Trapped In The Billionaire's Past

The taxi pulled away and Isla’s exhaustion hit her like a wave. She just wanted sleep — real sleep — the kind where the world stopped demanding something from her.

But as she and Clara turned the corner toward their building… they both stopped dead.

All their belongings — suitcases, laundry baskets, even Clara’s pink vanity mirror — were dumped on the sidewalk like trash.

“What the—” Clara blinked, jaw dropping. “Is this a joke?”

Isla’s stomach knotted. “No. No, no, no…”

The landlord stood by the door, arms crossed and smug. “I waited three hours. You’re late on rent again. You’re out.”

“We’re late two days," Isla shot back, panic rising like fire in her throat. “My sister is still in the hospital. We just— we just got back from seeing her!”, She lied.

“The same way you haven't paid three months. That’s not my problem,” he snapped. “I’ve been patient long enough. You can collect the rest after you pay what you owe.”

Clara stepped forward like she was two seconds from throwing hands. “You can’t do this!”

But he shrugged, already turning away. “Already did.”

Clara muttered curses under her breath, kicking the nearest suitcase. Isla pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting the burn of tears. Not here. Not now.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Clara froze — then a slow grin spread across her face.

“Actually… I know exactly what we’re going to do.”

Isla narrowed her eyes. “Clara.”

“No, listen.” Clara grabbed her shoulders, excitement bubbling despite the chaos. “Xavier already offered. A free apartment. A billionaire’s apartment. With real floors and real hot water that doesn’t smell like rust.”

“That was just him being… grateful,” Isla argued. “I’m not going to mooch off someone I barely know.”

“You saved his life, genius.”

“That doesn’t mean he owes me anything!”

“It means,” Clara said, pointing at their scattered belongings, “we don’t sleep on the sidewalk tonight.”

Silence stretched between them — loud, humiliating, and cold.

Isla looked at their life on the concrete — clothes that weren’t new, bags that had been reused too many times. Her chest ached. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore.

“Fine,” she whispered. “We’ll take the apartment.”

Clara grinned in victory. “Excellent decision.”

“But just until we get back on our feet,” Isla added quickly.

“Mm-hmm. Sure. Temporary. Totally.”

Clara was already waving down the nearest rideshare. Isla took one last look at everything they owned.

This wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

And with clenched teeth and a shaking breath — she made the call.

The apartment tour started with too much silence.

The bodyguard — the same one from the hospital — led them through a building so polished it didn’t feel real. His shoes made no sound on the marble floors. Every surface gleamed. Even the air smelled expensive.

Clara leaned close to Isla as the elevator doors slid open. “You know what this place reminds me of? The kind of building that has more security cameras than people.”

“Don’t start,” Isla whispered back, her nerves already fraying.

“I’m just saying,” Clara muttered, eyes darting to the ceiling. “If someone sneezes here, ten guards probably check the footage.”

The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. The bodyguard motioned for them to follow, his tone professional. “This unit is fully furnished. Mr. Ashford wanted you to have options.”

The door opened into a space that looked like it had been pulled from a lifestyle magazine — soft gray walls, glass furniture, and a view of the skyline that made the city look cleaner than it was.

Clara’s jaw went slack. “Oh. My. God. This place has a kitchen island. And not the kind that doubles as a laundry table.”

Isla barely heard her. She stood near the window, looking out over the glass and steel below. It didn’t feel like her life. It didn’t even feel like her city anymore.

“It’s too much,” she murmured.

Clara turned, already halfway in love with the apartment. “Too much is kind of the point, isn’t it? You saved a billionaire. Let the man buy you nice countertops.”

“Clara—”

“We were kicked out,” Clara interrupted. “Unless you’ve been hiding a trust fund somewhere, we’re taking the apartment.”

The bodyguard didn’t comment, though the faintest trace of amusement flickered across his face. “There are two other units, if you’d like to compare.”

“Do any of them come with a conscience?” Isla muttered.

Clara nudged her. “We’ll take this one.”

He nodded once, producing a small folder. “The paperwork’s already prepared. You can move in immediately.”

Of course it was.

They signed. They moved. And for a few hours, things almost felt simple — too simple.

By afternoon, Clara was humming to herself as she unpacked their few boxes, already claiming the larger bedroom. “You realize we can’t tell anyone this was free, right? My mother will think I joined a cult.”

Isla managed a small laugh but couldn’t shake the weight in her chest. Every sound in the apartment felt amplified — the hum of the fridge, the quiet thud of her footsteps, the faint echo from the vents.

Around dusk, she stepped into the hallway and froze. A small black camera sat tucked in the corner above the door — the kind she’d never noticed before.

“Probably for security,” she told herself. But when she turned back inside, the phone on the counter rang once. Just once. Then silence.

Her pulse jumped.

She crossed the room, staring at the receiver. Nothing. No missed call, no blinking light. Clara emerged from the bedroom, holding a stack of folded shirts. “What’s wrong?”

“Phone rang,” Isla said. “Then stopped.”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe wrong number.”

But Isla wasn’t convinced. And later, when she stepped out to grab something from the lobby, the driver waiting outside had already greeted her by name.

That night, Clara fell asleep instantly — exhaustion and relief winning over suspicion. Isla stayed up. The apartment was too quiet, and quiet had started to mean danger.

She sat on the couch, staring at the city lights below, trying to convince herself this was a good thing — safety, stability, a place that didn’t leak when it rained. But all she could think about was Xavier Ashford’s face when he said her name. No — not her name. Aria.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

She almost didn’t answer.

Then she did.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then: “You didn’t save my number.”

Xavier’s voice. Calm. Low. Too composed for this late hour.

Isla sat up straighter. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

“I gave you my card,” he said, and she could hear the faint smile in his tone. “Most people would’ve used it by now.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I noticed.”

The silence stretched, taut and deliberate. She could hear the faint hum of machines in the background — he was still in the hospital.

“I wanted to make sure you settled in,” he said at last. “Is the apartment to your liking?”

“It’s… nice,” she said carefully. “A little too nice.”

“You deserve comfort.”

Her laugh came out hollow. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to change.”

Something in his voice made her pulse quicken — not fear, exactly, but a kind of pressure, like she was being studied through the phone.

He asked more questions, his tone almost casual: if Clara was with her, if she planned to keep working at the bakery, if she walked home alone often. Isla tried to keep her answers short, light, unbothered.

But every word felt like a thread being pulled.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Isla,” he said finally.

“I’m not,” she lied.

Another pause. Then, quietly: “Good. Because I meant what I said — if you ever need anything, call me. Day or night.”

“Right,” she said. “Like a billionaire’s emergency hotline.”

That drew a soft, genuine laugh from him — the first real warmth she’d heard in his voice. “You might be surprised how often people do call me for that.”

“Then I’ll try not to add to the list.”

“Do what you must,” he murmured. “Goodnight, Isla.”

The line clicked dead.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the phone in her hand, the screen fading to black.

Across the city, Xavier sat in his hospital room, a file open on his desk. Inside were photos — some printed, some digital — of Isla. At work. On the street. A few grainy shots from before she’d even reached the hospital that night.

He flipped through them slowly, stopping at one. Her head turned just so, hair falling across her face. She looked exactly like Aria.

The resemblance was too precise to ignore. The same eyes. The same quiet defiance.

His bodyguard — the older one, Rourke — stood near the window, arms crossed. “Sir, with respect, we’ve seen coincidences before. This isn’t proof she’s her.”

Xavier didn’t look up. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s something.”

“Then what do you want done?”

“Keep watching,” Xavier said. “But stay invisible.”

Rourke hesitated. “And if she’s not her?”

Xavier’s gaze lingered on the photo. “Then I’ll decide what to do when I’m sure.”

Outside, rain began to fall again — light at first, then heavier, streaking the glass like quiet warnings.

Back in the apartment, Isla stepped onto the balcony, letting the wind pull at her hair. The city lights glittered below, sharp and distant.

Somewhere out there, she knew, he was thinking about her. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt it — like a thread tightening between them, invisible but real.

Neither of them knew yet how deep that thread would go, or how much it would cost to follow it. But it had already started to pull.