The Billionaire's Secret Midnight Obsession

"This is garbage. Complete and utter garbage."

Faith Cole stared at the laptop screen. The document was bleeding. Red digital ink slashed through every single paragraph she had written over the last forty-eight hours.

Her vision blurred. A sharp, rhythmic pain throbbed behind her right eye.

She slammed the laptop shut. The sudden movement knocked her elbow against a ceramic mug.

Cold, stale black coffee spilled across the cheap veneer of her Brooklyn apartment desk.

"Damn it!"

Faith scrambled, grabbing a fistful of paper towels to soak up the brown puddle before it reached her hard drive. Her chest heaved. The resentment she felt toward the client known only as 'Ms. B' at AURA Automotive clawed at her throat.

She needed to vent. She needed to scream.

Faith snatched her cell phone from the dry side of the desk. She opened her notes app. Her thumbs hit the screen with brutal force.

She typed a wild, highly inappropriate, and completely unapproved promotional copy for the sports car. She compared the engine to a feral beast in heat. She mocked the brand's stiff, century-old heritage.

It felt incredibly good. A tiny rush of vindication cooled her burning eyes.

She copied the three-hundred-word rant. She needed to send this to Leo. Leo got her this freelance gig. Leo would understand the sheer misery of dealing with Ms. B.

Faith switched to her messaging app. Her eyelids were heavy, dragging down with the weight of three sleepless nights. Her brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Her thumb swiped down her recent contacts. It hovered over a name she had added just days ago, a contact she hadn't even fully renamed yet. Just as she was about to select Leo's name, a text notification from her cousin Adalyn popped down from the top of the screen, flaunting a new designer bag. The sheer audacity of the message stung her tired eyes. Frustrated, Faith aggressively swiped the notification away. In her blind annoyance, she didn't realize her thumb had tapped the wrong chat. Without checking the recipient, she pasted the massive block of text.

She pressed send.

A soft swoosh sounded in the quiet room.

A second later, Faith blinked. Her eyes focused on the name at the top of the screen.

Emerson Beard.

Not Leo. Emerson Beard. The elite brand consultant Leo had practically begged her to network with.

Faith's heart stopped. It didn't just skip a beat; it completely seized in her chest. The blood drained from her face, pooling in her stomach and making her nauseous.

Her fingers shook violently as she pressed down on the message bubble, praying for an 'undo' option.

Time limit exceeded.

Panic seized her throat. She couldn't breathe. She held down the power button on the side of her phone, desperate to turn the device off, as if a black screen could erase the reality of her career suicide.

Right as the screen dimmed, a banner notification dropped down from the top.

Emerson Beard.

Faith gasped, sucking in a harsh breath of air. Her phone slipped from her sweaty palm and clattered onto the desk.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She braced herself for the block. For the professional execution.

Slowly, she opened one eye. She tapped the notification.

Unique perspective. But if you compare the engine's roar to a beast panting, you'll run into copyright issues.

Faith stared at the words. Her lungs forgot how to process oxygen.

He didn't yell. He didn't block her. He critiqued her unhinged rant as if it were a legitimate creative draft.

She sat up straight. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, desperate to type an apology, to explain it was a horrific mistake.

Before she could form a single word, another message popped up.

Are you the freelancer Leo recommended?

Faith deleted her half-typed apology. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

Yes, she typed back, attaching a stiff, overly formal smiling emoji.

Across the East River, inside a Manhattan penthouse, Emerson Beard stood by floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared at the rigid emoji on his screen.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

He had just finished a grueling three-hour international video call. His neck was stiff. He was exhausted. But this bizarre, aggressive copy had jolted him awake.

He tapped his index finger against the edge of his phone case.

The AURA project? Emerson typed with one hand. Ms. B's taste is stuck in the last century. Your direction is better than her brief.

In Brooklyn, Faith read the message. A wave of profound relief washed over her. It felt like finding a piece of driftwood in the middle of a hurricane.

Do you also think her brief reads like a medieval torture manual? Faith typed back.

The second the message sent, she regretted it. She clamped her hand over her mouth. She was being too casual. Too reckless.

On her screen, three gray dots appeared.

He was typing. Faith's stomach tied itself into a painful knot as she waited for the verdict.