Trapped In The Billionaire's Past

The police station smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. The room was small, cold, and too bright — the kind of place that made you feel like you’d done something wrong even if you hadn’t.

Isla sat at a metal table, her jacket wrapped tightly around her. Her jacket still smelled faintly of antiseptic, and there were dried stains on her sleeves — reminders of the night she couldn’t shake off.

A clock ticked on the wall. Too loud. Too slow.

She looked toward the door, her voice hesitant. “Can I call someone? Just to let them know I’m here?”

They let her use the station phone. A younger officer passing by outside glanced in, then nodded. “You’ll get a call, ma’am. Just wait a few minutes.”

She nodded, trying to hold on to that small comfort — one call. She already knew who she’d try first.

Her fingers hovered over the dial. Calling her mother would mean tears, panic, too many questions. So she dialed Clara instead.

No answer.

She tried again. Still nothing. She was taken back to the interrogation room.

The door opened, and the same two officers from the hospital walked in. The woman — Officer Blake, her badge read — set a cup of water in front of Isla. The man leaned against the wall, notebook already open.

“Miss Reyes,” Blake said, her voice calm but tired. “We just want to go over everything again, okay?”

Isla nodded, fingers clasped so tightly the knuckles turned white. “I already told you. I found him on the road. There were people, but no one—no one helped.”

The male officer looked up. “You didn’t know the victim?”

“No,” Isla said quickly. “I’d never seen him before.”

“Then why bring him to the hospital yourself?”

Her throat tightened. “Because he was dying,” she said softly. “The ambulance wasn’t coming fast enough.”

The man exchanged a glance with Blake. “And the driver who helped you — what’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” Isla said. “He stopped when I waved him down. He didn’t say anything, just helped me get him in the car.”

“Do you remember the license plate?”

She shook her head. “It was dark. I didn’t—” her voice broke a little “—I didn’t think about that.”

The man sighed and wrote something down. The sound of the pen scratching paper filled the silence. Isla’s pulse thudded in her ears.

The door opened again. This time, someone new stepped in — a tall man in plain clothes, his badge clipped to his belt. He had the kind of face that didn’t need to raise its voice to be taken seriously.

“Detective Rowen,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Isla shook her head, unsure if she could speak.

He sat across from her, folding his hands. “You’ve had a rough night, I imagine.”

She gave a weak laugh. “You could say that.”

Rowen watched her quietly for a moment. “The man you brought in — he’s been identified. His name is Xavier Ashford.”

The name meant nothing. Isla frowned slightly. “I don’t— I’ve never heard of him.”

Rowen nodded slowly, as if testing her reaction. “He’s the CEO of Ashford Enterprises. Billionaire. Makes the news sometimes.”

She blinked, her thoughts tripping over each other. “Wait—billionaire?”

He studied her. “That’s right. Which is why we’re trying to understand how someone like him ended up on foot in a quiet neighborhood at night. And how you happened to be there.”

“I told you, I just found him,” Isla said, her voice cracking. “I was walking home. I heard a crash. That’s it.”

Rowen leaned back, unreadable. “You understand why this looks strange, right? No witnesses have stepped forward, no car fragments, no dashcam footage. Just you, a stranger, and a missing driver.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Isla’s voice rose before she caught herself. “Please, I was only trying to help.”

The detective’s tone softened. “I know. But sometimes good intentions get tangled in bad timing.”

Her breath came unevenly. She looked down at her hands — still stained faintly red beneath her nails — and felt her stomach twist.

Hours passed in fragments after that. More questions. More waiting. The clock crept past 5 a.m., and Isla’s answers grew smaller, quieter. Every word felt like proof she didn’t have.

When morning light seeped through the blinds, the detective returned. “The hospital called,” he said. “Ashford made it through the night. He’s stable.”

The breath Isla didn’t realize she was holding escaped her in a shaky sigh. “Thank God.”

When the questioning finally ended, the detective closed his file with a quiet sigh. “You’re free to go, Miss Reyes. We may follow up if we need more details.”

“Just like that?” she asked, voice brittle with exhaustion.

“Just like that.”

He stood, but hesitated at the door. “You did the right thing, Miss Reyes. Even if it didn’t feel like it tonight.”

Isla just nodded, her mind fogged. “Can I use the phone now?” she asked.

Officer Blake gestured toward a desk near the exit. “Go ahead.”

Her hands shook as she dialed Clara’s number again. It rang once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?” Clara’s voice came through, groggy but sharp with worry.

“Clara,” Isla breathed, relief breaking through her chest. “I’m at the police station. They— I had to give a statement about an accident.”

“What? You’re where?” Clara’s voice snapped awake. “Stay there. I’m coming.”

By the time Isla hung up, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter — not gone, but bearable.

Less than an hour later, Clara rushed into the station, hair pulled back, her coat thrown over pajamas. “Are you okay?” she asked the moment she saw her.

“I think so,” Isla whispered.

Clara wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her outside.

By the time Isla stepped outside, the sun was pale and cold against her face. The city felt wrong — too bright for how heavy her body felt. They caught a bus home, her reflection flickering in the window beside empty seats. Her thoughts were loud, circling one name over and over. Xavier Ashford.

By the time she reached her apartment, Clara was pacing the living room in her pajamas, worry etched across her face.

“Where the hell have you been?” she blurted, rushing to her. “I called you all night!"

Isla’s voice cracked. “I lost my phone.”

“Lost your—Isla, look at you.” Clara grabbed her shoulders. “You’re freezing.”

Inside, the warmth of the apartment felt almost cruel. Isla sank into the couch, explaining everything in halting fragments — the cake, the accident, the hospital, the police. Clara listened, stunned. When Isla finished, her friend exhaled sharply and shook her head.

“You should’ve minded your business,” she muttered. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I know,” Isla said softly. “But I couldn’t just walk away.”

Clara sighed and went to the kitchen. The smell of eggs and toast filled the air. She set a plate in front of Isla, who only stared at it. Eventually, exhaustion won. She lay down on the couch, still in her clothes, and she finally let herself fall asleep.

Hours passed.

The sound of knocking woke Clara first. Firm, steady knocks — not the kind you ignore. She opened the door a few inches, blinking against the late afternoon light.

A man in a dark suit stood on the porch. Broad shoulders. Earpiece. Every inch of him screamed bodyguard.

“Yes?” Clara said warily.

“Isla Reyes?” the man asked, voice clipped but polite. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you.”

Clara frowned. “She’s asleep. Who are you exactly?”

The man held up an ID badge embossed with the Ashford Enterprises logo. “I was sent to escort her.”

Clara crossed her arms. “She’s been through enough. Whatever this is can wait.”

“I’m afraid it’s urgent,” the man said. His tone stayed calm, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Mr. Ashford requested her personally.”

Behind Clara, Isla stirred. She pushed herself up, her head foggy, hair a tangled mess. “Clara?” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”

Clara turned. “Some guy says a Mr. Ashford wants to see you.”

Isla blinked, stepping closer. The bodyguard looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Reyes,” he said. “There’s a car waiting outside. Mr. Ashford would like to speak with you in person.”

The world seemed to tilt for a second. The man from the road — the billionaire who’d nearly died — wanted to see her?

Her pulse quickened. Fear, confusion, disbelief — all tangled together. “Why?” she asked quietly.

The bodyguard didn’t answer. “Please, ma’am. It’s better if he explains himself.”

Isla’s mouth went dry as Clara’s hand brushed her arm — a quiet warning. Just when she thought everything was over,life reminded her she wasn’t free yet.