The Billionaire's Secret Midnight Obsession

After the jarring wake-up call from Marion had dragged her out of a dreamless sleep, Faith had thrown on the first clothes she could find and fled her shoebox apartment. She needed noise—any noise—to drown out the ringing in her ears. The coffee shop in Brooklyn was deafening. The espresso machine hissed, and the indie pop music grated against Faith's eardrums.

She pressed her noise-canceling headphones tighter against her ears.

"Ms. Cole," Marion's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Ms. B expects the first draft by tomorrow afternoon. If you fail to deliver, legal will step in to handle the breach of contract."

Faith's stomach cramped violently. Acid burned the back of her throat.

"I understand," Faith forced the words past her tight vocal cords.

Marion hung up without another word.

Faith's hands were clammy. She pulled up her text thread with Emerson. She stared at the word harness. It was her only anchor.

She opened her document. Her fingers hit the keys. She typed with a desperate, frantic energy, following the exact structural path Emerson had laid out for her.

By 7:45 PM, the draft was done. Her neck screamed in pain.

She converted the file to a PDF and emailed it to Emerson exactly at eight o'clock.

Assignment submitted. Please review, Professor, she texted him.

Ten minutes passed.

The structure is solid, Emerson replied. The pivot in the second paragraph is beautiful. Your writing has the texture of rigorous classical literature training.

Faith smiled. A warm, glowing sensation spread through her chest. She had never felt so validated.

Then, the next message appeared.

Where did you study literature in the Ivy League? Columbia or Yale?

The words hit Faith like a physical punch to the sternum. The smile died on her face.

Her breathing turned shallow and erratic. The noisy coffee shop faded away. Instead, she saw the harsh fluorescent lights of the community college registrar's office. She remembered the humiliation of withdrawing because her father's bankruptcy left them with nothing.

Imposter syndrome wrapped its cold, suffocating fingers around her throat. She was a fraud. A dropout wearing a stolen suit, about to be exposed by real royalty.

She stared at the screen. Her fingers hovered over the glass, completely paralyzed.

In a dimly lit, exclusive Manhattan restaurant, Emerson sat at a corner table. He had placed his phone casually on the table, screen facing down. After a moment, he seemingly inadvertently flipped the device over, glancing at the screen. No reply.

Assuming it was a network issue, he typed a single question mark and hit send.

To Faith, that question mark wasn't a glitch. It was arrogance. It was a wealthy man tapping his watch, demanding her pedigree.

Her deep-seated insecurity violently morphed into defensive anger.

Faith slammed her laptop shut. She shoved it into her tote bag and practically ran out of the coffee shop.

The cold Brooklyn wind slapped her face. She pulled out her phone. Her fingers were stiff and shaking.

I didn't go to an Ivy. In fact, I don't even have a college degree.

She hit send. Seeing the typing bubble instantly appear on his end, her heart seized. She couldn't bear to read whatever pity or disdain he was about to offer. Before he could send a single letter in response, she aggressively blocked his contact, deleted the chat thread, and shoved the phone deep into her coat pocket.

Total blackout.

Emerson saw the message. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a hard line. He instantly realized he had stepped on a landmine.

I didn't mean anything by it, he typed quickly. Your talent doesn't need a piece of paper to prove itself.

Message Failed to Send.

Emerson stared at the red exclamation point. A rare, bitter wave of frustration washed over him. He was a man who controlled narratives for a living, and he had just completely miscalculated this girl.

Back in her apartment, Faith threw her bag onto the floor. She collapsed onto her bed, and hot, angry tears spilled over her cheeks. After a minute, she pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at the blank screen—the chat thread gone, the contact blocked. The finality of it seared through her chest. She hurled the phone across the mattress, where it bounced and landed face-down in the rumpled sheets.

It was over. A top-tier consultant like him would never waste time on a college dropout.

The crushing weight of her inadequacy pushed her into a reckless corner. She opened her laptop. She drafted a new email to Marion.

I cannot complete this assignment. Please send the bill for the penalty fee to my address.

She closed her eyes and clicked send. She severed her own lifeline.

The blue light of the screen illuminated her pale, tear-stained face. Tomorrow, she would be financially ruined.