Page 4 of The Billionaire's Bargain

"How quickly do you need this?"

"Yesterday." I turn my chair to face the darkening skyline, dismissing her. "And Rachel? Be discreet."

"Always, Mr. Grant."

The door closes with a soft click. I watch the city lights flicker on, one by one, like stars being born. Somewhere out there, Alice is existing. Working. Living. Does she have someone waiting for her at home? The thought makes my jaw clench.

I've never been a patient man. I take what I want, when I want it. But this—her—requires finesse. A different approach. I don't just want her body in my bed, though God knows I ache for that. I want...more. All of her. Every smile, every blush, every trembling exhale.

My phone buzzes with an email. The Miller deal, needing my attention. The world continues to spin, money continues to flow, and I should care. Instead, I find myself wondering what Alice is doing right now. If she's still at that café, serving coffee to men who don't deserve to breathe the same air as her. If she's thinking of me at all.

Probably not. I was just another customer to her. But not for long.

I turn back to my computer, force myself to read the email. The words register distantly, my brain processing them even as part of me remains fixated on Alice. It's this dual focus that's made me successful—the ability to multitask at a level that leaves others in the dust. Now I'll use it to plan my acquisition of a waitress while simultaneously closing a multi-million-dollar deal.

By the time Rachel returns, night has fully descended, and the city below is a sea of artificial light. She places a folder on my desk—actual paper, because some things shouldn't exist in digital form—and stands back, waiting.

I flip it open, and there she is. Alice Clark. Twenty-four years old. Lives in a run-down apartment in Queens with her mother and younger brother. Mother chronically ill—expensive medications. Brother still in high school. Father deceased. Three jobs—the café, weekend shifts at a grocery store, and online transcription work at night. Crushing medical debt from her mother's condition. No boyfriend, no significant other of any kind.

Something dark and possessive unfurls inside me. She's perfect. Vulnerable. In need.

"The background checks were clean," Rachel says. "No criminal history, good credit despite the debt. She's..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "She seems like a good person, sir."

I close the folder, meet Rachel's eyes. There's a question there, maybe even a hint of concern. I've never shown interest in someone like Alice before.

"Thank you, Rachel. You can go home now."

She nods, turns to leave, then pauses. "Will there be anything else regarding Ms. Clark?"

"Not tonight." I tap the folder. "But clear my morning tomorrow. I'll be out of the office."

"The Henderson meeting?—"

"Reschedule it."

Another nod, and she's gone. Professional to the core. I make a mental note to give her a bonus.

Alone again, I return to the window, but now I'm facing east, towards Queens. Towards Alice. In her tiny apartment, probably exhausted from her shift, maybe caring for her sick mother or helping her brother with homework. The weight of the world on her slender shoulders.

Not for much longer.

I feel a smile curve my lips, anticipation humming in my veins. Tomorrow, I'll see her again. Tomorrow, I'll begin the process of making her mine.

This time, when I leave that café, she'll be coming with me.

three

. . .

Alexander

The café looksdifferent in the morning light—smaller, shabbier than I remembered. I arrive ten minutes after opening, when the early rush has faded but before the lunch crowd descends. Through the window, I see her moving between tables, a coffeepot in hand. My pulse quickens like I'm some lovesick teenager, not a man who's crushed competitors and built empires with the same hands now wrapped around my car keys.

I straighten my tie—Armani, worth more than a month of her wages—and push through the door. The bell jingles, announcing me like a herald. Several patrons look up, then back to their phones and newspapers. But not Alice. Alice freezes, coffeepot suspended mid-pour, her eyes finding mine across the room.

Recognition. Shock. Fear? Something else flickering behind those wide eyes.

I select the same table as before, the corner one with the view of the entire café. Power position. I don't smile as I take myseat, just maintain eye contact with her until she drops her gaze, cheeks flushing that delicate pink I've been picturing for days.

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