Billionairess By Survival

SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW

The car slowed in front of a cute little townhouse tucked away in a quiet street in Long Beach. The sun had dipped lower now, painting the sky in soft orange and pink. The air smelled like salt and peace. For the first time in hours, I could breathe a little.

Bianca turned to me with a soft smile. “This the place?”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s Becca’s house. She’s… kind of all I’ve got right now.”

Bianca reached for her purse and pulled out a small stack of crisp bills, folded them once, and handed them to me.

I blinked. “Wait—Bianca, no, I can’t—”

She pressed it into my hand. “You’re not taking charity. You’re taking a soft place to land until your wings grow back.”

I swallowed. “Thank you. Seriously.”

She smiled, that calm, expensive kind of smile. “Get some rest, Sierra Morgan.”

I gave a small laugh. “Right. Morgan.”

“You don’t owe him anything anymore. Not even the name.”

I nodded, heart swelling with something between relief and a brand new kind of sadness. “I’ll never forget this.”

Bianca winked. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

Then the car door opened, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk with my bags. I turned back one last time. Bianca gave a little wave before the tinted car glided away, smooth and clean, like her.

I exhaled, turned to the gate, and walked up to the door.

My knuckles hovered a second, then I knocked.

A few beats later, it creaked open—and there she was.

Becca.

Brown curls tied in a messy bun, wearing a huge tie-dye shirt and fuzzy socks, mascara smudged like she hadn’t taken it off in two days. Her mouth dropped open.

“Sierra?” she blinked. “What the hell—what happened?!”

My voice cracked. “Logan kicked me out.”

Her eyes flared, and she yanked me into a hug. My bags dropped, my arms wrapped around her tightly.

“I knew that man was trash. I knew it,” she mumbled into my hair. “But you—oh my God, are you okay? Did he hurt you again?”

“No,” I whispered. “Just… broke me a little.”

We pulled apart, and she looked at my face—mascara streaks, dried tears, puffy eyes.

“Come in, come in,” she said quickly, dragging me and my bags inside. “Wait, how’d you even get here?”

I wiped my face. “A woman helped me. Bianca Brown.”

Becca froze mid-step. “Bianca Brown?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Becca’s eyes widened. “As in the billionaire beauty icon Bianca Brown? The woman with the yacht named Freedom?”

“Yup,” I said, exhausted.

Becca stared at me like I had grown a halo. “Girl, you left Logan Hart this evening and you’re already rubbing elbows with the queen of glow-ups? This is fate.”

I laughed, tired but real. “Yeah, it’s wild.”

“Wild?” she said, grinning. “It’s divine intervention. You’ve been upgraded by the universe!”

She nudged me toward the guest room. “But first—go lie down. You look like you’ve wrestled with life and lost.”

I laughed again. “I feel like it.”

She pulled back the covers and gestured. “Rest. We’ll talk more after you’ve eaten and slept for ten years.”

I dropped onto the bed, the weight of everything hitting me all over again—but this time, it wasn’t crushing. It was just… real.

And somehow, in the chaos of it all, I was finally safe. So I slept off..

The scent of bacon and buttermilk pancakes dragged me out of sleep like a warm hand pulling me gently from the weight of darkness.

My head still hurt. A slow, dull throb settled right behind my eye. My neck was stiff. My arms, my legs… they still carried the soreness from last night. From his fists. From all the nights before this one.

But the ache in my chest? That one stayed the same. It never left. It was just… there. Constant. A hollow.

I blinked, trying to adjust to the soft morning light streaming through the sheer white curtains in Becca’s living room. She’d thrown a comforter over me sometime in the night. A real one. Soft. Clean. It smelled like lavender and her vanilla body spray.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

And then I heard her heels.

Click. Click. Click.

I looked up and there she was—Becca. Dressed already in her work outfit, like the boss she was. Long black pencil skirt hugging her hips, light blue shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled neatly at her elbows. Her hair was up in the tight bun she always wore when she meant business. She had this no-nonsense look on her face, but when her eyes met mine, it melted.

“Morning,” she said gently, setting a glass of orange juice on the coffee table next to a steaming plate.

“Morning,” I croaked. My voice sounded broken.

She crouched in front of me again, just like last night, and brushed a few strands of hair off my face. “I made you breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Toast, too. I didn’t know what you’d feel like, so I made a little of everything.”

My throat tightened.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” she cut me off softly, with a small smile. “You need food." You need warmth. You need to feel like a person again.”

She paused, eyes scanning the bruise around my eye, the small cuts on my lip. I saw the fire flash again in her gaze. The anger. She wanted to kill him. I knew it.

“You going to eat?” she asked.

I nodded slowly.

“Good. The tea’s still hot. I put the painkillers right next to the plate.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m heading to work, but I’m just a call away. Literally. My phone stays in my pocket all day.”

I watched her walk toward the door, grabbing her purse and keys. Then she stopped. Turned. Walked right back over to me.

She sat beside me on the couch and took my hand.

“Seirra,” she said, voice softer now. “It’s gonna be okay.”

I stared down at my hands. They were trembling.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. But it’s over. You’re out. And I’m proud of you. Do you hear me? You got out.”

Tears welled in my eyes, finally.

“You’re safe. And we’ll take it one day at a time.”

I leaned my head on her shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.”

She kissed the top of my head and stood again.

“Eat something, babe. Then shower, take a nap. Watch trash TV. I don’t care what you do today, but just—rest. I got you.”

And then she was gone.

And for the first time in forever, someone actually meant it when they said they got me.

The pancakes were sweet. A little too sweet. But I kept eating.

My legs were curled under the blanket, my hair still stuck to the side of my cheek with dried tears and sweat. The TV screen glowed in front of me, playing one of those movies Becca loved—where the woman rises up, becomes a boss, runs a company, and wears designer heels while stepping on necks. That kind of story.

The lady in the film had this confidence. This fire. She didn’t take shit from anyone. Every time she walked into a room, people looked. Every time she spoke, people listened. She had money. Power. Control.

Everything I didn’t have.

I stared at her, then at myself. I let the fork drop from my fingers onto the plate, half-eaten bacon still there. Something heavy sat in my chest. I couldn’t shake it off.

I got up slowly, limbs aching as I walked to the small mirror hanging near the front door. Becca’s apartment wasn’t huge, but it was neat. Bright. Soft. The kind of place that looked lived in with love. It didn’t match the reflection staring back at me.

I looked horrible.

My eye was bruised purple and yellow. My lip cracked and dry. My skin looked dull, lifeless. My hair was a matted mess of sweat and shame. My shirt was wrinkled, probably still stained from the soup I spilled days ago while begging Logan to just sit down with me—to just see me.

And then I said it.

Out loud.

“Pathetic.”

My voice cracked.

I was pathetic.

Dirty. Poor. Unloved.

I stepped back from the mirror like it was going to slap me. Then I stormed into the guest bathroom, ripped off the shirt, the pants, the stained bra. I turned on the shower as hot as I could take it, and I stood under it like I was trying to burn the past off my skin.

I washed until I didn’t feel the ache in my muscles anymore. Until the sob that was stuck in my throat finally came out. Until my legs gave out and I sat down, hugging my knees as the water poured down on me.

When I was done, I wrapped myself in a towel and walked into the room Becca said I could use. I pulled on a black hoodie and some faded jeans. My old clothes. I didn’t bother opening the suitcase I packed from Logan’s place. The designer dresses. The jewelry. The heels.

What was the point?

I wasn’t going anywhere fancy again. Nobody was inviting me to galas or fundraisers. I wasn’t a wife anymore. I was just… me.

But even being me felt foreign.

Still, one thing stuck in my mind like a splinter:

I couldn’t keep depending on Becca.

I couldn’t keep eating her food, using her power, showering in her bathroom like a stray dog. She wasn’t just giving me space—she was giving me a second chance at breathing. And I didn’t want to waste it.

I needed to get a job.

I needed to do something.

But who would even hire me? Looking like this. Feeling like this.

And if I’m being honest—I didn’t even want to leave the house. I didn’t want to face anyone. Not with these bruises. Not with this shame.

But what choice did I have?

I had to live. Somehow.