My New Boyfriend Is A Billionaire

The silver "V" logo on the espresso machine didn't just represent a brand; it represented the person who currently owned my sleep schedule, my stress levels, and quite possibly my soul.

I wiped the steam wand with a rag that was definitely past its prime. Six hours down. Four to go. Forty-two dollars and fifty cents, minus tax that would inevitably claw back the price of a decent sandwich.

Rent math. Always the rent math.

"Izzy, you're doing it again," Jax whispered, sliding a dirty pitcher into the rinser.

"Doing what?" I didn't look up. I was staring at a ticket for a triple-shot oat milk latte with exactly two pumps of vanilla. Not one. Not three. People here didn't want coffee; they wanted control.

"The Thousand-Yard Stare. You look like you're calculating how many espresso beans it would take to build a ladder out of here."

"Forty-eight thousand, six hundred," I said, offering a sharp, tired smile — the one I used as armor when my feet felt like they were vibrating. "Give or take a few for structural integrity."

"Get some water. I'll take the line."

I didn't argue. I leaned my head against the cool tile and closed my eyes for three seconds — any longer and I'd fall asleep — and thought about the folder in my bag. My draft for the Econ 302 capstone. A masterpiece of grassroots data. The only thing standing between me and the one medical school recommendation letter the department handed out each year.

If I got that letter, I was out. I was a doctor.

The bell above the door chimed, bright and cheerful, the kind of sound that usually made me want to throw a portafilter. I straightened my apron and stepped back to the register.

Then I saw him.

Chase was wearing his "Future Senator" half-zip, blonde hair tousled in a way that screamed I have a trust fund and my parents love me, trailed by a cluster of pre-law juniors nodding at whatever he was saying. This wasn't a coffee run. This was a performance.

"Isabel," he said, reaching the counter. He didn't say my name like a person; he said it like an item on a checklist. "Busy shift?"

"It's a café, Chase. People drink coffee. It's a whole thing."

"I saw your preliminary data upload." He leaned his elbows onto the counter, invading the six inches of personal space I considered sovereign territory, and dropped his voice into that polished, academic register that made me feel like I was under a microscope. "We need to talk about the 'subjective quality' of your sourcing."

"The sourcing is verified. I spent thirty hours in the public archives."

"It's messy, Izzy. Emotionally charged." He tilted his head with sympathy that made my skin crawl. "I'm worried you're letting your background cloud the macro-logic. Miller wants institutional rigor, not a manifesto."

"It's not a manifesto. It's the truth."

"The truth is a variable," he said, loud enough for the students behind him to hear, smiling in a way that didn't reach his eyes. "And right now your variable is looking a little weak for that recommendation letter. Maybe focus more on the rubric and less on the struggle. Bad look."

A girl behind him whispered to her friend. Heat crawled up my neck. He was gaslighting me in my own workplace, using the letter like a leash.

"Is that all, or did you actually want to order something?"

"Black coffee." He tapped his phone against the reader. "And some advice? Drop the double shifts. You're too exhausted to think straight. Shame to tank your future over a few rent checks."

He walked off toward pickup, ducklings trailing behind. I gripped the register edge until the plastic bit into my palm. Tuition: pending. Rent: due in three days. Pride: currently at a deficit.

"Ignore him," Jax muttered. "He's a tool."

"He's a tool with a pen. He decides if I get that letter."

"Intelligence doesn't pay the electric bill," I said, my voice cracking just enough that I had to clear my throat.

By the time my shift ended, the sun hung purple over the quad. I stripped off my apron — the "V" logo feeling like a brand on my chest — and headed for the library. I couldn't go back to the dorm. If I went back, I'd see the eviction warning taped to the door, and I'd lose the only thing I had left: the ability to keep moving.

The library basement was stale air and flickering light — my favorite place on campus, because the Vance-tier students avoided it. Too dusty, too quiet, too real.

Someone was already in the carrel next to mine. Charcoal hoodie, hunched over a physical book, taking notes in a leather journal with a fountain pen. He didn't look like he belonged here. He looked like a transfer student who'd gotten lost on the way to the 21st century.

I dropped my bag with a heavy thud. He didn't flinch.

I opened my capstone folder. Feedback: Subjective. Lacks institutional rigor. The first hot tear hit my cheek. I wiped it away aggressively. I wasn't going to cry over Chase Miller.

I texted Bella: He's going to tank the letter. I'm doing everything right and it doesn't matter.

Izzy, breathe, she wrote back. What about that transfer guy in your Econ class? The moody poet one?

I glanced at the guy in the next carrel. Unreadable.

I reached to pack up, but my hand slipped, knocking papers onto the floor — they skittered under his desk.

"Sorry," I muttered, dropping to grab them.

He moved at the same time, long fingers picking up my audit draft, pausing on the top page.

"You're Isabel Reyes."

His voice wasn't what I expected — deep, level, entirely without the arrogance I was used to. The voice of someone who spent a lot of time listening.

"I'm a girl with a very messy bag," I said, snatching the papers back. "Thanks for the assist."

He looked at me. Startling metallic grey eyes. No smile, no platitude.

"Your data on the Vance & Co. labor adjustments," he said, gesturing at the page. "You're missing the 2022 internal restructuring logs."

I froze. "How do you know about the 2022 logs?"

"They aren't public. But you need them, or your argument stays subjective."

The word felt like a slap.

"Who are you?"

He stood, taller than I'd registered, pulling his hoodie tighter like he wanted to disappear back into the shadows.

"Leo," he said. "I'm your new capstone partner."

He reached for his phone, and a small plastic card slipped from his pocket onto the desk between us. Not a regular student ID — gold-flecked.

Leo Vance.

The air left the room. I looked at the thrifted hoodie, then the gold card, then his eyes, with a jolt of pure, hyper-vigilant terror.

"Vance," I whispered. "As in... the café?"

He didn't answer. I looked at the card again, then back at him, my mind racing through the rent I owed and the letter Chase was holding over my head.

"You're not a transfer student," I said. "You're the audit."