Chapter 3 - The Billionaire's Back Alley
Standing across the cutting table from the impeccably dressed woman in Bellamy Fabrics, those words echoed in my ears like a cruel joke.
Neither do I.
No kidding. Because while I was sweating over fabric invoices and budgeting every single roll of cotton so I could afford to buy Lily her new winter coat, Ryan Mercer—Chief Executive Officer of Mercer Development Group, master of high-rise real estate, and heir to a multi-generational real estate dynasty—was slumming it in a drafty third-floor apartment on the south side of Chicago like it was an immersive theater production.
"Who are you?" I managed to force past the tight knot in my throat, glaring at the woman across the table.
"My name is Victoria Sterling," she said, smoothing the lapel of her cashmere coat with manicured fingers that sparkled with enough diamond weight to pay off my mortgage. "And I am—or rather, I was—Ryan's fiancée. Until three weeks ago, when he suddenly packed a single duffel bag, abandoned our penthouse in Streeterville, ignored my calls, and dropped off the face of the earth."
The room tilted. Streeterville. Not Wisconsin. Not a small-town construction firm. A multi-million-dollar luxury high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan, complete with a doorman, valet parking, and private elevators.
"Why?" I choked out, gripping the edge of the wooden table so hard my knuckles turned ghostly white. "Why would he do that? Why would a billionaire pretend to be a broke warehouse stocker living in a roach-infested building?"
Victoria let out a cold, elegant sigh, as if explaining complex quantum physics to a slow child. "Ryan has this ridiculous, romanticized obsession with being 'self-made.' His father founded Mercer Development, and Ryan took over three years ago. But the media—and our board of directors—have a habit of whispering that he was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. He wanted to prove he could survive in the real world. He wanted to strip away his money, his name, his security, and see if he could make it entirely on his own two feet. He wanted a 'pure' experience."
A cold, blinding fury began to pulse behind my eyes, hot and sharp enough to cut through the shock.
A pure experience.
To Ryan Mercer, my entire life—the grinding, bone-weary exhaustion of working six days a week, the constant, low-humming panic of checking bank balances, the sleepless nights spent calculating whether to pay the electric bill or buy groceries—wasn't a tragedy.
It was a vacation.
It was an immersive camping trip into poverty. A weekend hobby he could pack up and walk away from whenever the rustic charm wore off.
"And you?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, laced with venom. "Why are you here in my shop?"
Victoria’s composure cracked for just a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, raw humiliation crossing her polished features. "Because his board is panicking. Our annual shareholder meeting is in two weeks, and half of our major development deals are hanging by a thread because our CEO is currently working for minimum wage at a hardware store on 32nd Street like a lunatic. I tracked his credit card usage at the corner bodega. And then I found out... why he was staying."
She leaned forward, resting her palms on the cutting table, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto mine.
"He told his executive assistant he was 'clearing his head,'" Victoria whispered, venom dripping from every syllable. "But when I dug deeper, I found out he's been spending every evening in a third-floor apartment with a local fabric-shop clerk. He's playing house, Ms. Brooks. And it's time the game ended."
She reached across the table, picked up her phone, slipped it back into her handbag with a crisp click, and turned toward the door.
May you like
"He's hosting a corporate gala tonight at the Drake Hotel," Victoria tossed over her shoulder as she walked toward the exit. "If you want to see what reality looks like for a Mercer, I left the address on the screen. Though I'd advise against wearing that apron. You might not get past the velvet ropes."
The brass bell chimed once more as the door swung shut, leaving me standing alone in the quiet warmth of my shop, surrounded by bolts of colorful fabric that suddenly felt like a prison cell.
