The Billionaire's Adorable Wife

LOUISA

The bread was stale, dry, and cracked at the edges. But to me, it looked like salvation.

I hovered near the corner of the bakery window, my body wrapped in a worn-down coat far too thin for the bitter wind slicing through the streets. My red fingers clenched tightly around at my sides, saliva dripping out of my mouth as I stared at the bread.

No one noticed me standing there, maybe they did and they simply didn’t care. People hurried past me, some their hands occupied with shopping bags and others on their glowing screens. I was invisible to them, just another deadbeat they wouldn’t hesitate to trample on.

My stomach growled again, loudly this time, a painful reminder of how long it had been since I had last eaten. How long has it been? Two days? Maybe three? I couldn’t remember.

Matter of fact, I couldn’t remember anything, not even my name, or where I was from. For as long as I can remember, my family - a beautiful lovely couple that took me in and raised me, called me Louisa. Since their death three years ago, I have not had a family of my own or a place to call home.

Every night while sleeping in whatever warm place I could find, I keep having flashes of darkness and waking up soaked in an alley with a voice yelling RUN! So I ran every time I had that dream and now I was in this city I didn’t recognise.

The bread sat on a tray just behind the glass. A cracked sourdough loaf showing early signs of mold, and probably would have been tossed away by the end of the day.

I took a shaky breath and moved. In one quick motion, I ducked inside the bakery, my head down and hand buried in the pockets of my jackets, eyes darting rapidly and taking in my surroundings. Then before I knew it, the loaf was in my hands.

"Hey!" An icy voice yelled out and I froze.

In a transient second, thick hands grabbed my wrist, yanking me back so hard I stumbled into the shelves, knocking over a tray of pastries.

"Thief!" the man barked, his face red with fury. He was the owner; a short man with a stained apron and a voice that would instill fear in anyone.

‘You little rat! Think you can steal from me and walk away?"

“I… I was hungry,” I stammered, clutching the loaf to my chest as though it might save me. The store owner snatched it away and threw it to the ground.

"Not my problem," he snarled. "Either you pay, or I call the cops."

“I don’t have money.” my voice cracked and my eyes burned with hot unshed tears. I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

He leaned closer, his eyes suddenly glinting in a way I wasn’t familiar with, yet somehow I knew it wasn’t good.

“There are other ways to pay,” he said, his voice low and greasy. “You know... private ways.”

My stomach churned, unsure of what he meant. "No."

"Then you're spending the night in a cell, sweetheart."

I backed away, my hands trembling and my heart slamming against my ribs at his words when suddenly, the door opened with a chime and a man stepped in.

He was impossibly tall, hovering over the store owner and me. He wore a really fancy black coat that looked more expensive than every shop in this city. His gaze swept over the room before landing on me and the shop owner.

“What’s going on here?” he asked calmly.

“She’s a thief,” the store owner said, puffing up quickly. “Tried to steal my bread. I'm calling the police.”

The stranger’s eyes flicked to the crumpled loaf on the floor and then to me. I couldn’t explain why, but when his gaze met mine, I couldn’t look away. It was like he saw through me.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“The… they call me Louisa.”

The stranger paused and his brow twitched. I swallowed a gulp, waiting for the judgment and reprimanding he was about to unleash on me. But it never came. Instead, he reached into his coat, pulled out his  wallet, and then placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter.

“For the bread. And the inconvenience.”

The store owner snatched the money like a vulture. “Well, if she’s with you—”

“She isn’t.” The man’s voice was cold now. “But she is now.” Then he turned to me. “Come.”

I hesitated, wondering if it was safe to follow him or just let the store owner call the cops on me. I didn’t know him. He could be worse than the store owner.

Maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the part of me that was so tired of being alone and running. But I followed him.

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