The Billionaire's Little Princess

The shrill blare of an alarm clock shattered the silence of the early morning, slicing through the warmth of Isabella Monroe's cozy dreams like a vengeful blade. The digital device screeched on the nightstand beside her modest twin-sized bed, screaming a cold reminder that rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Isabella groaned, pulling the thin, floral-printed blanket over her head as if that could drown out the sound. It was a losing battle. The alarm, persistent and merciless, blared on; an unrelenting enemy in the war against sleep. She smacked at the clock blindly, her hand fumbling through a stack of scattered notebooks, half-read textbooks, and a crusted-over cup of coffee from the night before.

"Ugh," she muttered into her pillow, voice muffled. "Traitor."

Finally surrendering to the inevitable, she shoved off the blanket and sat up, blinking into the sunlight streaming through the cracked blinds.

Her heart dropped when her eyes landed on the blinking red digits: 10:03 AM. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened.

"Oh no."

Panic slammed into her like a freight train. She had a test. A very important, unscheduled, grade-determining test. At 11:00 AM.

She launched herself out of bed, her socked feet slipping on the hardwood floor as she dashed toward the tiny bathroom that barely had space for a standing shower and a cracked sink. As she peeled off her oversized t-shirt-an old one from high school that had long lost its print (although she didn't like some of the memories from high school)-she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her dark curls were matted on one side of her head like a bird's nest, and her eyes, deep brown and wide with anxiety, were shadowed by exhaustion.

"Ava," she growled under her breath. "You were supposed to wake me up, traitor."

Her roommate had vanished sometime before dawn, no doubt already halfway through her schedule for the day, leaving Isabella to face the chaos alone. The two girls usually looked out for each other, but Ava's morning silence felt like betrayal today. Isabella mentally marked a note to give her hell when she returned. Friendly hell, of course.

She jumped into the shower, letting the lukewarm water blast away the last remnants of sleep. Soap, rinse, scrub, repeat-her motions were fast and frantic. After ten rushed minutes, she was out, toweling herself dry with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender and last week's laundry detergent. She grabbed the cleanest outfit she could find from the small pile on her desk chair-a pair of black high-waisted jeans and a pale blue blouse with a tiny coffee stain near the hem-and threw them on. A bit wrinkled, sure, but passable.

She tugged on her sneakers, shoved her damp curls into a loose bun, and snatched her backpack from the floor. Just before she rushed out the door, she caught sight of the battered notebook she used as a planner. Her heart stilled for a beat.

The to-do list.

Of course.

She flipped it open quickly, eyes scanning the carefully divided sections-More Important, and Less Important-the way a soldier checks battle plans before heading into the field. In neat, slightly faded ink, today's schedule read:

Test by 11:00 AM

Resume at Frisher's Lounge and Bar by 2:00 PM

Meet with thesis lecturer by 3:30 PM

Interview at Anne's Restaurant by 5:00 PM

She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Her finger paused on the second item: "Frisher's Lounge and Bar". A tiny flicker of warmth danced in her chest. The job wasn't just a job-it was the job. The one she needed. The one she'd been praying for. Frisher's wasn't like the usual cheap diners or rundown cafes she'd waitressed in before. It was sleek, upscale, alive with the hum of jazz music and glittering lights. The interior was a blend of moody sophistication and modern luxury-polished mahogany bar tops, velvet lounge chairs, and hanging Edison bulbs that cast a golden glow over everything. It wasn't just a bar; it was a mood.

And tonight at 7:00 PM, she'd be officially starting there.

Her first proper shift.

She would resumed there first though by 2PM, just to get everything settled and get familiar with everything before her official resumption by 7pm, although she'd suggested she'd do everything when she resumed by 7pm. She'd resume earlier just to get familiar with things before she resume at the official time.

But she was told it was the time the manager would be around and it would be a good thing if she'd do all she needed to do first when the manager is around. She's free to do all other things and even starts her official resumption. Let's say it's just the routine at Frisher's. And she readied herself. It wasn't what she can't handle.

She smiled faintly despite the panic rushing through her veins.

Working as a waitress wasn't glamorous, but it was familiar. Comforting, even. Ever since she got into university, she'd juggled multiple jobs to keep herself afloat. Orphaned at twelve, she'd been taken in by a kind but modest family who did their best to provide for her after adopting her. They couldn't afford luxuries, but they gave her love-and she learned to survive on gratitude and hard work.

Thanks to her full scholarship, she didn't need to worry about tuition. But life came with other bills-textbooks, groceries, rent-and Isabella had learned early on that independence meant sacrifice. She didn't mind the late nights or early shifts. She was built for this.

Her last job, a quiet gig at a 24-hour library café near campus, had served her well for the past year. She worked evening shifts-6:00 PM to 10:00 PM, Monday to Friday-pouring coffee for students and occasionally sneaking in a few pages of her own thesis work when traffic slowed. It was peaceful and manageable.

But all that changed when Cindy got sick.

Cindy Monroe-Isabella's 27-year-old stepsister-had always been more like a best friend. They'd shared bunk beds, secrets, and leftover Halloween candy as kids. A few months ago, Cindy had been diagnosed with gallstones. Not fatal, thank God, but painful. And surgery was the only solution. Unfortunately, it wasn't cheap.

The cost sent a ripple through Isabella's life. Her savings were already thin, and with her finals looming, the pressure mounted. She'd given notice at the library café and started hunting for something more rewarding.

That was when fate-kind, fleeting fate-led her to Frisher's.

The interview had been unexpectedly smooth. Although she had met the owner of the lounge itself when she'd gone to inquire of a vacancy, she met the manager when she was to take the interview.

The manager, a woman in her forties with sharp eyeliner and a velvet voice, liked her immediately. Isabella's resume might've lacked shine, but her experience and charm made up for it. "You've got a presence," the manager had said. "That's what we need."

And just like that, Isabella had landed the job.

Still, she wasn't taking any chances.

Anne's Restaurant had popped up on her radar during her job hunt. Though less glamorous than Frisher's, Anne's had a rustic charm to it-light oak tables, warm yellow lighting, and a menu specializing in elegantly plated home-style meals.

Their baked rosemary chicken was apparently the stuff of legend, and they catered to a clientele that appreciated comfort over flash. The pay obviously wouldn't be as high as Frisher's but it was closer to where she stays and since it would be steady, she'd make do with that. It was just a plan B though: if Frisher's didn't work out, Anne's was her backup.

Which brought her back to her chaotic day.

Test. Shift. Lecturer. Interview.

She exhaled sharply and checked the time. 10:18 AM.

She had to move.

---

She bolted out of the apartment, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone clutched tightly in hand. Her heart pounded like a war drum as she raced down the narrow flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. Outside, the city had already come alive-cars honked impatiently, the scent of street food wafted from nearby stalls, and people bustled past, glued to their own timelines. But Isabella barely noticed. All she could think of was getting to campus before the test began.

She caught the next bus by the skin of her teeth, hopping on just as the doors began to close. The driver gave her a half-annoyed glance, but said nothing. She took the nearest seat and pulled out her notes, scanning bullet points she hoped would magically etch themselves into her memory in the next few minutes.

"Photosynthesis... Calvin cycle... Mitochondrial DNA..." she mumbled to herself.

Her mind raced, barely able to focus. But she tried. She had no choice.

Twenty minutes later, she was on campus, breathless and sweating. She sprinted across the courtyard, dodging students and benches with a determination that could rival Olympic athletes. She burst into the lecture hall with two minutes to spare. Her professor gave her a look that hovered between disapproval and amusement, but said nothing. Isabella took a seat, yanked a pen from her bag, and tried to steady her trembling hands.

The test was hard. Harder than she anticipated. But she didn't let herself panic, she was hard herself, and the paper's hardness isn't what she cannot handle. One question at a time. She attacked the paper with controlled urgency, her brows furrowed and jaw clenched. There wasn't time to second-guess herself. She just had to finish.

By the time she turned in her sheet, her legs were shaking. But she didn't stop. There was no time to savor the small victory. Her next stop was to make herself available at Frisher's Lounge.

She left the hall with a strange mix of anxiety and relief swimming in her stomach. On the way out, she pulled her phone from her bag and checked the time. 1:14 PM. That gave her just under an hour to get to the lounge, change into the uniform they provided, and officially begin the job that could potentially change everything for her.

She rushed home, barely stopping to breathe. Ava still wasn't back. Isabella changed into a pair of sleek black pants and a fitted white blouse-Frisher's signature uniform. She tied her hair up into a neat ponytail, smoothed down the collar of her shirt, and gave herself a final glance in the mirror.

"You've got this," she whispered.

Frisher's Lounge and Bar was everything she had imagined it to be-and more. Nestled between a high-rise apartment complex and a luxury boutique, the lounge exuded elegance. Inside, warm golden lighting bathed the room in a soft glow. Crystal glasses clinked in rhythm with mellow jazz music that flowed from a live band in the corner. The bar gleamed under the ambient light, lined with liquor bottles arranged like artwork. The lounge chairs were deep and plush, in a rich velvet burgundy, and the clientele was exactly the type she'd expected-wealthy professionals, quiet romantics, and well-dressed elites sipping handcrafted cocktails and whispering over candlelit tables.

The manager greeted her at the employee entrance with a brief nod. "You're early. Good."

Isabella's first hour passed in a blur of polite greetings, balancing trays of drinks, memorizing table placements, and absorbing the quiet rhythm of the place. Her movements were precise. Calculated. She smiled through the ache in her feet and the knot forming in her back. She knew better than to show discomfort. Appearance mattered here.

By 2:45 PM, she'd completed the brief orientation and was dismissed until her evening shift at 7:00 PM.

She barely made it to the university by 3:30 PM for her meeting with her thesis lecturer, a notoriously strict woman named Dr. Henderson who believed in punctuality the way most believed in gravity. The meeting was tense but productive. Isabella took notes furiously, nodding, listening, asking questions. She left the office at 4:35 PM, exhausted but satisfied. Then, she checked her phone again.

Time for Anne's Restaurant.

She hailed a cab using a ride-share app and slid into the backseat, giving the driver the address with a voice tinged in urgency. As the car sped through the city, she stared out the window, watching the blur of trees, pedestrians, and traffic lights.

Anne's Restaurant was located in a quieter part of the city. More suburban than metropolitan. It wasn't flashy, but there was something inviting about it. The exterior was painted a creamy beige with green shutters, and hanging plants trailed down from flower boxes by the windows. Inside, the place smelled like rosemary and fresh bread. The floors were wooden and worn, the lighting soft and inviting. There were framed photos on the walls-black-and-white shots of the city from decades past-and gentle music played in the background.

The menu was small, curated. They specialized in rich, home-style meals with a twist. Herb-encrusted lamb chops. Truffle mac and cheese. Grilled sea bass with a citrus glaze. Nothing extravagant, but every dish sounded like something out of a food critic's blog.

It was nearing 4:50PM when she stepped out of the cab. She paid the driver with a few crisp bills and then turned to rush toward the restaurant entrance. Her thoughts were on the interview, on remembering the manager's name, on making a good impression. She didn't notice the man walking toward her on the sidewalk.

Until she collided with him.

The impact wasn't hard, but it was enough to jolt her. Her eyes widened as she stumbled slightly backward, clutching her bag to her chest.

"I'm so-" she started, instinctively beginning an apology.

But her words stalled.

There was something in the air. Something that caught her off guard. A fragrance-rich, warm, expensive. It was the kind of scent that didn't come from corner-store colognes. No, this was designer. Subtle yet commanding. It wrapped around her senses like silk and made her stomach do a little flip.

Slowly, she turned to face the man she had bumped into.

And the words died on her lips.

He was stunning.

Tall-at least 6'2-with broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of his plain black t-shirt. His jeans were simple but hugged his form just right. On his wrist was a sleek silver watch that glinted in the fading light. His hair was dark, tousled in a way that looked effortless, and his jawline was so sharp it could've been carved from stone.

Deep-set eyes-blue or green, she couldn't tell-stared at her with mild amusement.

"Sorry," she said softly, biting her lower lip to keep her thoughts from escaping.

The man smiled, and it wasn't just a smile-it was the kind that could wreck an entire week of composure. It curled at the edges of his mouth in a way that was both charming and dangerous.

"It's fine," he said, voice smooth, relaxed.

That voice. That smile. There was something in it that made her feel warm. Not just in the cheeks, but deeper. Like he saw right through her-and liked what he saw.

"I'm quite in a haste," she stammered, trying to gather her thoughts. "I really have to go. Sorry I bumped into you in such a manner."

He looked like he was about to say something else, but she didn't let herself wait.

She turned and ran off before her legs betrayed her and she did something stupid-like ask for his name. Or his number. Or stand there and gawk like a schoolgirl.

As she pushed through the restaurant doors and into the calm, rustic space of Anne's, she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. Interviews were more important than fleeting encounters. Reality mattered more than rich-smelling strangers with perfect smiles.

Still... she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder once, just to see if he'd watched her leave.

But he was already gone.

She forced her steps forward, but her mind-traitorous as always-lingered behind with the stranger.

What was that scent? Spiced wood and something smoky... peppery? It clung to her skin, curled behind her ears, seeped into her clothes like a whispered memory. She shook her head hard as if that would shake him off too. She had no business standing there, flushed and wide-eyed like a teenager, just because some man with a perfect jawline happened to smell like money and heartbreak.

She marched up the small steps and reached for the restaurant door handle. But her fingers hesitated, resting lightly on the cool metal.

Her heart was still pounding. Not from the rush. Not from the test, or the jobs, or the sheer intensity of her day.

It was him.

A stranger.

And yet her whole body had reacted like it knew him. Like it had been waiting for that one collision her whole life. Which made absolutely no sense. She didn't have time for rich men who smelled like sin and cologne. Especially not now. Especially not ever.

"I must be losing my mind," she muttered under her breath.

She glanced down at her reflection in the restaurant's glass door-cheeks still flushed, lashes slightly clumped from her rushed makeup, a sheen of sweat on her forehead from running. She looked like someone trying too hard to hold it together. And maybe she was.

A part of her wanted to turn around, just to sneak one more glance. Maybe he'd be halfway down the block by now, already forgotten her, probably on the phone with his assistant, or mistress, or driver.

But she didn't turn.

She didn't need to. The memory of him was already burned into her like a sunspot on her retina.

The way his mouth had lifted into that casual, all-knowing smile. The smooth confidence in his voice when he said, "It's fine." And those eyes-like they held secrets. Expensive secrets.

She sighed and finally pulled open the door.

The restaurant's subtle perfume of roasted garlic and herbed butter enveloped her, grounding her in reality. Her heels clacked against the polished hardwood floor as she stepped inside, blinking against the soft ambient lighting.

Anne's Restaurant was quaint, charming, with a calm buzz of conversation humming in the background. Waiters in pressed black shirts glided between tables, balancing plates of creamy risottos and grilled meats. The scent of thyme lingered in the air. A small family laughed at a corner booth. A couple whispered over wine glasses by the window. It was the kind of place that promised comfort without pretension.

And yet, she barely noticed.

Her mind replayed the man's smile in loops. It wasn't just the physical-it was the way he looked at her, as if she mattered. As if she wasn't just another hurried stranger. As if... if she'd stayed a moment longer, he might've said something more.

She shook her head again and scolded herself silently. Don't be foolish, Bella.

Men like that didn't look twice at girls like her. Especially not girls wearing borrowed heels, rushing to job interviews to make ends meet, whose biggest luxury was switching from generic tea bags to name-brand coffee once a month.

No, whatever that moment was-it had passed. And it needed to stay passed.

Still...

Her fingers drifted unconsciously to her lips.

God, she thought. What is wrong with me?

She fished out her phone from her bag and checked the time. 4:59 PM.

Just one minute early. She should walk in, find the manager, put on her practiced smile, and get this interview over with. That was the plan. That was always the plan.

But her feet didn't move.

She stood near the host podium, heart still fluttering, that damn cologne still dancing in her nose.

She wondered if maybe fate had nudged her in that man's direction. If maybe-just maybe-there was something behind the collision. She wondered who he was. Where he was headed. What he did. Was he single? Married? God, she hoped not married.

Stop it, she told herself.

Focus.

The reality was far less romantic than her imagination wanted it to be. He was probably a spoiled heir to some empire, someone used to women falling at his feet. Probably already forgot her face the moment she turned away. She was no more than a blip in his day.

And yet...

Her lips curled just a little at the memory of his eyes.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing her heartbeat to settle.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. There was no room in her life for fantasy. She'd already mapped out her evening-interview, shift at Frisher's, home by midnight, maybe study a bit, then crash into bed before another long day tomorrow.

Her reality was built on discipline. Not distraction. And certainly not on beautiful men who looked like walking Armani ads.

With one last steadying breath, Isabella turned and walked back out the door.

The cool breeze hit her face, tugging gently at a strand of her ponytail.

The stranger was gone.

And as she walked toward the direction of the lounge, back straight, steps firm, she told herself she didn't care.

Even if a small part of her kind of did.