THE BILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION

Chapter 2: Desperate measures

"Hundred fifty thousand dollars,” I said again, the words heavy in the sterile hallway of the hospital.

My stomach sank, like I had stepped off a skyscraper. I would be lucky to make that much my first year as a fashion designer, even with the best connections. The Ellison Foundation scholarship would pay for my education and living expenses, but surely not that level of capital.

“Kamara, just say something else.” My mom’s voice trembled as she cried.

A wave of dizziness hit me. My breath came in shallow hitches, my palms instantly damp with sweat. Dark spots raced around the periphery of my field of vision as I sank down the wall, my legs giving up on supporting me.

"Deep breaths, baby. That's it." Mom knelt next to me, her hands shaking, too.

Tears hot in my eyes as they rolled down my cheeks. "This can't be happening. Where will we go? What about the twins? Their future? “Why would Marcus Ellison steal our home?”

Mom sank down beside me, shoulders shaking with quiet tears. “It’s the only collateral that is valuable enough. By next Friday we’ll have nowhere to go.’

I shook my head violently. "No. That's impossible. It’s our only home — we don’t have anywhere else.”

People on the outside wouldn’t know, but we had no safety net at all.” My parents had met in the same foster care system, both having aged out at eighteen with no family to go home to. They had worked multiple jobs to save every penny, and eventually opened their bakery. The house came later, after I was born — the real-life representation of everything they had fought for despite being dealt all the wrong cards in life.

My brothers still had college ahead of them. At least I had my little apartment with Chantelle but what would my family do? Just thinking about my talented, hard-working parents reduced to w****y motels, or worse, made me feel sick to the stomach.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered, my scalp sore from where I had been absently tugging at my hair. I took a steadying breath and made myself concentrate. “What did the doctor say about Dad?”

"Just stress and exhaustion. He'll recover physically." Mom wiped her eyes. “I was thinking maybe we could find some w****y rental there or something. I saved up around five thousand.”

But I didn’t hear anymore. Then my mind went through possibilities. The foundation scholarship was still in play — if I got that, I’d meet wealthy clients, establish connections, eventually earn enough to pay back the loan. We just needed time.

"Mom, we have a week, right? Could I negotiate for a little extension? We could rent out the upstairs rooms for extra income. Once I’m in the Ellison program, I’ll have high-paying clients. I could set up p*****t plans in installments.’

Mom looked doubtful. “That’s fair enough, but Marcus Ellison is not known for being flexible. How can you even go up to him? I don’t want you meeting someone like him.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s a businessman, not a monster. My offer is a win-win for both sides — he receives his money with interest, while we don’t lose our home. Who leaves money off the table?”

"Marcus Ellison."

For the second time in twenty minutes, I felt as if the ground had fallen away beneath me. "Wait—the Marcus Ellison? The same one who is in charge of the foundation I’m applying to?”

When Mom had brought up a loan from Ellison before, I assumed it was from his finance company or investment firm, not the man himself. Marcus Ellison was not only rich; he was infamous. The thirty-eight-year-old billionaire had made his billions largely through hostile corporate takeovers. His trail was followed by whispers of careers destroyed, lives ruined. He expected the best from everyone, with no tolerance for failure.

And now my fashion fate, and my family’s home, lay in his manicured hands.

“I hate this, as much as anyone, but we have no options, Mom. I have to sit down with him, and fortify our home. One week is not enough time to negotiate alternatives, and I can’t let the twins know there’s a chance we could be homeless. With Dad getting better, we want action. “I’ll speak to Ellison myself, but first I want Chantelle’s counsel.”

Mom began to argue, “Kama—

I pressed her hand, interrupting her. "Trust me to handle this. I promise to make it work." I paused before asking, “Do you have his contact details?”

She reluctantly nodded and took out her phone. Somewhat shakily, I copied the number. Mom went back into Dad’s room and I stayed in the hallway, clenching the arm of the chair I was sitting in to keep my body steady. I might have the upper hand in this negotiation with Chantelle having a legal background.

"You wanted to see me?" My sister Chan also came to me, worry in her features.

My eyes burned with repressed tears as I looked up. I had always prided myself on confronting difficulty instead of being crushed by it.

“Chan, you’re still in law school, but can you write up a loan repayment agreement for me? Something legally binding?"

She c****d her head, furry and curious. “No, I won’t ask if you don’t want to talk about it. But sure, I can describe terms and conditions of property p*****t. The lender would have to consent and sign off, of course.”

I nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Will you be able to have it by tonight?”

"I'll call my mother. She’s the practicing attorney, she can bind it officially. I’ll have her start on it right now.”

“You are a lifesaver, Chantelle. Truly."

Her face softened in worry. "Will everything be okay?"

Slowly I exhaled, unable to pull my eyes from the institutional beige wall. "I honestly don't know. But it has to be."

"Alright then. Just call if you need anything else.”

“Actually, do you mind if I have a minute alone? I need to make a call."

After she walked away, I took a deep breath and called the number. After several rings, a clear female voice picked up.

"Mr. Ellison's office."

I swallowed hard. "This is Kamara Hermes. I have to talk with Marcus Ellison about the loan to Andrew Hermes. It's urgent."

“Mr. Ellison does not take unscheduled calls,” the voice answered coolly. “Especially when it comes to delinquent accounts.”

My spine stiffened. “Tell him I’m offering a different p*****t plan that would make him more money than taking our property.” I would like to see you tomorrow morning.”

A pause. “You sound awfully sure for someone trying to buy a few minutes, Ms. Hermes.”

“Is this the best number to contact me?”

"Yes."

"I'll convey your message. If Mr. Ellison is interested, his office will reach out with more information.” The line went dead.

I breathed shakily and slumped against the wall. Tomorrow would decide the fate of my family — and perhaps my career. Everything depended on persuading the notoriously unrelenting Marcus Ellison to demonstrate even a scrap of humanity and rationale.

What I didn’t yet know was that I had just put myself in the crosshairs of the most dangerous man in New York’s elite class — a man who collected all sorts of debts, and who never, ever made a compromising deal.