The Billionaire's Cold Heart

Emma.

It always rains when you're already running late. That's just life's cruel humor.

By the time I made it to Lexington Avenue, I was drenched my shoes squished with every step, and the freezing rain stuck to my skin like punishment. I clutched my coat tighter, but it was thin and useless against the downpour. I wasn't surprised. Nothing in my life was built to last.

The golden glow of Maison Bleu shimmered ahead, looking like something out of a dream. It was one of those places where people dropped a week's paycheck on a dinner. For me, it was a job barely. The place never really felt like mine. I served their food, smiled their smiles, and melted into the background where I belonged.

I shoved open the back staff door and skidded on the slick floor.

"Emma!" Marcus barked without looking up from his clipboard. "Twelve minutes late."

"I'm sorry." I ripped off my dripping hoodie, shivering. "The train-"

"Table Seven. Do not screw this one up."

My fingers fumbled with the apron string. He was already gone.

At twenty years old, I'd grown used to rushing, apologizing, surviving. I had no family. No home-cooked meals waiting. No savings. Just a cramped apartment that smelled like old paint, a manager who barely remembered my name, and a job that made me feel invisible. Still... I was lucky to have it.

"Hey, you okay?" Nina asked as I grabbed my order pad. Her eyes scanned me, concern flickering beneath her sarcasm. "You look like a drowned kitten."

I gave a weak laugh. "I'll live."

"You sure you don't want my spare boots?"

"I can't take those from you."

"Emma, I wear size ten. You're like... a five and a half. They're not doing me any good."

I smiled. She meant well. "Thanks, Nina. I'll be okay."

She glanced over my shoulder toward the dining area and her face twisted. "Yikes. You've got Table Seven. That's Ice King."

"Ice King?"

"Tall. Silent. Cold as death. Rich enough to buy this whole block and not flinch. Comes in once a month, same seat, same drink. Nobody knows why. He gives people nightmares."

Great.

I stepped out onto the floor and immediately felt the shift in energy. Laughter, clinking glasses, hushed conversations it all faded around him.

He sat in the far booth, alone.

Black tailored suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie, just relaxed power. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, and he had this unsettling stillness about him as if even blinking was beneath him. He looked like a man used to being obeyed, not entertained.

And yet, somehow, his gaze was already on me.

Damian Vale.

I'd never seen him in person before, but I didn't have to. His face was everywhere magazines, TV, even Times Square ads. Twenty-eight. Billionaire. Ruthless. The kind of man who could ruin people with a phone call and sleep just fine afterward.

He was staring at me now. Not politely. Not kindly. Just... calculating.

I walked over slowly, careful not to trip on the polished floor.

"Good evening, sir. Would you like to hear today's specials?"

His head tilted, slightly.

His eyes roamed down my wet shoes, my limp ponytail, my soaked sleeves and back up.

"No," he said, voice deep and controlled. "Just a scotch. Neat."

I nodded. "Right away."

I turned to leave, grateful for the excuse to breathe again, but then he spoke.

"What's your name?"

I paused. "Emma."

"You're new."

"I've worked here for four months."

He took a moment before replying. "You're easy to miss."

Ouch.

It wasn't even the words it was the effortless way he said them. Like I didn't matter. Like I never could.

I forced a smile and walked away, telling myself not to care. People like Damian Vale didn't notice people like me. And when they did, it usually didn't end well.

I brought him the drink a few minutes later, careful not to let my hands shake. He didn't say thank you. Just lifted the glass and sipped like I wasn't there anymore.

I spent the rest of the night pretending he wasn't either.

By the time my shift ended, my feet were killing me and my brain was fried. I was halfway through untying my apron in the staff room when Nina popped in, eyebrows raised.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You survived. You served Satan himself and didn't burst into flames. Color me impressed."

I laughed. "He barely spoke."

"That's worse. Silence is more terrifying."

I shrugged and grabbed my bag. "I doubt he even remembers me."

"Maybe," she said with a grin. "Or maybe you're the first thing that's made him blink in months."

I rolled my eyes and headed for the door.

It was nearly midnight by the time I made it home. My apartment was on the third floor of a tired walk-up in Queens. The hallway lights flickered, and the door stuck when I pushed it open. I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my soaked shoes.

The place was small. One window. A creaky twin bed. A fridge that hummed louder than it cooled. There was a hole in the bathroom tile I'd covered with duct tape.

Still, it was mine. I paid for it. Somehow.

I changed into dry clothes and curled up on the bed with a can of beans I didn't even bother to heat. I ate straight from the can and listened to the wind rattle the fire escape.

Nights like this always made me think of my mom.

She used to tell me the rain meant the sky was crying for someone else's pain so mine didn't have to.

That was a long time ago.

Now, I wasn't sure anyone or anything cried for me.

The next morning, I got to the restaurant early, hoping to pick up a breakfast shift. Marcus barely looked up when I walked in.

"You've got a delivery."

"A what?"

He handed me a small cream colored envelope with my name written in perfect, looping cursive.

I stared at it for a moment before opening it.

Inside was a single card.

Miss Carter,

You left an impression.

I'd like to speak with you-privately.

-D. Vale

P.S. Consider this an invitation. Don't say no.

My hands trembled.

He knew my name, my full name. I never told him that.

How did he.....

I gripped the counter to keep from swaying. The envelope crinkled in my fingers.

This couldn't be real.

What did a billionaire like Damian Vale want with someone like me?