The Billionaire's, Contract Bride

Seraphina's Point Of View

My hands tremble as I pour the coffee. It is well after midnight at Tony's Diner, and I am alone on duty. The grease and stale coffee dominate the atmosphere like a damp blanket.

"Come on, Sera," I say aloud. "Three hours till dawn."

My feet ache so terribly that I'm about to cry. I sat at the office until eleven tonight, and then here I came straight away. Tomorrow I'm grocery delivering all day long. Three jobs to make enough for Mom's medicine, and it's still not enough.

The doorbell rings. I glance up and stiffen. A man enters dressed in a suit worth more than I've earned in six months. His dark hair is immaculately styled, even for the rain outside. His gray eyes sweep the diner as if he's never seen anything like it.

Rich people don't go to Tony's Diner. Not in your life. Least of all at midnight.

"Sit wherever you'd like," I shout, grabbing the coffee pot. I sound exhausted even to myself. "Menu's on the table."

He's sitting at a window booth. I come over on shaking legs. This guy appears to be some kind of big shot, and I'm not going to mess up. Tony will get me fired if I get on the wrong side of a customer who could actually leave a decent tip.

"What can I get you?" I say, pulling out my little notebook.

He peers up at me. His storm cloud-tinted eyes twist my stomach. "Just coffee. Black."

"Coming right up."

I start to head back towards the coffee pot. That is when things unravel. My sleep-deprived legs get knotted. I stumble forward. The coffee pot flails out of my hands like a bird in flight.

Hot coffee pours everywhere. All over the man's crisp white shirt. All over his designer jacket coat. All over the table.

"Oh no!" I cry. "Oh no, oh no, oh no!"

He leaps up, coffee dripping from his coat. I grab napkins and begin frantically trying to blot his shirt. My hands are shaking so badly the napkins drop on the floor.

"Oh no!" My eyes begin to well up with tears. "Don't tell Tony about this. I really need this job. My mom is ill and I can't afford to lose my job."

The man doesn't move much at all. He doesn't shout at me as I thought he would. He just stares at me through those gray eyes in amazement.

"It's alright," he says quietly. His voice is deep and soothing. "It's just a shirt."

"No, it's not a shirt!" I'm sobbing more and more. "That suit is worth more than money I'll make my entire life. I'll pay for it. I swear I'll pay for it."

He pulls out his coat pocket. I think he's going to call the police or perhaps Tony. But all he does is produce a white handkerchief and give it to me.

"Stop crying," he tells me, but not in a nasty way. "What's your name?"

I'm blotting my face on his handkerchief. It feels so soft. "Seraphina Wells. But everybody calls me Sera."

"Sera." He speaks my name as though he wants to hear the way it sounds. "How long have you worked here?"

"Two years." I sniffle and attempt to stop shaking. "Look, I know I soiled your clothes. Just tell me how much I owe you."

He goes back to the sodden booth. Coffee still drips off the table onto the floor. "Sera, get me a fresh cup of coffee. This time, use a clean cup."

I look at him. "You're not going?"

"No." He grabs a napkin and wipes coffee off his watch. "I'm staying for coffee."

My head can't get it. Rich people don't stick around when you spill coffee on them. They scream and call for a manager and promise to sue you.

"But your suit."

"Will be dry cleaned tomorrow." He glares at me again. "Coffee, please."

I rush to bring him a new cup. My hands do shake, but I don't spill it. When I put it down in front of him, he curls his fingers around the cup like he is trying to heat them up.

"Sit down," he commands.

"I'm not allowed to sit with customers. Tony has rules."

"Tony is nowhere to be found." He waves his hand toward the vacant diner. "Sit down, Sera."

I get into the booth opposite him. The aroma of coffee is overwhelming now, combined with his perfume. He smells expensive, like leather and something clean I couldn't identify.

"You work three jobs?" he asks.

I nod. "How did you guess?"

"You mentioned working somewhere else at first before coming here tonight. And you said you delivered groceries." He lifts his coffee cup to his mouth. "That's a lot of work for someone as young as you."

"I'm twenty-four. Not that young."

"I'm thirty. Trust me, you're young." He stares at my face. "Three jobs, why?"

I don't want to explain to him about Mom's kidney failure. About the bills stacked on our kitchen table. About how scared I am every day.

"Life is expensive," I reply instead.

He takes a sip of coffee again. We sat there in silence for a minute. Outside, rain beats against the window like tiny fingers drumming.

"What if I told you that there was an answer to all your financial woes?" he bursts out saying.

My heart takes flight. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what if I had enough money to give you so you'd never have to work three jobs anymore? What if you could afford to pay for whatever you have to pay for?"

I laugh, but it isn't a pleasant sound. "Mister, I don't know what type of girl you are trying to make out I am, but I am not that type of girl."

"I'm not thinking about that." His face reddens slightly. "I'm talking about a business arrangement."

"What type of business arrangement?"

He takes a step closer. His intent, somewhat desperate gray eyes lock onto me. "The kind where you assist me, and I assist you. The kind where we both gain what we require."

I am twisted up inside with fear and something that could possibly be hope. "I don't get it."

He reaches into his jacket once more. He pulls out a pen this time. He writes on a napkin and slides it across the greasy table.

I glance at the napkin. There's a number on there. A huge number. So huge I count the zeroes three times to ensure I'm reading it correctly.

"Two million dollars," he says softly.

The words hit me like ice water. "What?"

"Two million dollars, Sera. That's what I'm giving you."

I'm having trouble breathing. Two million dollars is more money than there is in the entire world. At least, in my world.

"For what?" My voice is barely a whisper.

He stares into my eyes. When he speaks, his voice is so low I need to step closer to be able to hear him.

"For a year of your life. One year, and all your troubles are over forever."

The rain continues to pound against the window. The coffee grows warm in our cups. And I find myself enjoying my entire life just being altered due to spilling coffee on someone else's shirt.