POV: Elena Vasquez
The alarm on my cracked phone buzzed like a hornet trapped in a jar, yanking me from a dream where money grew on trees and bills paid themselves. I slapped it silent and groaned, my body aching from another night curled up on the lumpy couch in our two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. At twenty-five, I shouldn't be living like this: sandwiched between my mom's raspy coughs from the bedroom and my little brother Marco's snores from the floor mat he called a bed. But life had other plans.
I swung my legs over the edge, bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. The kitchenette smelled like last night's arroz con gandules, reheated for the third time. Mom's medication bills were piling up faster than the eviction notices taped to our door. Dad would've fixed this. He always did, with his booming laugh and endless shifts at the restaurant. But cancer didn't care about hardworking men. It took him six months ago, and with him went La Isla Dorada, our family's Puerto Rican eatery in Queens. One bad loan from the wrong people, and poof, everything gone.
"Elena, mija?" Mom's voice croaked from behind the thin wall. "You got work today?"
I forced a smile she couldn't see. "Interview, Mamá. Big one. Don't worry."
She mumbled something about saints and coffee. I poured her a cup, black and strong, and set it by her bed before kissing her forehead. Her skin felt too warm, like always. The doctor's visits were another debt I couldn't touch.
Marco stirred as I grabbed my resume printed at the library because our printer died last year. "Sis, you look like crap," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. At sixteen, he was all gangly limbs and attitude, but his grin softened the jab.
"Thanks, kid. Watch Mom while I'm gone. No skipping school."
He saluted lazily. "Aye, aye, Captain Debt."
I ruffled his hair and bolted out the door, the stairwell echoing with distant arguments from neighbors. Brooklyn in late spring was alive; vendors hawking empanadas, kids dodging potholes on bikes, the subway rumble vibrating through my sneakers. But under the buzz, desperation clawed at me. Three temp jobs this month: filing for a lawyer who pinched my ass, waitressing at a dive where tips barely covered MetroCards, and data entry that paid in pennies. My bank app mocked me with a balance of $47.32. Eviction in two weeks. Creditors calling nonstop. I needed a miracle.
The subway spat me out in Midtown, where suits and skyscrapers made me feel like an intruder in my thrift-store blouse and skirt. The ad had caught my eye on a job board yesterday: Personal Assistant to CEO. Hamptons estate. $5,000/week + room/board. Discretion required. Five grand a week? That was insane. Enough to clear Mom's meds, Marco's tuition, and maybe breathe without panic attacks. I didn't care about discretion. I applied with a rushed email, attaching my resume from running the restaurant's books. Organization was my superpower.
The interview spot was a sleek coffee shop off Fifth Avenue, all chrome and overpriced lattes. I arrived early, practicing my pitch in the bathroom mirror: Elena Vasquez, twenty-five, bilingual, Excel wizard, unflappable under pressure. Lies? No. Exaggerations? Maybe the unflappable part.
At exactly 10 a.m., the door chimed, and in walked him. Alexander Kane. I'd googled him last night: tech billionaire, thirty-two, founder of Kane Innovations. AI security software that guarded Fortune 500 secrets. Face like a sculpture: sharp jaw, dark tousled hair, piercing blue eyes that could freeze lava. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders filling out a tailored navy suit. The kind of man who owned rooms without trying.
"Ms. Vasquez?" His voice was low, smooth, like aged whiskey. He extended a hand, his grip firm, sending an unexpected jolt up my arm.
"Mr. Kane. Pleasure." I met his gaze, refusing to shrink. Nerves? Sure. But I'd faced loan sharks scarier than this pretty boy.
He gestured to a corner table, away from prying ears. "Let's skip the formalities. Your resume intrigues me. Restaurant management; impressive chaos control."
I sat, crossing my legs. "Chaos is my middle name. Dad taught me: keep the books tight, the staff tighter, and the customers happy. Until... well, life happened."
Sympathy flickered in his eyes, gone in a blink. "Condolences. But skills transfer. I need someone to tame my chaos. Schedules, travel, confidential correspondence. The job's live-in at my Hamptons estate. Start tomorrow if you're in."
Live-in? Hamptons? My pulse raced. "Why me? You could hire anyone."
A half-smile tugged his lips. "You applied. And..." He leaned in, voice dropping. "You don't look like you'd take my shit."
I laughed: sharp, real. "Damn right. I call it like I see it."
His eyes held mine, something sparking there. Attraction? Nah, just the power imbalance playing tricks. "Good. Trial week: $2,500. Prove yourself, it's yours."
I swallowed. It was a lifeline. "Deal."
We shook again, his thumb brushing my knuckle a beat too long. Heat flushed my cheeks. Get it together, Elena.
As he stood, he slid a card across the table. "Black car waits outside. Pack light, everything you need is there."
I nodded, heart pounding. From broke in Brooklyn to billionaire's mansion in twenty-four hours. What could go wrong?
The car purred up to the estate as dusk painted the Atlantic gold. Holy shit. The mansion was a glass-and-steel palace on a cliff, infinity pool shimmering like liquid diamonds. Security gates hummed open, and a butler, not a joke, took my duffel.
"Welcome, Ms. Vasquez," he said. "Mr. Kane awaits in the study."
I followed, heels clicking on marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean. Alexander stood by a fireplace, sleeves rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms. Tech bro with edge? Interesting.
"First task," he said, handing me a tablet. "Sort this mess. Dinner at eight, work through it."
Bossy. But that paycheck... "On it."
As he left, I sank into a leather chair, fingers flying over the screen. Emails, flights, mergers. Chaos, indeed. But I thrived in it. Hours blurred. By seven, I'd color-coded his life.
A knock. "Dinner, miss." The butler again.
I followed to a dining room that screamed money: crystal chandelier, ocean view. Alexander entered, loosening his tie. "Progress?"
"Done. Your calendar was a war zone."
He chuckled, pouring wine. "Impressive. Join me?"
I hesitated. Professional boundary? Screw it. "Sure."
We ate lobster bisque, steak that melted. Conversation flowed: his rise from orphan to mogul after his parents' car crash (suspicious, he said cryptically), my abuela's recipes, dreams deferred. His laugh was rare, genuine. Eyes lingered on my lips.
"You remind me of someone," he murmured. "Fearless."
"Flattery gets you organized files," I teased.
Midnight struck. He walked me to my suite: king bed, balcony, closet stocked with clothes my size. Creepy? Or thoughtful?
"Sleep well, Elena." His voice wrapped around my name.
I closed the door, heart hammering. Day one: survived. But as I unpacked, my phone buzzed: a creditor's voicemail. Pay up, Vasquez, or we visit your mama.
I deleted it, steeling myself. This job? My ticket out. Alexander Kane? Just the boss.
Little did I know, I was already his gamble.