The Billionaire's Cure

Part 1: The Potato Sack

Elara Vance was currently trying to defy the laws of physics. Specifically, the law that stated a size zero girl could not fill out a size four waitress uniform without looking like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s closet.

"Safety pins," she muttered to herself, stabbing a third pin into the waist of the velvet dress. "God bless the inventor of safety pins."

She stood in the employee bathroom of The Onyx, the kind of club where a single cocktail cost more than her entire semester’s tuition. The mirror reflected her sad reality. The dress, which was supposed to be ‘sultry’ and ‘curve-hugging,’ hung off her petite frame like a curtain.

She turned to the side. Flat.

She turned to the other side. Still flat.

"I look like a plank of wood," she whispered, poking her stomach. "A plank of wood wrapped in expensive velvet. Why couldn't I have been born with hips? Or big boobs? Or literally any padding at all?"

She sighed, a long, tragic sound.

She was twenty-three, broke, and currently smelling like the blend of essential oils she’d been mixing for her perfumery final project—vanilla bean, petrichor (rain on dry earth), and a hint of white tea. It was a weird combo, but she couldn't afford to buy expensive perfumes, so she wore her own experiments.

"Elara! Move your ass!"

The manager’s voice boomed through the door.

"Coming!" Elara yelped. She adjusted the heavy tray in her hands, checked her reflection one last time (yep, still looks like a high schooler sneaking in) and kicked the door open.

Tonight was the ‘Gold Tier’ party. That meant billionaires. That meant tips. That meant she could finally pay the interest on her dad’s debt before the loan sharks decided to break his other leg.

Just smile, she told herself as she navigated the crowded floor. Smile, serve the drinks, don't trip, and definitely don't look the rich people in the eye. They smell fear.

She wove through the crowd of models and tycoons. The models were Amazonian goddesses, six feet tall, legs for days, curves that filled out their designer dresses perfectly. Elara felt like a hobbit in comparison.

"Excuse me," a man bumped into her, spilling a drop of champagne. He looked down at her, sneered, and kept walking.

"Oh, no problem at all, sir!" she chirped to his back, her voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. "I love wearing alcohol! It's the latest trend in Paris!"

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the VIP section. The manager had told her to deliver a bottle of the 1942 Scotch to the private balcony. Apparently, some VIP was up there sulking.

"Probably some old guy with a gout flare-up," she mumbled, adjusting her grip on the heavy tray. "Or a trust fund baby who dropped his caviar."

She reached the heavy oak door marked private. She took a deep breath.

Showtime, Elara. Be professional. Be sexy. Or at least, try not to be a potato.

Part 2: The Walking Dead

Kaelen Thorne was contemplating murder.

Specifically, the murder of the DJ.

Every bass drop felt like a sledgehammer smashing into his frontal lobe. Kaelen sat in the shadows of the VIP balcony, his body rigid, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests of the leather chair.

Time since last sleep: 74 hours.

Current mental state: Fraying.

"Sir?" His assistant, Marcus, whispered from the doorway. Marcus looked terrified. Good. He should be.

"I told you," Kaelen’s voice was a low, jagged growl, "to clear the floor."

"We... we can't clear the floor, sir. It's the Mayor's birthday party. But I brought the painkillers you asked for."

"They don't work," Kaelen snapped. He stood up, and the world tilted on its axis. Black spots danced in his vision. He was a man running on fumes, a machine with its gears grinding together without oil.

He walked to the balcony railing and looked down at the writhing mass of people below. They looked like ants. Disgusting, loud, happy ants.

He hated them.

He hated the noise. He hated the light. But mostly, he hated the fact that he was the CEO of Thorne Global, a man who could buy small countries, yet he couldn't buy a single night of sleep.

The insomnia was a curse from his childhood, a parting gift from the trauma that had killed his parents. It had turned him into this, a monster with hollowed-out eyes and a temper that shattered boardrooms.

"I need a drink," Kaelen muttered, turning back to the empty room. "Where is the damn scotch?"

The door creaked.

Kaelen spun around, his rage spiking. If it was Marcus again, he was going to fire him. Out of a cannon.

But it wasn't Marcus.

It was a girl.

And she was... tiny.

She stumbled into the room, wrestling with a door handle that was clearly too heavy for her. She spun around, the heavy silver tray in her hands wobbling dangerously.

"Delivery!" she announced, her voice slightly too loud, sounding like she was trying to convince herself she belonged there. "One bottle of expensive brown liquid for the... uh..."

She stopped.

She had finally looked up.

Kaelen stood in the center of the room, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the black ink of a tattoo creeping up his throat. He knew what he looked like. He looked like death warmed over. He looked like violence.

The girl blinked. Her hazel eyes went wide.

"Oh," she said, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. "You're not an old guy with gout."

Kaelen frowned. The sheer absurdity of the comment made his brain pause.

"What?"

"Nothing!" She squeaked, taking a step back. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his chest, then his face. "I just... I have your scotch. Sir. Mr. Scary Sir."

She took a step forward to put the tray down, but her heel caught on the plush rug.

It happened in slow motion.

The tray tipped.

The expensive crystal bottle launched into the air.

Elara flailed, her arms windmilling.

"Whoa!"

Kaelen moved on instinct. Despite his exhaustion, his reflexes were honed by years of martial arts. He surged forward, catching the bottle in one hand and grabbing the girl’s arm with the other to stop her from face-planting into the glass table.

He yanked her upright.

The momentum slammed her into his chest. Hard.

"Oof!" air left her lungs.

Kaelen looked down. She was so small she barely reached his chin. He could snap her in half with one hand. He prepared to shove her away, to yell at her for being incompetent, to demand she be fired.

But then he inhaled.

It hit him like a physical wave.

Vanilla. Rain. Silence.

It wasn't just a smell. It was a neurological reset. The moment the scent flooded his nostrils, the sledgehammer in his head vanished. The static noise that had been screaming in his ears for three days simply... cut out.

His grip on her arm tightened.

Elara was currently panicking. Oh my god, I almost broke the 1942 Scotch. That costs more than my kidney. And now I’m glued to the chest of a man who looks like a tattooed Viking demon.

She looked up at him, trembling. "I am so sorry! I have terrible balance. My center of gravity is weird because I'm short and—"

"Shut up," he rasped.

Elara clamped her mouth shut. Okay. He’s going to kill me. Nice knowing you, world.

But he didn't kill her.

He dropped the bottle onto the sofa.

And then, he did something that made her brain short-circuit.

He buried his face in her neck.

Elara froze, her hands hovering awkwardly in the air. His nose brushed the sensitive skin behind her ear, inhaling deeply, like a starving man smelling a feast. His breath was hot, sending a shiver (a very confusing, non-scary shiver) straight down her spine.

"Um... Sir?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "If this is a vampire thing, I have anemia. My blood is low quality."

"Quiet," he groaned. The sound vibrated against her collarbone.

Kaelen’s eyes rolled back in his head. The relief was orgasmic. The darkness was pulling him down, heavy and sweet. He couldn't stand. His knees buckled.

"Whoa, hey!" Elara yelped as his full weight collapsed onto her.

She wasn't strong enough to hold him up. They went down together, tumbling onto the oversized leather couch. Elara landed on her back, and Kaelen landed directly on top of her, his heavy frame pinning her into the cushions.

She was trapped. Squished.

A billionaire sandwich.

"Sir!" she hissed, trying to push at his broad shoulders. They were hard as rocks. "You can't just... nap on me! I have tables to serve! I have a manager who hates me!"

Kaelen didn't answer. His breathing had already evened out. Deep, rhythmic, heavy breaths.

He was out cold.

Elara lay there, staring up at the dim ceiling of the VIP suite. The most terrifying man she had ever seen was currently cuddling her like a teddy bear, his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck, one heavy leg thrown over hers to keep her in place.

She tried to wiggle. He growled in his sleep, a low, possessive sound and tightened his arm around her waist.

"Great," Elara whispered to the empty room. "Just great. I’m a human mattress. I wonder if I can charge hourly for this?"