The smell of burnt decaf and lemon-scented floor wax was the soundtrack of my life. It was a thick, greasy heavy-metal song that stuck to my skin and nested in my hair.
I swiped a rag across Table Four, my shoulder blade giving a sharp, familiar pop. Six hours down. Two to go. If I picked up the double-shift on Sunday, I'd have just enough to cover the interest on Mom's last round of chemo bills. Just the interest. The actual debt was a mountain I was trying to move with a plastic spoon.
"Maya, honey, stop staring at the wood grain. You'll go blind," a raspy voice called out.
I looked up, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my aching eyes. Arthur Sterling sat in his usual corner booth, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched a ceramic mug. He was my favorite regular—a man who owned the most expensive suits I'd ever seen but preferred the $2.00 refills at a roadside diner.
"Just making sure it's shiny for you, Arthur," I said, leaning against the counter. "The usual? Sourdough toast, no butter?"
"And a bit of conversation to keep an old man from falling asleep," he chuckled, though the sound turned into a dry cough. "You look exhausted, girl. Why don't you take a seat for five minutes? The world won't end if Table Six stays sticky."
"The world won't, but my boss might," I whispered, though I moved closer. Arthur was the only person who didn't look at my uniform and see a servant. He saw me. "How's the heart, Arthur? You're looking a bit pale today."
"It's tired, Maya. Just like you." He reached out, patting my hand with a papery palm. "I wish my son had half your grit. He has all the money in the world and none of the soul."
I didn't know much about Arthur's son, other than the fact that he never visited the diner and his name was occasionally spat out by the morning news anchors. Reid Sterling. The 'Ice King' of the Sterling empire.
"Money buys a lot of things, Arthur," I said, thinking of the red 'Past Due' notices sitting on my kitchen table. "Soul is overrated when you're hungry."
Arthur's eyes turned sad. "Is that what you believe?"
Before I could answer, the bell above the door didn't just chime—it screamed.
The air in the diner changed instantly. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to die down, and the two truckers at the counter stopped mid-chew. A man stepped inside who looked like he'd been carved out of a glacier and dressed in five figures' worth of charcoal wool.
He didn't walk; he invaded.
He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at the decor. His eyes—a gray so cold they made my skin crawl—locked onto Arthur. And then, they flicked to me.
The look wasn't just dismissive. It was an accusation.
"Father," the man said. His voice was like a low-frequency vibration that made the spoons in the sugar caddy rattle. "The car is waiting. We have the board meeting in twenty minutes."
Arthur didn't move. "I'm finishing my sourdough, Reid. And I was talking to Maya."
Reid Sterling finally turned his full attention to me. He stepped closer, the scent of expensive sandalwood and cold rain clashing with the diner's grease. He looked at my name tag, then at my damp rag, his lip curling in a way that made me want to throw the dirty water at his perfectly pressed shirt.
"So, this is her," Reid said. It wasn't a question. It was a sneer. "The one who's been 'comforting' you for the last six months."
My pulse spiked. "I'm his waitress, Mr. Sterling. And 'comforting' usually involves a tip, which your father is much better at than I imagine you are."
A small, surprised spark hit his gray eyes. AI-generated heroines would have blushed or stuttered. I just gripped my rag tighter. I was too tired to be intimidated by a man who had never had to scrub a toilet in his life.
"Maya has more integrity in her pinky finger than you have in your entire legal team, Reid," Arthur snapped, his voice suddenly strong. "She's the only reason I still come to this part of town."
Reid didn't look at his father. He stared at me, his gaze traveling down to my worn-out sneakers. "I'm sure. Integrity is very expensive these days."
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. He didn't hand it to me. He dropped it onto the Formica table, right into a puddle of spilled water I hadn't wiped up yet.
"My father is a dying man with a romanticized view of the 'working class,'" Reid said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He wants to leave you a significant portion of his estate. I, however, do not intend to let a diner waitress dismantle a century-old legacy because she knows how to smile at an old man's jokes."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What is this?"
"An alternative," Reid said. "Open it."
I wiped my hands on my apron and pulled out the papers. My eyes blurred as I saw the numbers. Five. Million. Dollars.
My breath hitched. That wasn't just debt-clearing money. That was life-changing. That was 'never-scrub-a-floor-again' money.
"Five million," I whispered. "For what?"
"For one year," Reid said, leaning in so close I could see the flecks of ice in his irises. "My father's will has a 'stability' clause. He won't release my full inheritance unless I am married to someone he 'trusts.' Apparently, he trusts you."
He let out a short, bitter laugh.
"So, here is the deal, Maya. We sign a contract. We play house for twelve months. You stay out of my bed, out of my business, and out of my way. At the end of the year, you take your blood money and disappear. If you refuse..." his eyes turned lethal. "I will tie up my father's estate in probate for the next decade. You won't see a dime, and your mother's debts will bury you before I'm done."
He knew. He'd done his research. He knew about the bills, the late payments, the desperation.
He wasn't offering me a lifeline. He was buying my soul.
I looked at Arthur, who was looking at his shoes, then back at the man who clearly loathed the very air I breathed.
"Sign the last page," Reid commanded, sliding a heavy gold pen across the table. "Or go back to mopping floors. Choose quickly, Maya. My time is worth more than your life."
I looked at the pen. I looked at my red, chapped knuckles.
Then, I picked up the pen.