ONE NIGHT STAND WITH A BILLIONAIRE IN DISGUISE

Pamela's POV

I smell the garlic before it burns. There's something sad about that-how something so small can ruin the whole damn sauce. I turn the heat down too late and stir with the kind of exhaustion that clings to my bones like wet clothes.

The café is quiet. The air feels like it's holding its breath. There's no laughter, no clatter of forks or hum of life. Just me, a pan of ruined tomato sauce, and the thump of my heartbeat trying not to panic.

No customers again. I've been here since 5 a.m., and all I've sold is a single stale muffin to the mailman who didn't even finish it.

I wipe my hands on my apron and glance at the register. It's almost empty-just a few crumpled bills and a handful of coins. Not enough for the rent, not to mention Grandpa's surgery which is the most important thing right now.

My head is heavy with the trials of these days; still wafting through the darkness were small glowing embers of hope. Panic rising inside my chest as I tried to act steady and composed, I made a silent promise to myself not to scare, no matter how dark all this seemed to get

I walk to the window and pretend to clean the glass, but I'm just watching the street. Hoping and waiting. Wishing for someone to walk in, for something to change, for a miracle in the shape of a hungry mouth with a fat wallet

The sun slices through the blinds, turning dust into gold. It should look beautiful. It just looks like a reminder that time's running out.

I hear him cough from the back room.

"Pam?"

My name in his voice feels like home and heartbreak all wrapped in one word. I push through the swinging door into the back where Grandpa lies on the worn-out cot. He's thinner now and paler. His eyes are still bright, but it's the kind of brightness that flickers.

"Did you eat?" I ask, soft.

He smiles weakly. "Waiting on that famous grilled cheese."

I try to smile, but my lips barely twitch.

He nods, then his eyes close again, like even talking costs too much energy now.

I turn back to the kitchen. The sauce is ruined and the soup is cold. Yet I'm broke.

The bell above the back door jingles.

I stiffen. Not many people use that entrance. It's mostly for deliveries and the occasional health inspector who thinks a clipboard makes him God.

A man's standing in the doorway; he's tall and expensive-looking. The sunlight behind him is too bright. He doesn't fit here, and even the kitchen feels tense like it knows he shouldn't be here. The noise stills, like even the grease stopped sizzling. He's not dressed like a local health inspector, but his black suit, sunglasses, and polished shoes look like they've never touched dirt.

"Pamela Brown?" he says, and my name sounds foreign in his mouth, trimmed of softness.

I nod slowly. "Who's asking?"

He steps forward and pulls an envelope from his coat.

"I was instructed to deliver this.

His tone is neutral, but something in the way he looks at me-like he knows too much, or worse, nothing at all-makes my stomach knot. I wipe my hands again before taking it, the paper warms from where it's pressed against his chest.

"Thanks," I say, because that's what people expect. Manners make you less of a target.

"I represent the landlord of this building. You've been given notice to vacate. Effective immediately."

I blink.

"I-wait. What? We just-we needed a little more time."

He doesn't blink. "You've had three extensions. I'm afraid we can't afford another one."

His voice is polite, but it cuts like glass.

He turns to leave, and I hear myself say, "Can you give us a week? Just a week."

He pauses and he shoots back

"Your request is noted"

Then he's gone.

I stand there, the envelope trembling in my hand. The silence roars and my heart races.

I stare at the envelope for too long. My heart beats too loudly and fast. I hear Grandpa stir in his sleep, which makes me let out a sigh I didn't realize I was holding.

Back in the kitchen, the garlic stinks.

That's when I break. The tears I tried not to spill now flowed freely. I tried to hold it, I tried not to break, I tried to be strong for myself, for Grandpa, but I can't anymore. I hit my knees on the floor, and my fingers dig into the tile like I'm trying to hold on to something that isn't slipping through my hands.

I sob for some minutes, still on the floor, alone with no one to comfort me. Then I swallow, wipe my face, and rise back to my feet.

The whole place smells like onions and something heavier, like tiredness. No matter how hard I scrub, the grease sticks, just like the bills that keep showing up when I can't deal with them. They don't go away. They just pile up.

I don't know how long I've been looking into space before the door swings open again. This time it's Marlene from the bakery down the street. She's got pity in her eyes, which I hate more than cruelty.

"Hey," she says gently. "You alright?"

I nod even though it's a lie.

"You got mail," she adds, holding out a thick white envelope. "Someone left this at my place by mistake."

I take it, thank her, and wait until she's gone before opening it.

When I opened the mail, It was a one-night offer for a catering job, a party for the rich, and the details were not attached, except for a fancy logo I didn't recognize and a promise of $5,000 in cash, which was too good to be true.

I stare at the paper, throat tight. It feels like bait. But I'm already caught.

I glance toward the back, where Grandpa is still sleeping, breathing shallowly.

I look at the eviction notice on the counter.

And I press the catering invitation to my chest like it's both a life raft and a loaded gun.

I whisper to no one, "Could this be real?"

Pamela's POV

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the sink. Water runs, but I'm not using it. Just letting it flow because the silence feels too loud. The café is closed, chairs flipped on tables, and lights dimmed except for the ones above the prep counter.

That's when I hear it-wheezing, soft but sharp, coming from the back room.

"Gramps?" I call out,

He did not answer.

Panic rises inside my chest as I move fast through the swinging door, and I meet him slumped in the old recliner, hand gripping his side like he's trying to hold something inside.

"Oh my God-" the sound of my heartbeat intense like that of a pounding drum; I ran to grab him. "Gramps! Can you hear me?"

He nods, barely. His skin looks too pale, too wet. Cold sweat glistens on his forehead.

"Hurts," he mutters.

"Okay. I'm calling an ambulance."

He starts to shake his head, stubborn even now, but I'm already dialing the emergency line. My fingers fumble with the screen.

Please don't die. Please don't leave me, too.

The sirens come quickly. I ride in the back with him, holding his hand the whole way. He doesn't let go.

***

The hospital smells like bleach and fear. I sit in the waiting room with my apron still on and garlic still clinging to me like a second skin. My legs bounce. My arms cross and uncross. I keep checking my phone even though there are no messages.

They say it's a heart scare. They're running tests. Yet they won't let me see him.

My phone buzzes. I jump.

It's not the hospital.

It's the reminder I set to check the catering job.

The one for that fancy gala. The one I haven't said yes to. The one that could pay the rent we're three months behind on. Only if it was real, but I know better. It can't be, so I'd rather not raise my hopes.

I delete the notification and bury my phone under my thigh like it's something I'm ashamed of.

A nurse walks past. I rush to her to ask how my grandpa is feeling right now, but she ignores me.

My breath caught in my throat as I didn't know what to do again. The lights above me buzz. A kid cries somewhere down the hall.

And that's when I feel a weird cramp. Low in my stomach. Tight and strange.

I don't think much of it at first. But it comes again. And again.

That's when the panic sets in.

****

I slip into the hospital bathroom and lock the door.

I sit on the toilet lid, staring at my thighs like they'll give me answers.

I do the math in my head.

Oh God.

I haven't had my period in... almost two months.

I've been busy all this while to the extent that I can't take care of myself again; I just figured it was late.

But now I'm thinking of that night. The one I tried so hard to forget.

He's gorgeous-drop dead angelic, his voice, his eyes. The way he touched me like he already knew me.

His features are sharp, almost too perfect; as if days were spent crafting him.

The one that calls his name-Daniel.

The one that left before the sun came up.

He didn't drop any note, nor did he call, just a memory that won't leave me alone.

I close my eyes and lean forward. My stomach twists.

Please don't let this happen.

I tell myself it's just stress. That my body's reacting to stress. Grandpa's hospital bills, the café eviction, the rent. The pressure pressing in from all sides.

But I still find myself walking to the drugstore across from the hospital. Hoodie up. Head down. I buy the pregnancy test strip and stuff it in my bag like it's illegal.

Back in the hospital bathroom, I wait.

Minutes feel like hours.

Then finally, one line.

Not pregnant.

Relief hits me like a truck. I slide down the wall and sit on the tile floor.

But instead of feeling better... I cry.

My tears flow freely while I stare at the test on the counter.

I wasn't ready. I don't want a baby now.

But something about that moment-thinking it was real-shook me in a way I didn't expect.

It made everything real. That night wasn't just a mistake. It mattered. Even if I pretend it didn't.

Even if he lied about his name.

*****

I found out by accident.

Two days after that night, I was scrolling through some news story linked to a catering job email I almost deleted.

It was about some elite fundraising event. There was a photo. A group of rich-looking people in tuxedos and diamonds. One man in the middle. Clean-cut. Tall. Cold eyes.

The caption read: Wilfred Johnson, CEO of Johnson & Rowe Holdings.

My stomach flipped.

Because that was him.

Same face, the same sharp jaw, and that stupid smirk.

But he didn't say his name was Wilfred.

He said, Daniel.

I even remember laughing at how soft that sounded for a man like him.

But it was a lie. Just like everything else.

I stared at that picture for a long time as if my eyes were deceiving me

Why would someone like him lie about his name?

Was it a game? A trick?

Or was I just another story he didn't want to be tied to his real life?

*****

Hours later, I'm allowed to see Gramps. He's propped up in bed, a little color back in his cheeks. His smile is crooked and tired.

"You look like hell," he says.

I let out a broken laugh and sat beside him. "You scared me."

"You scare me every time you skip breakfast," he counters. "You forget to take care of yourself."

I don't argue. He's right.

"You should take that job," he says suddenly.

I blink. "How did you even-?"

"I'm not deaf, Pam. I hear things. You've been pacing around that decision for days."

"I'm not ready."

"You're never gonna be ready," he says, his voice is soft. "But sometimes you gotta say yes before the world tells you no."

I don't answer. I just watch the beeping monitor beside him.

"Your mom," he starts, then stops. His eyes go distant.

"What about her?"

"She used to freeze up too. Before a big moment. Your dad called it her 'storm cloud phase.' Said she had to let the lightning strike before she'd move."

I swallow hard. "I remember."

That's a lie. I don't remember clearly. Just flashes. Her laugh. His hands. The crash. The rain.

"I miss them," I whisper.

He nods. "Me too."

We sit there in the quiet for a while.

*****

Later that night, I finally walked home. It's dark and cold. I clutch my jacket tight around me.

I lock the door and collapse into the chair behind the counter.

It's all too much. The hospital bills, the test, the rent, the Eviction notice, and the lies.

I think of him again. Wilfred Johnson. The billionaire who called himself Daniel. The man who looked at me like I mattered, for one night.

But somewhere, deep inside me, a tiny voice whispers-

Say yes to the job, the risk that may come out of it, and the fear.

Because maybe it's the only way out of the storm.

Wilfred POV

The city looks dead from up here. Cold and gray like concrete that forgot how to feel. I watch from behind the glass, hands shoved in my pockets, face unreadable. Fifty-three floors above the world and I still can't find enough distance.

My office is all sleek surfaces and silence. Black marble, brushed steel, matte glass. It's supposed to scream power. Mostly, it just echoes.

I lean against the window, forehead close to the glass. People look like insects this high up-tiny, fast, pointless. My reflection stares back at me, faint in the morning light. I don't like the man in the mirror. Too sharp around the eyes. Too much like her.

Vivienne.

I had a knock on the door but I decided not to answer because it doesn't matter. My assistant comes in anyway.

"Ms. Johnson is here," she says, voice clipped, respectful. "Do you want me to reschedule her-"

"No." I turn my back on the window. "Let her in."

It's not a request. It never is.

Vivienne walks in like she owns the place. Because, technically, she does. Forty-nine percent stake in Johnson Global was belong to her.

Her heels click like gunshots on the marble. Hair in a perfect twist. Not a single thread out of place. She smells like money and polished ambition.

"Darling," she called me and I was surprised at the word. It's too soft. Doesn't belong in her mouth.

"Mother." I nod once.

She sits without asking, crosses one leg over the other. "You're still not furnishing this place? Honestly, it looks like a mausoleum."

"I like it quiet."

"You mean lifeless."

I don't say anything. I just sit across from her, watching her fingers move over her leather bag. Her nails are perfect. Her rings look sharp, almost like little weapons.

"You didn't call me back," she says after a beat. Her tone doesn't rise and doesn't fall. It just cuts.

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy when you want to avoid me."

And that's the simple truth.

"Let discuss what bring you here," I shot back, "What do you want?"

Her lips tighten, just a flicker. "There's a gala this Saturday. we're going to host old rich families, new tech people and potential investors"

"I'm not going."

"You are going."

There's no debate in her voice. Just a simple, brutal fact.

I lean back, my fingers steepled. "I don't have time for parties. I've got merger calls lined up all week."

"You have time to play savior to dying subsidiaries in Switzerland but not to show your face in front of the people funding your lifestyle?"

"My lifestyle funds itself."

She laughs softly and cruelly. "Wilfred, you're brilliant. But don't be naïve. You might run the operations, but you don't own the ground you stand on-not without me."

That old acid in my throat bubbles up. I swallow it. Tastes like bile and resignation.

"This again," I mutter.

"Yes, this again." She leans forward, her eyes locked on mine. "You wanted to build an empire. I let you. But never forget-this glass tower? It rests on my money and my connections. My name on the boardroom papers before yours ever mattered."

Her smile is small and terrible. "So when I ask you to show up and play the game, you will show up and play."

My hands curl into fists in my lap, trying to hold it all in, the silence is heavy, tight with tension. I'm barely holding it together.

I want to argue with her, scream or flip this chair and storm out like none of this matters. But I don't and I can't try it, Because deep down, I know she's right. She's always right-and that's what hurts the most.

And that's what I hate the most-how she always gets under my skin, how she's always one step ahead.

I clench my jaw and force the words out. "What investors?"

She doesn't blink. "New money from Singapore, Biotech companies and Disruptive AI. They're planning to set up a base here in the U.S. This gala? It's your chance to win them over."

She shrugs like it's no big deal and there's no guilt in her voice, not even a blink of hesitation or apology. Just smooth and effortless, like always. "Of course," she says, her voice calm, almost sweet. "But you're the one they want to see, darling. You're the face of it all. The prodigy. The story they can't resist."

I look away, my chest tightening. She says it so casually, like my pain is a selling point. Like everything I went through-everything I survived-is just part of the packaging.

"People love a man in a sharp suit with a tragic past," she adds with a small smile, like it's some kind of compliment. And maybe it is, to her. But to me, it feels like another wound dressed up in gold.

I let out a laugh- sharp, short and empty. "I'm not tortured," I say, trying to brush it off. Pretending it doesn't sting.

She looks at me-calm, quiet. Her voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to.

"No," she says, soft but sharp. "Just hollow."

The words hit harder than they should. Not because she yelled. Not because she was cruel. But because she meant it. Because maybe... it's true. And that truth sinks into my chest, heavy and cold, like a weight I can't shake off.

I look away, back at the skyline. Her words stick to the inside of my chest like ice.

She stands. "Wear the black Armani. It makes you look less... dangerous."

"I am dangerous," I say softly.

"That's the point." She smooths the front of her coat. "But charm them first. Ruin them later."

She left my office without saying goodbye. She shuts the door behind her with a soft click that feels louder than a gunshot.

Thoughts claw at the inside of my skull.

She has every right because I do owe her. Every building, every deal, every sleepless night trying to outmaneuver the men she put in place to watch me-it's all part of her game. I just pretend I'm the one playing it.

The city outside sparkles in the soft morning light, distant and indifferent.

Just like me.

I rest my forehead against the cold glass, letting the chill press against my skin. It's strange-almost soothing. Like it quiets everything inside for a moment, stilling the chaos I can't escape.

****

2 hours later.

The conference room is full of sharks. Smiles that don't reach eyes. Suits tailored to hide weapons-legal, financial, social. I sit at the head of the table like I belong here.

I don't.

My assistant read the agenda. I nod at the right times, say what I'm supposed to in a calm, flat voice. It's all an act. They don't want a real person-they want a legend. Wilfred Johnson. The genius boy who became a CEO, smart, cold and hollow.

Vivienne's son.

I feel her shadow even when she's not here.

I pretend it doesn't bother me.

But every now and then, I wonder what it would feel like to burn the whole thing down. Just... torch it. No more glass walls, no more boardrooms, no more suits sharks and deals I didn't ask to make.

Just silence.

Freedom.

Something real.

But I'm not built for that. I'm built for this-slick smiles, calculated pauses and control.

Especially control.

****

Back in my office.

I sit alone again. Just staring at the invitation Vivienne left on my desk. Thick white card, Gold trim, Clean, and fancy.

It reeks of manipulation.

I flip it over. There's no note or personal message. Just an address, a time, and what they want.

I light a cigarette. I don't even smoke anymore, but the burn in my throat feels honest.

There's a photo on the desk-me and her, years ago. I was younger. Thought I had power just because I had drive.

She's got her hand on my shoulder in the photo.

It looks like love if you squint hard enough.

I tap ash into the tray, lean back, and let the smoke blur the edges of the frame.

She'll get her way because she always does.

But someday.. I'll stop playing nice.

And when I do-this glass tower won't survive it