I forget one signature, a deal worth millions can fall apart. I learned that in my first week. I liked the job anyway. I liked the quiet of the office before everyone arrived. I liked arranging his desk exactly how he liked it — pen on the right, notebook on the left, a small framed photo of his late wife facing him. I liked that he always said thank you, even for the smallest things. I took the subway, standing the whole way because there were no seats, holding my bag close to my chest. The train smelled like rain and coffee and someone's perfume. A woman beside me was reading a magazine with Cassian Smith on the cover. I glanced at it, then looked away quickly. Cassian Smith. Everyone in New York knew that name. When I stepped off the elevator on the thirty-second floor, Mrs. Chen, the receptionist, looked up from her desk. "Morning, Eli," she said. " Mr. Smith is already in. He asked for you the second you arrived." My stomach tightened. He never asked for me the second I arrived. Usually he lets me settle in, make his coffee, and check his schedule. I hung my wet coat, smoothed my skirt, and knocked on his door. "Come in, Elizabeth." Mr. Robert Smith was standing by the window, looking out at the city. He was in his sixties, silver hair, kind eyes, a suit that was always perfect. When he turned, he smiled the way a father smiles. "You look tired, my dear," he said. "Did you sleep?" "A little," I said. I didn't tell him I had been up late doing the math in my head again, how much my mother's treatment cost, how much we still owed, how we would have paid for it without him. He had paid for most of it. He never made a big deal of it. He just said, "Your mother is a good woman, Elizabeth. Let me help." I owed him everything. He motioned for me to sit. I did, my hands folded in my lap, my notebook opened out of habit. "I have something to ask you," he said slowly, like he was choosing each word. "And I need you to listen to all of it before you say anything." I nodded. "You know my son," he said. I did. I had seen him twice. Once in the lobby, walking fast, his assistants running after him, his face unreadable. Once in the elevator, standing so still, looking at his phone, not noticing me at all. People in the office whispered about him — how brilliant he was, how ruthless he was, how he never smiled in meetings, how he had built Delaware Enterprises into a global company before he was thirty. "I don't really know him—" I started. "He needs a wife," Mr. Smith said. The words did not make sense at first. I stared at him. "A wife?" I repeated. He sighed and sat down across from me, folding his hands. "Cassian is difficult. He works too much. He trusts no one. He built a wall around himself after his mother died, and I am getting old, Elizabeth. I will not be here forever to watch over him." He looked at me then, really looked at me, and his eyes were soft. "I have watched you for two years. You are kind. You are patient. You are honest. You take care of everyone around you without asking for anything. I think you are the only person who could reach him." I felt my heart beating in my ears. "Are you saying—" I started, and then I stopped because I knew what he was saying, and I didn't want to hear it out loud. "I am asking if you will marry my son." Outside his window, New York kept moving, taxis honking, people hurrying, life going on like my entire world hadn't just tilted. I wanted to object. I wanted to say, I don't even know him. I have never spoken to him. I am twenty. I wanted to fall in love on my own, to choose someone, to be chosen. But I also thought of my mother in that hospital bed, holding my hand and saying, " Mr. Smith is a good man, Eli. We are lucky to have him." How could I disappoint the man who had saved her? "Mr. Smith," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Can I... can I think about it?" "Of course," he said quickly. "Take your time. I would never force you, Elizabeth. If you say no, I will understand, and nothing between us will change. Your job is safe. Your mother's treatment will continue. I promise you that." He meant it. I knew he meant it. That made it harder, not easier. I went back to my desk and tried to work. I typed three emails and deleted all of them. I spilled coffee on my sleeve. At lunch, I finally called Stella. Stella was my best friend since high school. She met me at the small cafe across the street, her eyes red, her coffee untouched. "He cheated on me," she said before I could even sit down. "I saw the messages, Eli. All of them. Three months, with a girl from his gym." "Stella," I said, reaching for her hand. "I'm so sorry." She laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. "Men are the worst. Don't ever fall in love, Eli. It's a trap." I almost laughed too. If only she knew. "Stella," I whispered, leaning in. "Mr. Smith just asked me to marry his son." She stared at me. "What?" "Cassian Smith," I said. "He wants me to marry Cassian Smith." Stella's mouth fell open. "Cassian Smith? The one from the magazines? Eli, that's insane. You don't even know him!" "I know," I said. My eyes filled up, and I hated that I was crying in a cafe. "He helped my mom, Stella. He paid for her treatment when we had nothing. How do I say no to him? But how do I say yes to marrying a stranger?" Stella squeezed my hand hard. "You don't owe him your whole life, Eli," she said quietly. "You know that, right? Gratitude is not the same as a wedding." I knew that. In my head, I knew that. But in my heart, I kept seeing my mother's face when she got her results. I kept seeing Mr. Smith's kind eyes. I kept seeing the way he said, I think you are the only person who could reach him. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I filed papers. I answered calls. I kept seeing that magazine cover in my mind, Cassian Smith in a dark suit, arms crossed, eyes cold. A man who owned a company with branches all over the world. A man who, according to the office gossip, had a hot temper and no patience for anyone. And I was supposed to marry him. That night, I went home to Queens. My mother was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, watching the news. She looked better than she had in months. Color in her cheeks. She smiled when she saw me. "Long day?" she asked. "The longest," I said, kicking off my shoes and sitting beside her. She patted my knee. " Mr. Smith is a good man." "I know, Mom." I didn't tell her what he had asked. Not yet. I couldn't. I just leaned my head on her shoulder and listened to the rain against our window, and thought about a man I had only seen twice, a man I was supposed to marry, a man whose name already felt like a weight and a question at the same time.