The Spurned Billionaire's Proposal

Venita

The cab pulls up in front of my home and I get out and fish around inside my purse. The pathetic jingle of a coin or three tinkling together greets me. I pay the cabbie and then he is on his way. With a sigh, I shut my wallet and stuff it into the back pocket of my worn jeans.

Home, I think, staring up at the apartment complex sprawled in front of me.

The word apartment complex is way too luxurious for the place I call home. The building is on the poorer side of Los Angeles. Just like everywhere else, there is the elite, expensive side where the socialites stay, the orderly side where the average men stay and then there is this side. This is the side that everyone wishes was coloured out of the maps.

I continue forward, my shoes slapping against the floor, loud in the silence of the night. My heels are in my hand as they are every other night. After spending the entire day on my feet in heels, I would rather walk barefoot home than spend one more second in those damn traps.

I push our huge main door in. There should be a doorman here, or at least a guard. Our landlord does not have the extra penny to waste on security for people like us though. This building is inhabited by people that others should guard against.

Unlike the outside of the building, the inside is quite noisy. The thin walls offer the residents no privacy. I hear a couple arguing, a baby crying, someone's phone ringing. The tiny lobby is also unmanned, and in fact many people use it to keep the few broken and useless things they don't want anymore. It will all be emptied, eventually. I walk faster, in a hurry to get out of the halls and into the relative safety of my apartment which is on the third floor.

"Shoot." I say, glancing at the huge wall clock hoisted just before the stairs. It is a miracle the thing still works. I am quite sure the batteries have not been changed in more than a year. I am later than usual today, but I did take up two shifts and still stayed an hour extra. It is past midnight.

The stairs creak under my feet like the groaning of ghosts, my weight causing each one to sag suspiciously. They will collapse one day, and I had better not be the one on the stairs when that happens.

On the second floor, a door opens and someone hurries forward, one of my neighbours, Maria. Her head is down and her hair is covering most of her face but I still glimpse the spot of colour on her face around her eye when she brushes past me. I make no comments, I simply continue to the next flight of stairs. In a neighbourhood like ours, it is much better to pretend like your neighbours don't exist. Nobody stops anyone to make conversation, we simply brush by each other, our suspicion trained on the other person, alert in case they try to do anything funny.

I encounter no one else as I hurry towards my door, jamming my keys into the keyhole and turning. The pile of papers in front of my door is unmistakable, my daily mail. The mail is the only system that still works efficiently in this building; the bills will not pay themselves. I drop into a crouch and gather the handful before I push into my apartment and shut the door behind me, hitting the switch and turning the lock simultaneously. Turning around, I behold my home.

It is tiny. I have no sitting room, there is just my bedroom which has its adjoining bathroom and kitchen. What else could a girl ask for? It is small, so small that I cannot take eight steps along the wall but it is clean and it is home. I sling my wallet and the papers onto my perfectly laid bed and go into the bathroom to freshen up. The makeup goes first, a light coating on my face more to protect myself from the rest of the world than the other way round. Waiting tables has certain expectations, cloth-wise and look-wise.

You can be the type to auction your body as much as your tray; these people have their boobs practically hanging out and skirts so tight and so short you could drop a pen and get an eyeful on your way back up. They get loads of tips at the end of the day so everyone's happy. If not that, you can choose to auction a certain part of your body, in my case my legs which have received a compliment or two in the past. I don't complain about my tips, sometimes they are the ones that pay my bills and not the actual pay. If not those two, you could decide to wear full length trousers and long-sleeved tops in the heat of the town but in a place like this, where the only person hungrier than you is the person next to you, that is almost not an option at all. The makeup is a mutual agreement between us all. Most of the other ladies wear it to look more attractive. I wear it because I cannot stand to live such a miserable life in my element. It is my war paint of a sort, a flimsy shield between myself and the world but I will take that rather than go fresh-faced and vulnerable in my irrational opinion.

After cleaning off the makeup, I have a quick shower. The hot water has long since stopped working and even though the night is a little chilly, I have bathed enough times to be used to it.

After, I stare at myself in the mirror. I look worn out and tired. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and my eyes are dim, like a shutter has been pulled over them.

"Why is my life so shit?" I ask my reflection.

If this was a fairytale, there would be a shimmer and my reflection would begin speaking to me. She would tell me that great treasure awaits me and I'm destined to be fucking rich. I huff and turn away. Fairytales don't exist.

Venita

I step out of the bathroom and my eyes fall on the pile of papers on the bed. I am not mentally ready to go through them yet. I need strength, backup. I pad into the kitchen and brew myself some coffee. I've had dinner like every other night, sharing the leftover food with the rest of the girls from the restaurant. We pay very little for the food, just as I like it.

The coffee is done and I pour myself a mug-full. I drop two cubes of sugar and stir then I grab it, holding it between every my hands to warm them and I finally head to my waiting bed.

I sit on it and fold my legs beneath me, taking a sip of my coffee before I pull the papers towards myself.

Bills, bills and bills. They are never-ending, my days are a revolving glass of bills being recycled. There is the electricity bill, the water bill, the phone bill and lots more. I have outstanding debts on a few. They are a constant chokehold on me. The one that screams at me most urgently, I pull it out and hold it up. A notice, my rent is coming up. I sigh and drop the papers.

I don't have my rent, and it is not from not trying.

Business has been really slow this month, which is why I drew double shifts and despite that, I have not been able to gather enough money to keep me from becoming homeless next month. It is exhausting, this feeling of inadequacy. Sometimes I think I should just get angry, I should lash out but this life of nothing is all I have ever known, it is what I was born into. They say some people are born lucky, while some are lucky to be born. I knew someone that was born lucky, it feels like a hundred years ago and yesterday at the same time.

Looking down at the boldly written notice in my hands, and knowing that I was only lucky to be born, I have to stifle the urge to scream, just so I can feel like I'm doing something. For a long while now, my life has been a chugging engine of trying to stay alive with each passing day. If an artist were to try to colour my life, it would be a grey so muddy that it could never look bright again. I have not cared about anything in a long while.

I shove the papers from me, pushing them under my pillow and out of sight. I will find a way to pay the rent because there is just no other option, even if I have to take three shifts for three consecutive days. I put my cup to my lips and drain it slowly. Coffee before bed would probably keep some people up through the night but I am so exhausted Michael Jackson could even walk through my doors right now and I will turn over and sleep.

I yawn and then I turn to the other side and drag my laptop to myself reflexively, setting it on my laps, another nightly routine. My password is a day that is special to me, one that no one else would guess. There is only one thing that interest me right now and I go to my mails immediately. I scroll for a few seconds before my scrolling sputters and dies down, no messages of acceptance from the myriad jobs I have applied to. I can't blame them. I only know how to wait tables and play a few tunes. With the thought, my eyes slide to the wall beside the single window where my guitar hangs, collecting dust and I huff a laugh. I don't even have the time to pluck a few tunes for fun anymore. I won't be surprised if I've lost even that talent.

I drag my attention back to the emails in front of me. A few from random newsletters I don't remember subscribing to. Some from social media, one from prison. Taking a deep breath, I close my emails and open up the only hope I have left.

My new page displays job offers around me and even from farther away. I come onto this site every night and I apply to every single one I can apply to and each day I wait and each day I am disappointed. But if I am ever going to crawl out of this hellhole of a life, this is going to be my ticket, I can just feel it.

I scroll down, seeing the same job offers I have applied to before and was turned down. And then right there, I scroll past it and then I back-pedal furiously. My eyes widen.

Tech and Savvy.

It is one of the biggest chain of companies in the world! They are a luxurious supplier of just about anything a home or workplace could need. I have heard of a few of their branches.

Tech and Savvy Furniture sells furniture that I would have to work about eighty years to afford. There is Tech and Savvy Electronics for home appliances as well as gadgets. Tech and Savvy Food sells high quality organic food. And those are just the branches I've heard of. And they have a vacancy!

I trip on my fingers to click on it, my blood waking up and beginning to hum. My skin is tight with contained excitement, the exhaustion of my shift gone. The page pulls up.

It is not a big position of course. The vacancy is for a position as the secretary of one of the junior workers and yet it is the best job offer I have ever seen on this page. A second passes before my excitement fizzles and drains right out of my body when I see the number below. Thousands have applied already. Thousands of others that saw this big opportunity and have mailed them their best responses. I stare at the huge number, increasing by the second. No doubt more than half of those people are more qualified than I am. They have probably worked as secretaries and receptionists for aspiring companies before. The numbers are discouraging. I'll be only a speck in the crop and my luck has always been rotten since birth.

My fingers scroll down to the bold "Apply now" button anyway, and I click.

Thirty minutes fly by and I am on my bed, concentrating fully as I answer each of their questions as accurately as I can. The last bit is the reason why I want the job. I cannot help but laugh humourless at that. The job will change my entire fucking life. I click on it and I pour my heart out. When I am done, I close my laptop and release a huge breath.

The exhaustion returns double fold, sagging my shoulders. I put the laptop back on my small table and I collapse into the pillows. I'm beat.

I pull the covers up to my chin and send a small prayer to God. If miracles happen, I am in dire need of one.

Eight years ago

Venita

I step into the room all nerves with my guitar bag clutched in my hand. I think I hear the metal of the instrument groan but that is simply delusion. To my surprise, the room is not full at all. There are at most ten people inside already and the instructor sits at the front, playing a gentle tune on his flute while his students chat. I suppose they are waiting for the class to get filled.

Eyes turn to me as my shadow darkens the doorway and I instinctively stiffen. My mouth dries. I am not close enough to describe them distinctly but there is no doubt that every single person sitting in this room was born into money. It is evident in the precise tailoring of their clothes, the fits, their mannerisms. Hell, the room smells like money. Each and everyone of these people is a polar opposite of me.

My coupon burns into my pocket, screaming st me that I don't belong here. My favourite tank top and my denim cut-offs feel out of place in the easy sophistication of the room. My background and my status scream at me that I should take back that step, I should slink back into the shadows, back into the poor, unimpressive life where I belong. The man playing the flute does not stop, but his eyes do find me in the doorway and I cannot help but search them for any judgement. Any minute now, he will put down that fancy flute and tell me the floors have already been scrubbed thank you, perhaps I can clean up later. The man's eyes are calm and his eyes are surprisingly not judgemental and that reassures me somewhat.

The class I just walked into is a music class for the elite, the rich, the socialites. The instructor whose face I recognise from seeing in the television a few times and once in person last year is an award winning musical artist. He is sensational with a piano, a guitar, a violin and many other instruments. I estimate that a session with him would cost nothing less than ten grand and every year, he holds this class with a limited slot of twenty and people claw at each other to fit themselves into these slots.

Of course hearing this, one would wonder what I am doing here, as I am from the poorest of poor backgrounds. Well he held a talent show-off late last year and I used all of my savings to enter into it. My guitar skills floored him, earning me first place and I had two options, a money prize or tutoring. Well here I am; with the best chance I could get to hone my skills. Some things have more value than money in my life.

Mr. Austin the instructor does not look like he recognises my face but it is not a problem because there is no censure in his eyes either. Putting on a coat of false bravado, I sashay towards him. He blows a final note on his flute before putting it down right before I stop in front of him.

"Hello." I say. "I am Venita Kent."

He smiles. "I know. Welcome to my class, please find a seat." He says.

I smile back, instantly feeling better. I am no impostor, I belong here. When I turn back around to face the class, my confidence is no longer feigned. I might not technically belong with these people, but I did not pay the cabbie to drop me here to make friends. I am here to learn from the best and that is exactly what I am going to do. In fact, I would appreciate it if everyone had the same focus and focused on their instruments.

I head towards the back row where there are more empty seats than the front, not that there are many seats. There are only two rows of seats and I know they will number up to twenty exactly. On closer look, I see that the seats have names on them and mine is already at the back. I plop myself into it and place my guitar on the holder beside me, marvelling at the classiness of everything around me. This room, with its high arched roof and the porcelain floors and the classy decor, it is like a dream come to life.

A shadow darkens my view and I turn to the figure obscuring it with a scowl. A jacket has been dropped over my shoulder but I don't fully notice. I am staring because a man the likes of which I have only ever seen on the cover of magazines is standing in front of me and I have lost the ability to think or to form speech.

He is gorgeous, everything about him is. From his dark glossy hair, just long enough for me to run my fingers through with the errant piece falling into his eyes, to the strong masculine jaw and the sea green eyes drilling holes into me, the broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt delicately and the tapered body outlined by his shirt and his dark blue jeans. He is the type of man that was most surely a high school and college jock, he probably has homecoming king in his pocket too and now he is surely on his way to ruling his own life.

I don't believe in love at first sight and I was skeptical of lust at first sight but now I'm a firm believer in the latter. There is nothing else to describe my instant sizzling attraction to him.

"You're cold." He says. His voice is like thick dribbling honey, it warms you all over and does not let go. I could listen to him talking all day.

It takes me a moment to realise that this walking fantasy also talks, intriguing.

"Huh?" I ask dumbly. I could have kicked myself. He talks, Venita, he is talking to you.

He gestures to my arms.

"They were covered in goose flesh." He says.

Of course, the room is rather cold. The two air conditioners on opposite side of the room are working overtime but I was so overwhelmed by my surroundings I hadn't gotten to registering that.

He cocks his head, studying me with curiosity in his eyes and I realise that I am still staring. My cheeks burn because he must have caught me blatantly checking him out earlier.

"I could have sworn you spoke earlier." He says with a smirk.

That's when I realise I still have not said anything. I sit up straight, breaking the spell he cast on me. So what if he is drop-dead gorgeous, so gorgeous that he should be on display in a museum or something, he is still just a man and I need to take control of the situation.

I grab the jacket and pull it from my shoulders. His lavender scent streams from the jacket and seems to be all over me now. I want to inhale it into my lungs but I resist doing that. I hand it out to him.

"I couldn't." I tell him. "Don't you need protection from the cold yourself?" I ask.

He smirks. "I make my own heat." He says.

My speaking seems to be an invitation for him because he takes the jacket from me and takes a step closer. I stiffen, surrounded by his scent again and hating that I love it. Do all rich people smell so intoxicating or is it just him? He drapes the jacket over my shoulder again and the heat is welcoming. He is right, I am super cold.

"Thank you." I tell him with a smile.

The smile freezes on my face when he leans forward. I stiffen and my heart jackhammers against my chest. I am a deer trapped in front of the headlights. My vision tunnels until he is everything I can see and my body tightens. His face is getting closer and so are his lips and in that moment, I find that there is nothing more I want than for him to press them against mine. The strength of my need shocks me. I just met this guy a minute ago for God's sake.

But then the last remaining rational part of me sparks back to life and my eyes narrow at him. If he thinks he can swap a jacket for a kiss, he will be sorely mistaken because I throw a great uppercut.

He leans forward and then his eyes dart down.

"Venita huh ? It is a beautiful name." He says. I take a second to regroup. He wanted my name, not a kiss. So why on earth do I feel so disappointed?