THE BILLIONAIRES PLAY THING

"Ethan, I just can't keep doing this for you. Your rent is three months late." My landlord's voice shouted through the thin door, full of irritation. I didn't even bother responding. What was the use? Was I to say that the money was coming? That all would be fine? That I'll pay soon? They were all lies. And he already knew them all.

I sat down at the end of my bed, staring at the pile of unpaid bills resting on the nightstand. They looked more like frustration with the touch of death sentence than they did actual papers.

Electricity overdue.

Rent overdue.

Loan sharks curling around.

And my mom… vanished.

I had borrowed, begged for so many favors, saved every penny I could just to buy her more time. But it was not enough. Her health diminished until she dwindled away, leaving me with only debt, pain and silence.

And the silence was more piercing than any threat from my borrowers. No safety net, no family. Just me choking in misery.

I laid on the bed and grabbed my phone. Job hunting had become my religion for weeks now. Scroll, click, apply and a day or couple of hours later, get a rejection. Either "You're underqualified." Or "Not qualified." Sometimes I got no rejection, just blank.

Anger boiled in my chest. "Shit," I growled, ready to throw the phone on the ground. But just as I was about to, something caught my attention.

A little ad. Sitting at the bottom of the page on an ad website, so old it could have been more suited to the '90s.

"Male companionship in exchange for security. Discretion guaranteed. Serious inquiries only."

I laughed loud. "Right."

At first, that was all I could do. Laugh. Who would even post such things? And then I reread it. And again… and then my heart started racing, because… what if?

I understood what "companionship" meant and I knew how much these rich women were willing to pay for it. I wrestled with my pride, this was not my code, but codes did not pay the bills and this would.

My thumb hovered over the reply key for minutes. My heart pounded as if I were going to jump off a cliff. And in fact, I felt as if maybe, just maybe I was.

But finally, I laid my standards aside and pressed two words on my keyboard.

"I'm interested."

The response came almost immediately. I was sent a private email. It was short and direct:

"Meet me at The Blackwell Tower at 8 PM. Penthouse. Alone."

Just the kind of vague message that made you wonder if you'd even see tomorrow. I should have shut my laptop and headed back to figuring out what piece of furniture I could sell again but instead, I was showering, shaving and trying to make myself look like a human who hadn't been chewed up and spat out by life.