Marrying The Broke Billionaire In Disguise

The springs of the narrow twin bed screamed in protest every time Josiah breathed. It was 2:00 AM. The neon sign from the bodega across the street flashed red light through the thin curtains, painting the ceiling in violent strokes. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Josiah lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. His skin was on fire. The cheap polyester shirt he had worn all day was coated in toxic dyes. His body, accustomed to organic silk and pure cotton, was aggressively rejecting it. He sat up, digging his fingernails into his forearms. He scratched until the skin turned raw and red. The physical discomfort was maddening. He wanted to call Milo, order a helicopter, and sleep in his temperature-controlled penthouse. Then, he saw a sliver of yellow light bleeding from under the bedroom door. He heard the rapid, quiet clicking of a laptop keyboard. Josiah swung his legs over the side of the bed. He walked to the door and opened it an inch. Flora sat at the small kitchen table. The glow of the screen illuminated the deep, purple bags under her eyes. She was staring at a spreadsheet filled with loan applications, interest rates, and budget cuts. She was trying to figure out how to pay his fake debts. Josiah stopped breathing. The burning itch on his arms vanished, replaced by a crushing weight in the center of his chest. Flora sighed, rubbing her temples. She turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway. She slammed the laptop shut, her cheeks flushing dark red. "I thought you were asleep." Josiah stepped fully into the room. Flora's eyes immediately dropped to his arms. She saw the angry, raised red welts covering his skin. She gasped, jumping out of her chair. She grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm under the kitchen light. "Oh my god, you're having an allergic reaction," Flora said, her voice laced with guilt. "It's the laundry detergent I use. Or the shirt. I'm so sorry." She dropped his hand and ran to the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet. Josiah stood frozen. He wanted to tell her he was just allergic to being poor. The words piled up in his throat, choking him. Flora rushed back with a tube of hydrocortisone cream. She squeezed a cold dollop onto her fingers and began rubbing it gently into the angry red skin of his forearm. Her fingertips were cool. The soothing motion sent a violent shudder through Josiah's entire body. He looked down at the top of her head, watching the way her eyebrows pulled together in deep concentration. "Bankruptcy isn't a death sentence, Josiah," Flora said softly, keeping her eyes on his arm. "The scary part isn't losing the money. It's losing the nerve to start over." The words hit Josiah like a physical strike to the jaw. He had spent his entire life destroying competitors from a glass tower. He had never known what it meant to actually bleed for survival. Josiah reached out and wrapped his hand over hers, stopping her movements. "Thank you," he said. His voice was thick and raspy. Flora looked up. Her breath hitched. She pulled her hand back quickly, stepping away. "Go back to sleep." Josiah walked back to his room. He looked at the cheap shirt draped over the chair. Suddenly, he didn't hate it as much. The next morning, Flora left for the hospital before the sun came up. The moment the front door clicked shut, Josiah opened his eyes. He reached under the mattress and pulled out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone. He dialed Milo. "The company that manufactures the brand of shirt I bought yesterday," Josiah said, his voice cold and lethal, a dangerous edge bleeding into his words. "Find the quality control reports for their factories. Leak them to an industry watchdog blog. I want their stock to take a noticeable hit by morning." Milo coughed on the other end of the line, clearly trying to hide a laugh at the absurdity of the request. "Personal vendetta against a budget brand, Boss?" "Just do it," Josiah snapped, his jaw clenching as he hung up the phone. He walked into the kitchen. He saw the piece of paper Flora had left on the table. It was her handwritten budget. She had calculated her expenses down to the exact cent. Josiah picked up a pen. His business instincts took over. He started writing a financial restructuring plan in the margins. He wrote three lines before he realized what he was doing. He was going to blow his cover. He grabbed an eraser and scrubbed the paper so hard it tore a hole straight through the budget. Josiah stared at the torn paper, a surge of frustration boiling in his blood. He felt clumsy. He felt useless. He opened the refrigerator. There were two eggs, half a loaf of stale bread, and some milk. Josiah rolled up his sleeves. He cracked the eggs with one hand. He whisked them with precise, calculated movements. He soaked the bread, heated the cheap pan, and cooked. Ten minutes later, two perfectly golden, caramelized pieces of French toast sat on the chipped ceramic plates. The smell of butter and cinnamon filled the tiny apartment. He stared at the plates, waiting for her to come home.