The Billionaire's Bargain :Shattered vows

Elara Monroe sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor of her boutique, surrounded by bills like they were vultures circling her last breath. A calculator sat in her lap, its buttons worn and stubborn. She tapped one last equation in, chewing her bottom lip.

Click. Click. Click.

The result blinked back at her like a bad joke.

"Two hundred and seventeen dollars," she muttered. "For thirty days of blood, sweat, and crushed dreams."

She hurled the calculator across the room. It hit the wall with a hollow crack, fell to the floor, and shattered, a fitting funeral for her finances.

"I'm done!" she screamed at the ceiling. "Take the lights, take the shelves-hell, take the air I breathe!"

The flickering lights buzzed in cruel agreement.

She buried her face in her hands. Her boutique, once her mother's dream, now looked like a post-apocalyptic fabric graveyard. A half-stitched dress lay limp on a rusted sewing machine. Thread spools had rolled off the shelves and collected dust on the floor. A mannequin, missing an arm and a leg, leaned against the corner like it had given up on life too.

The door creaked open.

No knock. No warning.

Just Ding-the soft chime of the bell above the entrance.

Elara stiffened.

No one had walked in for days. No customers. No hope.

And certainly not him.

She looked up-and her blood ran cold.

A man stepped inside, tall and calm, cutting a silhouette so sharp it made the flickering lights feel like stage spotlights. His suit was tailored to perfection. Dark grey with a crisp white shirt underneath. No tie. No smile. Just cold, piercing blue eyes and a presence that demanded submission.

Dust kicked up beneath his polished shoes as he moved further in. When his shoe clipped the edge of a wobbly chair, it toppled, coughing up a cloud of dust.

He coughed once, sharply, and waved the air away with the back of his hand.

"Elara Monroe," he said, eyes scanning the boutique with detached precision. "What a... quaint little tragedy you've got here."

Elara blinked, still kneeling. The man hadn't introduced himself, but she didn't need to ask.

Joseph Taylor.

The billionaire. The corporate vulture. The Devil in Prada, as the tabloids called him. A man known for buying failing empires and burying their legacies beneath steel and glass.

And he was standing in her dead mother's boutique like it was an asset waiting to be liquidated.

"You've got five seconds to walk out before I call the cops," she growled, pushing herself up to her feet.

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just took another slow look around.

"Call them," he said smoothly. "But they won't pay your rent."

Her heart punched her ribs.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"I'm here to buy this space."

"It's not for sale."

"I'm not asking."

"Well, I'm not selling," she hissed. "You can take your tailored arrogance and-"

"You're three months behind on rent," he cut in, voice sharp as a blade. "Your landlord has filed the eviction papers. Your loan interest has tripled. You have thirty-two dollars in your checking account, and your sister is seven months pregnant, uninsured, and entirely dependent on you. You haven't eaten a full meal in two days. You're exhausted. And if one more thing breaks, it'll be you."

Elara's mouth parted, but nothing came out.

He knew everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

Like he had ripped the roof off her life and dissected every corner of it with surgical cruelty.

"You stalked me?" she whispered, fury and humiliation building in her throat.

"I researched you," he corrected. "Like I do every failing investment I consider salvaging."

"I'm not a goddamn investment," she snapped, storming behind the counter and grabbing her bag. "You can take your offer and burn it."

"I didn't come here to make an offer," he said, stepping forward and placing a folder on the counter. "I came to propose a deal."

She paused.

"What kind of deal?"

"A marriage."

Silence.

Then a laugh escaped her lips. Not a soft one. Not amused. A loud, broken, almost deranged laugh echoed through the empty store like thunder.

"You want to marry me?" she gasped between breaths. "You think you can waltz into my life, into my mother's dream, and throw a ring at me like I'm some bargain-bin princess?!"

His expression didn't shift.

"One year. Public. No emotional entanglement. In exchange, I'll pay off every cent you owe. I'll fund the boutique under your name. Your sister will receive the best medical care money can buy. You'll be protected. Respected. And invisible after the contract ends."

She reached for the folder-then hurled it across the room.

Papers scattered like dead birds, fluttering lifelessly to the ground.

"Do I look like I need saving?" she screamed. "Do I look like I want your pity?!"

"No," he replied coldly. "You look like someone too proud to admit she's drowning."

She slammed her palms on the counter.

"I'm not for sale."

"Everyone has a price, Elara," he said, stepping toward the door. "Yours just happens to be survival."

He turned the knob but paused.

"You have until midnight."

The door swung open and shut behind him.

Ding.

He was gone.

Elara stood there, trembling, fists clenched, chest heaving. Her vision blurred.

Then the backroom door opened slowly.

"Elara?" came Lena's sleepy voice.

Elara wiped her face quickly. "I'm fine. Just... a customer."

Lena waddled in, her belly round beneath a hoodie, and eased onto a stool. Elara grabbed her a bottle of water and quietly knelt to gather the scattered pages.

One caught her eye.

Clause 4B: Full medical care for the dependent and unborn child.

Her hands shook.

Tears threatened again-but she blinked them away.

She gathered the pages, stacked them neatly, and pulled out a pen.

Every stroke of ink carved a piece of her soul away.

But she signed.

Not for herself.

For Lena. For the baby.