Page 5 of The Billionaire's Bargain

She finishes pouring coffee for an elderly man who doesn't even thank her, then hesitates, coffeepot clutched to her chest like a shield. I watch her gather herself, shoulders squaring under her worn uniform before she approaches my table.

"Good morning, sir," she says, her voice soft but steady. Professional. Distant. "Just coffee again today?"

"Alexander," I correct her. "My name is Alexander Grant."

Her eyes widen further, and I know my name has registered. It would be difficult not to recognize it in this city—on buildings, in headlines, whispered with equal parts admiration and fear.

"Mr. Grant," she amends, swallowing visibly. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee to start. Then a conversation."

She blinks rapidly, her knuckles white around the coffeepot handle. "I—I'm working."

"When's your break?" I lean back, crossing one leg over the other, making it clear I'm prepared to wait.

"Not for another two hours, and it's only fifteen minutes." She glances nervously toward the counter where an older woman—the manager, based on the way she's glaring at our interaction—is watching.

"When do you finish your shift?"

"Three o'clock, but then I have to get home to—" She stops herself, and I fill in the blank. Her mother. Her brother. The responsibilities that weigh her down.

"I'll wait." I open the newspaper I brought as a prop, dismissing her. "Coffee, Alice."

She retreats, and I pretend to read financial news I already know while tracking her every movement through the café. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The slight limp inher step—aching feet from hours of standing. The genuine smile she offers a young mother struggling with a fussy toddler.

When she brings my coffee, her hand trembles just like before. Our fingers brush as I accept the mug, and a jolt passes between us—static from the dry air, perhaps, but it makes her gasp, her eyes darting to mine for a split second. In that moment, I see it. The attraction isn't one-sided. Interesting.

"Thank you," I say, letting my voice drop lower, watching her reaction. The quickened breath, the dilated pupils. Oh yes, very interesting indeed.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her voice wavers slightly.

"Just your time. Later."

She nods once, sharply, then hurries away to serve other customers. I sip the mediocre coffee and bide my time. The elderly man leaves. The mother with the toddler departs. New customers arrive. I order lunch I don't want—a bland sandwich that costs less than the bottled water in my office fridge—and leave another hundred-dollar tip that makes Alice's hands shake when she clears my plate.

The café gradually empties as the afternoon drags on. I answer emails on my phone, take one critical call, and reschedule everything else. Rachel will be managing the fallout, earning every penny of that bonus. By two-thirty, only two other customers remain, and Alice keeps shooting nervous glances my way as she wipes down tables with methodical precision.

At five minutes to three, she disappears into the back room, returning in a worn jacket over jeans and a simple t-shirt, her hair released from its ponytail to fall in gentle waves around her face. She says something to the manager, who nods curtly, eyes still darting suspiciously toward me.

Alice approaches my table with visible reluctance, clutching her small purse like it might protect her.

"Mr. Grant," she begins, her voice low. "I don't know what you want from me, and I’m so sorry again about the spill, but I need to get home. My mother?—"

"Your mother needs her medication. The expensive one that insurance barely covers. And your brother has a calculus test tomorrow that you promised to help him study for."

She recoils like I've slapped her, her face draining of color. "How do you?—"

"Sit down, Alice." I gesture to the chair across from me. Not a request.

She sits, perched on the edge of the seat like a bird ready for flight. "Are you...stalking me?" A tremor in her voice, but there's steel underneath. Not just afraid—angry.

"I'm interested in you. I had you looked into." I keep my voice matter-of-fact. "It's what I do when something catches my attention."

"I'm not a 'something,'" she says, that steel showing through more clearly now. "I'm a person, with a private life that's none of your business."

"You're in debt," I continue, ignoring her protest. "Your mother's medical bills total just over $147,000. Your apartment building is scheduled for renovation next month, which means your rent will increase by thirty percent. Your brother wants to apply to Columbia, but even with scholarships, it would be impossible on your current income."

She stares at me, lips parted in shock, fear battling with something else in her expression. "Why are you doing this?"

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