The Billionaire's Seduction - Introduction
Power & Passion series
Lexie’s Story…
Lexie Stacias stood in the middle of the quad, gripping the straps of her overstuffed backpack as she surveyed the chaos of her first day of college. Students bustled around her, some confidently striding toward their destinations, others—like her—hovering awkwardly, trying to decode the labyrinth of buildings and the unintelligible campus map folded in her hands.
She was here. Finally. A college student. An English major with big dreams of shaping young minds. One day, she was going to teach students how to write the next great American novel. Hemingway? Fitzgerald? Move over, boys—Lexie was about to cultivate a new literary legend from the dusty halls of a public high school classroom.
As she marched toward her first class, Introduction to Literary Theory (which sounded both thrilling and terrifying), she mentally rehearsed how she would introduce herself to her professors.
“Hi, I’m Lexie Stacias, future inspirational educator, lover of books, champion of underprivileged kids, and occasional crier when reading Charlotte’s Web.”
Yeah, maybe she’d tone that down.
Her excitement dimmed slightly when she arrived at the building labeled “Humanities Hall,” which—according to her not-so-trusty map—should have housed her class. Instead, she found herself in front of a plaque commemorating a very important-looking donor who had apparently helped build the building fifty years ago.
“I’m lost!” she muttered to herself, spinning in place.
“Maybe not,” said a voice behind her. Lexie turned to find a guy in a faded hoodie, juggling a coffee, a notebook, and a phone. “Are you looking for Humanities Hall or the Hall of Disillusioned English Majors Who Think They’ll Be the Next J.K. Rowling?”
Lexie snorted. “First one. But I might end up in the second eventually.”
He grinned. “It’s actually on the other side of the quad. Come on, I’ll walk you there before your literary dreams are completely crushed.”
After a brief trek and an amusing discussion about how no one actually understood James Joyce, she made it to class just in time. She slid into a seat, taking a deep breath as the professor started scribbling something incomprehensible on the board.
Lexie may have been lost (literally and academically), but she was ready. She was going to be the best English major, the best teacher, the best mentor. One day, she’d have a classroom full of students eager to learn from her.
And hopefully, they’d be better at reading campus maps than she was.
Max’s story…
Max shivered against the cold night air, his breath coming out in faint white wisps as he adjusted his grip on the heavy box in his hands. The truck’s back doors yawned open before him, revealing stacks upon stacks of identical brown boxes. He had no idea what was inside them, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to know. Not many legitimate deliveries happened at three o’clock in the morning in the back alley of a questionable warehouse. But Max was hungry, and he needed the money.
His stomach growled in protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning when he managed to snag a half-stale bagel from a coffee shop trash bin. That was fine. He was used to being hungry. He hated it, but he was used to it. Since his uncle had kicked him out at seventeen, life had been one long scramble for survival. Rent was due on the studio apartment he’d somehow managed to land—a shoebox of a place where the walls were thin, the plumbing moody, and the landlord blissfully uninterested in financial background checks. If he didn’t make enough money tonight, he’d be sleeping in the alley instead of working in one.
He hoisted the box onto the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans, trying not to dwell on how suspiciously damp the cardboard felt. Nope. Not thinking about it. He’d learned quickly that questions didn’t keep a roof over his head, and curiosity didn’t buy dinner.
A loud thud sounded behind him as another worker—an older guy with a permanent scowl and arms like tree trunks—dropped his own box onto the pavement.
“You new?” the guy asked gruffly, eyeing Max like he was something that had just crawled out of the sewer.
“Yeah,” Max grunted, reaching for another box.
“You don’t ask questions, you don’t look too close, and you don’t run your mouth,” the guy said, cracking his knuckles ominously. “You do that, you’ll get paid.”
Max swallowed. “Sounds great.”
The man let out something between a chuckle and a scoff before heading back into the truck. Max exhaled sharply and adjusted his grip on the next box. His fingers ached, his stomach ached, and his pride ached most of all. But this was temporary. It had to be.
As he stacked the boxes, he made himself a promise. He wasn’t going to be that guy—the one unloading suspicious cargo at ungodly hours, forever stuck in the cycle of just scraping by. He was going to make it. He didn’t know how yet, but he would. He’d get out of this life, out of this city, out of the hunger that gnawed at his ribs.
But first, he had to finish this job. And maybe, just maybe, find something to eat before the sun came up.
