Fleeing the Gilded Cage Dont Want to be the Billionaires Wife

My knees ached, and my smile felt like it was cracking the skin on my face.

"Thanks for waiting, ma'am. That's one medium decaf latte with three pumps of vanilla, right?" I slid the cardboard-sleeved cup across the counter of 'The Daily Grind,' a small, perpetually-damp coffee shop nestled in Seattle's Ballard neighborhood. It smelled permanently of stale grounds and desperation.

The woman, draped in expensive knitwear and juggling an immaculate phone, barely glanced at me. "Took long enough, honey."

I bit back the sharp retort that bubbled up, honey, I'm literally the only person working bar and register right now, and if I'm late getting home, my brother might actually panic, and instead pasted the cracked smile back on. "Have a great evening."

The bell above the door chimed her exit, and I leaned heavily against the stainless steel counter, letting out a silent, ragged breath. It was 8:00 PM, an hour before closing, and my feet felt like they were filled with concrete.

It wasn't just the tiredness from my 10-hour shift here, or the 4 hours I'd put in cleaning offices downtown before dawn. It was the debt. A mountain of debt my father, bless his absent-minded soul, had left us when he died suddenly last year.

Every dime I earned, every ounce of energy I expended, was just a temporary patch on a sinking ship.

And Leo. Always Leo.

My little brother, ten years old, and fighting a battle no child should ever have to face. His treatment at Seattle City Hospital was a financial black hole.

The insurance covered the basics, but the experimental drugs, the private nurse visits, the specialized diet... that was all me. That was the weight that crushed my shoulders every morning.

I was scrubbing the espresso machine's steam wand, the most satisfyingly violent task of my day, when the small, dusty television mounted in the corner above the pastry case came to life with the sound of the evening business news.

"Now, turning to corporate dominance in the tech sector," the newscaster chirped, her face overly excited, "Conti Tower stock soared another 5% today following the CEO's decisive move to acquire Stellar Dynamics. Alessandro Conti, just 28, has officially solidified his position as one of the youngest and most ruthless billionaires in the Pacific Northwest."

The picture flashed onto the screen, and the steam wand almost slipped from my grip.

It was him.

Alessandro Conti.

He was being interviewed remotely, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows of what I knew was the penthouse office of Conti Tower. He was exactly as the world saw him: sharp, devastatingly handsome in a suit that probably cost more than my annual rent, and utterly, terrifyingly cold.

His features were the same, the strong jaw and the dark, intense eyes, but the warmth was gone. The boy I had known, the messy-haired, gap-toothed kid who used to climb the oak tree in my backyard and swear he would be my husband one day, was utterly annihilated. This man was a perfectly engineered machine of ambition and ice.

"Mr. Conti, your market strategy seems predicated on zero emotional attachment to previous corporate structures. Is that an accurate assessment of your philosophy?" the interviewer asked, practically swooning.

Alessandro's eyes, the color of a winter storm, flickered. His voice, deeper and harder than I remembered. "Emotion is a liability in business, Ms. Lane. Sentimentality is expensive. I buy assets, not legacies."

I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh dying in my throat.

Sentimentality is expensive.

That was rich, coming from the boy who had once carved his initials and mine into a piece of driftwood and promised to come back for me when he was rich enough to buy me a palace.

He had disappeared a year later, gone with his family's sudden rise to extreme wealth, and never looked back. The Conti family had moved out of the neighborhood, and the promise, like the driftwood, had been lost to the tide.

I felt a surge of pure, acidic distaste. Not for his money, I needed money more than oxygen, but for his façade.

"Look at him, Elara," I muttered to my reflection in the dark, smeared window. "He's forgotten us. He's forgotten everything that mattered."

I threw the wet rag onto the counter and grabbed my worn canvas bag. I couldn't stand to watch another second of the man who chose to be an asset, not a friend.

The small, two-bedroom house was silent when I let myself in. The air in the living room, which doubled as Leo's primary recovery space, smelled faintly of hospital cleanser and the lavender essential oil I diffused constantly to hide the scent.

"Leo? I'm home, sweetie."