Chapter Five – The Cold Billionaire
If fear had a face, it would wear a suit. That was the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw him.
Alexander Knight.
I’d never seen him in person before, only in newspapers left on diner tables or headlines flashing on the little TV by the counter. He was the kind of man you couldn’t escape if you lived in this city—his name hovered everywhere, stitched into skyscrapers, whispered in business gossip, and occasionally spat out with equal parts envy and admiration.
And now here he was, standing less than five feet from me, looking at me like I was an interruption.
It happened at the diner.
The morning rush had already drained me, and I was balancing a tray of coffee mugs when the bell above the door chimed. I didn’t look up at first—customers came and went all the time, most of them not worth noticing. But then the air shifted, like someone had opened a window and let the cold in.
I looked. And I froze.
He didn’t belong here. That was the first thing I noticed. Alexander Knight looked like he’d been carved out of another world entirely—impeccable suit, sharp features, hair perfectly styled like even the wind respected him. His presence sucked the oxygen out of the room. Everyone noticed him. Carla dropped a spoon behind the counter. Two men in a booth went silent mid-conversation. Even Mrs. Porter stopped rattling her sugar packets.
But it was his eyes that pinned me in place. Cold. Calculated. Blue-gray like winter skies right before a storm. Eyes that measured, not admired.
I hated that I felt my hands shake.
“Table for one,” he said to no one in particular, his voice smooth but edged with steel.
Carla was frozen, so I forced my feet to move. “Right this way,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
I led him to a booth by the window, but he didn’t sit right away. He surveyed the diner like a king inspecting land he didn’t care to own. Finally, he sat, sliding into the booth with a kind of casual dominance that made the cracked vinyl cushions seem suddenly unworthy.
“Menu?” he asked.
I handed him one, though we both knew he wouldn’t find anything here worth his taste. Men like him didn’t eat bacon that came in bulk or pancakes flipped on grills older than me.
Still, he scanned it briefly, then set it aside. “Coffee. Black.”
Simple. Dismissive.
I nodded, turning too quickly toward the counter. My face burned. Why was he here? Alexander Knight didn’t wander into diners like this. He ate in places with white tablecloths and names I couldn’t pronounce. Unless…
My stomach clenched. Unless this had to do with Dad’s debt.
I brought the coffee, setting it down carefully. He didn’t thank me. He didn’t even look at me at first. His gaze stayed on the window, watching the street outside like the world owed him something. When he finally looked at me, it felt deliberate. A test.
“You’re Annabel Johnson,” he said.
My heart dropped. “How do you—?”
“I know many things.” His tone was flat, as though knowing my name was as unremarkable as knowing the weather. “You work here. You live with your father. He owes a debt he cannot pay.”
The room tilted. I gripped the tray against my hip to stay upright. “You—you work for them?”
One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “No. They work for me.”
The tray nearly slipped from my hands. I caught it just in time, my pulse pounding in my ears. “You’re saying—”
“I don’t repeat myself, Miss Johnson,” he interrupted. His eyes flicked down briefly, assessing me in a way that made me feel both invisible and exposed. “You’ve been dragged into something you don’t understand. Something your father was too foolish to avoid.”
I wanted to defend Dad, but the words stuck. The number—one hundred and fifty-five thousand—burned in my mind.
“What are you going to do?” My voice cracked. I hated that it did.
His expression didn’t change. “What I always do. Collect what’s mine.”
The words hit like ice water. My breath came too shallow. I glanced around the diner, half-hoping someone would interrupt, but everyone was pretending not to stare. I was alone.
“I can’t give you that kind of money,” I whispered.
“I know.” His tone was calm, almost bored. “Which is why you’ll listen to what I say, when I decide to say it.”
Rage sparked through my fear. “I’m not your pawn.”
Finally, finally, his mouth curved. But it wasn’t warmth—it was mockery. “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Johnson. You already are.”
I flinched like he’d struck me.
He slid out of the booth, adjusting his suit jacket with slow precision. He left money on the table—far more than the cost of coffee, enough to cover my tips for the entire day. But it didn’t feel generous. It felt like proof. A billionaire’s way of reminding me what power looked like.
Before leaving, he leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Tell your father his time is up. And remember, Annabel—sometimes the only choice you have is which cage you want to be trapped in.”
The bell above the door chimed as he walked out, the sound slicing through the suffocating silence he left behind.
I stood there, trembling, unable to move. My coworkers stared at me with wide eyes, but no one asked what he said. Maybe they didn’t want to know.
When I finally sat in the booth he’d vacated, the leather still warm from his presence, I stared at the untouched coffee and felt the last piece of safety in my life crumble.
Alexander Knight wasn’t just a man. He was a storm. And now I was standing in its path.
That night, back in my apartment, I couldn’t focus on anything else. Dad was already asleep—or passed out, I couldn’t tell—and I sat in the dark, his words replaying in my head.
Sometimes the only choice you have is which cage you want to be trapped in.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But mostly, I wanted to know why a man with the whole world in his hands would waste even a glance on someone like me.
And deep down, though I hated myself for it, I knew the truth: the cold billionaire wasn’t finished with me yet.