THE BILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION

"Oh my God!" Chantelle gasped, walking around the dress I’d just finished draping. "This is absolute genius. How do you keep raising the bar every single time?” I took a step back, examining my landmark critically. The silk fell just right, the beadwork sparkling in the studio light as I’d hoped. This was not mere pride — my talent was evident; I knew my designs belonged on runways around the world. “It just flows from me, Chan,” I said, readjusting a crystal-embellished seam. “Is this going to the Ellison Foundation for their new fashion scholarship showcase?” Chantelle rolled her eyes very dramatically. "Are you kidding? They’d be total idiots to pass on any of your designs. You’re going to be the next big name in haute couture, and they know it.” I flopped onto my white leather studio couch and sighed. “The announcement on selection is next week and I haven’t had proper sleep for days. What if this all falls apart? What if I’m not a fit for them?” Even though everyone who had seen my collection raved about it, I was haunted with a malicious feeling of impending doom. Fashion had been my passion since I was a kid—I sketched clothes, when the other kids played with toys, before customizing every item I owned by thirteen. The Ellison Foundation internship was my shot at entering the upper echelons of the fashion world. Six months at their private New York atelier would hook me into industry luminaries bent on launching my career into the stratosphere. My mentor, Dr. Scott, had already submitted a glowing recommendation letter. Everything just clicked — maybe too well. It had my final college portfolio complete, exams finished, and nothing stood between me and my dreams but the foundation’s decision. Chantelle yanked my arm, interrupting my spiral of anxiety. "Stop overthinking. This is your moment, Kamara. You’ve come too far to be doubting yourself now.’” She gave a devilish grin. "Let's hit Obsidian tonight. They just opened their VIP section, and I heard Marcus Ellison is supposed to be there.” I chuckled at her not-so-subtle matchmaker attempt. “You’re just trying to check out eligible bachelors. And no — Marcus Ellison would not be caught dead in a club when the foundation selections are in play.” “Fine,” she said, pouting theatrically. “But sitting here and stress eating ice cream and watching Netflix is not going to get your mind off of it either.” My phone buzzed on the table, Ciara’s name flashing on the screen. “Hey, C,” I said, spinning a pencil around my fingers. That was followed by a sound of barely contained tears over the speaker. “Kam, you need to come home immediately.” My body tensed immediately. "What's happened? Are you crying?" "It's Dad. He collapsed at the bakery. We're at Atlanta Memorial." "What?" My heart plummeted. "I'm on my way. Just hold on, okay?" Chantelle was reading my expression before I could speak. "Your dad?" "Hospital. Now." I rummaged through my closet for an outfit. "I'll grab the car keys. You’ve got five minutes,” Chantelle said, already on the move. Twenty minutes later, having run a few of Atlanta’s speed limits through downtown, we burst through the sliding doors of the hospital. Ciara saw us in the reception area and rushed over, her mascara streaked under her weary eyes. "Where's Mom?" I asked, hugging her tightly. "With Dad in room 412." We raced down sanitized hallways until we reached his room. I was relieved to see Dad awake, without a ventilator or other troubling devices surrounding him. He looked tired but alive. “Mom,” I said quietly, wrapping my arms around her slight body. She squeezed back tightly. “Thanks for getting here so quick.” "Where are the twins?" I said, referring to my younger siblings. “Mrs. Jones is watching them,” Mom said, her voice somehow too even. “Kamara, I need to talk to you privately.” A knot of dread formed in my stomach. Mom only spoke in that tone when something was very wrong. I told Chantelle that I would return, and she nodded knowingly. Mom ushered me into the hallway and shut the door quietly behind us. “The doctor told us it was stress-induced.” His blood pressure shot up dangerously high.” “Since when is Dad at risk for high blood pressure? What aren't you telling me?" She propped herself against the wall, suddenly seeming years older. “Your father and I wanted to shield you from this, particularly with your foundation application. We had to deal with it on our own." "Handle what, exactly?" I pressed. “We were already competing against that new artisanal pastry employer opening across the street last year after the fire had wrecked the bakery. Your father spent all our savings, even the twins’ college funds, to remodel and modernize our space.” She paused, collecting herself. “Then the warehouse roof sprung a leak in those heavy storms last fall. Our entire inventory of imported flour and specialty ingredients were lost.’ My head spun at the thought of the financial catastrophe she was describing. "When did all this happen? Why didn't you tell me?" “And then you were totally in your final collection. We’re your parents — it’s our job to deal with problems, not put them on you.’ "So why tell me now?" Her eyes found mine, full of unmistakable fear. “Because we’ve exhausted all avenues. Your father was trying to save the bakery—three generations in his family. He went to Marcus Ellison in person for a business loan. My heart stopped. "Marcus Ellison? The leader of the very foundation I’m applying to?” Mom nodded solemnly. Your father wasn’t aware of your application when he went up to him. Marcus said he would help, but the terms were… severe. The loan is due next week and — with the bakery still underperforming — we can’t make the p*****t. Marcus threatens to use our house as leverage.” “This can’t be happening,” I said quietly, my fashion aspirings suddenly at odds with my family’s crisis. "How much do we owe him?" Before Mom uttered a single word, her face explained it all. “One hundred fifty thousand dollars.” My blood ran cold. The merciless billionaire who held my career in his hands now held my family’s fate in his hands, too.