Ava Monroe's POV
"Wait—you're actually charging me for that coffee?"
The barista blinked like I'd just asked him to solve advanced calculus. His hand paused midair, caught between the register and a paper cup.
"Uh… yes?"
"Right. Sure." My smile felt like it's held together with duct tape and denial. "Never mind."
I dug around my bag until my fingers found a crumpled five-dollar bill—the last lonely note in my wallet. It's warm from my hand, and I slid it across the counter like it was heavier than it is. He hesitated, then took it without a word.
It's not just one of those days. It's been one of those months. Maybe years.
The cup burned my palm through the cardboard sleeve. The coffee is too bitter, but maybe that's fitting. I shuffled toward my usual corner table, the one farthest from the door, and started spreading my mess across it—laptop, notebooks, tangled cords that probably breed when I'm not looking.
My laptop woke up with the enthusiasm of a cat at 5 a.m.—slow, flickering, slightly offended.
Ping. Email. Final reminder: Hosting payment due today, or account suspended.
Connect space. My baby. My curse. Two years of work for an app meant to bridge the deaf and hearing worlds, using live sign language interpretation. And right now, it's on life support, and the only thing keeping it breathing is my refusal to let it die.
"Still alive?"
I glanced up to see Mel dropping into the chair opposite me. Same wild curls as always, eyeliner smudged like she's been through three meetings and a war. She gave me the here-to-save-you look, which was both comforting and mildly irritating.
"You look like someone just told you puppies are mythical creatures," she said.
I pushed my laptop halfway shut. "Hosting bill. Two-fifty. Which may as well be two million."
She frowned. "Thought that investor liked your pitch?"
"Oh, he loved it," I said with a bitter laugh.
"Said it was 'solid,' but I have no traction. Translation? Come back when I've somehow conjured a thousand users without marketing money."
Mel leaned back, sighing the way people do when they're about to give unsolicited life advice. "So… now what?"
I stared at my cup. "Wait for a miracle, I guess."
She squeezed my hand, warm and reassuring. "You've worked too hard to—"
"I'm not quitting." The words came out sharper than intended. "I'm just stuck."
She smirked like she's about to pitch something ridiculous. "There's always a way."
"If it's selling my soul, I already checked eBay. No bids."
Her phone buzzed. She glances at it, mutters a curse, and bolts. "Text me if you need bail money."
And then she's gone, leaving me with bitter coffee and my dying app.
I opened the laptop again. The dashboard was blurred until I blink hard enough to clear it. Two years of ramen dinners, side gigs just to cover rent, and coding until sunrise.
Four missed calls light up my phone. Unknown number. Probably spam.
Then—ding. A text:
This is Oliver Hayes, assistant to Mr. Liam Greyson. He would like to meet you regarding a business opportunity.
I laughed out loud. Liam Greyson—the billionaire from the magazine covers? Sure. And I'm secretly royalty.
Nice try.
Three dots. Then:
This is not a joke. We saw you at the International Tech Expo this afternoon. Mr. Liam Greyson was impressed.
My stomach knots. I remember signing for Daniel, the keynote speaker who lost his interpreter last minute.
Another message:
Private meeting tomorrow, 10 a.m. Car service provided.
Car service. Private meeting. Words that felt like they wandered in from someone else's story.
Only two possibilities:
1. He wants to steal my app.
2. He wants something worse.
Either way, my hosting bill is still a time bomb.
The next morning, I'm up before my alarm. My apartment smells faintly of burnt toast because I tried multitasking breakfast and wardrobe decisions. I landed on a navy dress that doesn't wrinkle much and made me look almost like I have my life together.
At 9:15, a sleek black car slid to the curb. My neighbors peek through blinds like they were auditioning for a spy movie. The driver's polite, barely speaking as we headed downtown.
Liam Greyson Tower looked like someone designed it after deciding straight lines were overrated—glass curved, steel edged, all money and intimidation.
Inside, marble floors shone under gold accents. A wall of water trickled behind reception. The air smelled faintly of jasmine.
"Ms. Monroe?" the receptionist said smoothly. "Mr. Liam Greyson will see you now."
The elevator hums upward. My pulse kept pace with the floor numbers.
When the doors opened, Oliver was waiting—tall, crisp suit, handshake like a formality. He gestured towards the double glass doors.
Liam Greyson was taller than I imagined. Sharper. Like a statue carved to intimidate. His eyes are fixed on me, unreadable.
He gestured to the chair across from him. No small talk. Just slid a folder toward me.
I opened it, expecting a contract.
It's a marriage agreement.
With a number at the bottom—one million dollars.
"This is a joke, right?" I asked.
He shakes his head.
"You don't even know me."
He wrote on a notepad: I don't need to.
The silence between us thickened until I could feel it pressing against my skin.
I stood. "You've got the wrong person."
But back in the car, my hands won't stop shaking. A million dollars could save Connect space. It could give me back my life.
The folder ended up on my kitchen table. I tried to ignore it. I failed.
Just before midnight, I text Oliver:
I'll do it. But he will invest in my startup after.
The reply came in seconds:
Mr. Liam Greyson agrees. Car at 8 a.m.
I set my phone down.
My fingers were ice.
I've just agreed to marry a man I met less than twelve hours ago.
And something tells me this is the easy part.