The Billionaire's Promise - Introduction
Power & Passion Series
Ava’s Story…
The scissors were huge. Way bigger than Ava’s hands. But she gripped them tight like Mom did when cutting chicken—fierce and focused. She stuck out her tongue and snipped at the purple flower fabric. It was from Mom’s “Don’t Touch That” bin, which was right next to the “Maybe Later” pile and across from the “Scraps.” Ava decided that since the fabric had flowers and flowers were in nature and nature belonged to everyone, it was technically a free zone.
Her doll, Princess Buttons, waited patiently in a plastic chair, naked except for mismatched socks on her arms. “You’re going to look so beautiful,” Ava whispered, then dropped a piece of pink gingham on the floor. “Oops. That part’s your skirt. Don’t sit on it.”
Ava worked like a real designer, just like in the shows Grandma watched with the people who shouted about fabric and cried over zippers. She wrapped the purple around Princess Buttons’ body and stapled it in the back. Yes—stapled. Sewing was too slow, and glue got in her hair last time.
Then came the sleeves. One was a soft yellow scrap with teeny stars, which looked like lemon cookies if you squinted. The other sleeve was from the fancy lace Mom used for wedding quilts. Ava found a piece balled up under the table and figured if it was on the floor, it didn’t count as stealing. That sleeve was extra poofy, like a popcorn cloud.
She stapled both sleeves to the purple body wrap, though the star one flopped down and the lace one stuck up like a chicken’s wing. Ava didn’t mind.
She bent low and whispered to Princess Buttons, “No one will notice. Just hold your arms like this.” She demonstrated, both arms out like a flying squirrel. Princess Buttons’ plastic smile stayed very calm.
Now the hem. Ava had cut it in a wavy line on purpose. “It’s modern,” she explained to Bernie, the cat, who was licking fabric fuzz off his paw and clearly not impressed. “Princesses don’t always need straight lines. Sometimes they’re…free spirits.” She liked how that sounded.
She tried to make shoes out of cotton balls and foil, but they kept falling off. “You don’t need shoes,” she declared, and gave Princess Buttons a piece of ribbon to use as a belt. It hung awkwardly on one hip. “That’s your fashion sass.”
When it was done, Ava stepped back to admire her work.
One sleeve drooped. One stuck out sideways.
The dress rode up in the back and showed Princess Buttons’ bottom.
The skirt was crooked, and the belt was tight on one side and loopy on the other.
And it was perfect.
“Mom!” Ava yelled, scooping up Princess Buttons and running down the hallway. “She’s READY!”
Her mom looked up from the sewing machine, glasses sliding down her nose. “Oh my goodness,” she said slowly. “Look at that creation.”
Ava beamed. “I made it all by myself! I used staples and safety pins and only a little tape.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Is that my purple pansy fabric?”
Ava looked down at the dress and back up. “It might be.”
Mom sighed and set her glasses on the table. “Okay, tell me about this dress. Walk me through the design choices.”
Ava held Princess Buttons aloft like Simba. “She needed to feel fabulous. She’s a princess, but also she rides horses and climbs towers, so she needed sleeves that do different things. And the skirt is wavy like the sea. Because she sails. On Wednesdays.”
Mom chuckled. “And the belt?”
“That’s to hold her sword. But it’s also pretty.”
They sat on the couch, Princess Buttons carefully propped between them.
Mom stroked Ava’s hair. “Is this for a party?”
Ava shook her head. “Nope. She doesn’t go to parties. She mostly just sits in my sock drawer.”
“Oh. Then why the fancy dress?”
Ava thought for a long moment. Her fingers smoothed the crooked hem.
“Because,” she said quietly, “I wanna wear a dress like that someday. Not for socks. For a big party. With lights. And sparkly shoes. And music. And I’ll twirl. Like this—” She jumped up and spun in a fast, dizzying circle until she flopped onto the carpet in a heap, giggling.
Mom smiled. “Well, when that day comes, we’ll make you a dress even more fabulous than Princess Buttons’. With sleeves that match.”
Ava grinned up at the ceiling. “No way. I want popcorn sleeves too.”
Luca’s story…
The back door of the hotel kitchen groaned open, and a small, wiry figure slipped through, soaked from the rain and moving like a shadow. Luca was ten years old, bone-thin and fast on his feet, with eyes too sharp for someone his age. He darted beneath trays of gleaming dishes and around the blur of chefs, his filthy sneakers slapping against pristine tile.
The kitchen was alive. It sizzled, steamed, and sang with motion. Pans flared with fire. Knives clicked against cutting boards. Butter melted into garlic, and the smell made Luca’s stomach twist in longing. He paused just for a moment, breath catching at the sight.
He’d never seen anything like it.
The space sparkled—chrome counters, polished copper pots, ladles hung like ornaments. Every surface gleamed. Everything smelled warm, clean, and rich. This wasn’t the world he lived in. Luca knew filth and cold and the sharp stink of alleyways. He knew the sound of rats scrabbling and the sick-sour smell of spoiled food behind dumpsters.
But this? This was a dream he hadn’t known he had.
A woman in red lipstick turned, a tray of tiny tarts in her hands. “Hey!” she barked.
Luca bolted.
Through the swinging doors he flew, and into yet another world—one he didn’t even have a name for.
The dining room shimmered with light. Chandeliers glittered like frost in the golden glow above. White tablecloths stretched smooth and perfect across every surface, dotted with candles and small glass vases of pink roses. The air was scented with perfume and roasted duck, with money and power and secrets.
The women sparkled more than the chandeliers—sleek dresses, smooth skin, nails that gleamed like polished shells. Their laughter was light and sharp, like glass breaking underwater. The men sat stiff and tailored, expensive watches peeking from beneath crisp cuffs. Their faces were calm, practiced. Controlled.
Luca looked down at himself. His shirt was frayed and stained. His pants were too short, and one of his shoes had lost its sole. He could see the clean floor reflecting his grimy outline, and for a second, the burn of shame itched at the back of his neck.
Still, he kept moving.
He found the man with the sharp jaw and earpiece—just like Franco had said—and shoved the envelope into his hand. “Message. From the outside,” Luca muttered.
The man’s face twisted in disgust. He turned without a word and handed it off to a man in a navy jacket seated at one of the long tables. A hush fell as those seated glanced between the envelope and the boy who had delivered it.
Luca felt their eyes. Cold. Curious. Cruel.
One woman tilted her head, the movement smooth and feline. “Where’d he crawl in from?”
Another, silver hoops dancing at her ears, laughed behind her hand. “Don’t touch him. He looks contagious.”
The man with the earpiece leaned in, lowered his voice. “Scram.”
His hand pressed lightly to Luca’s shoulder—not rough, just enough to say, you don’t belong here.
Luca nodded once.
But he didn’t leave right away.
He looked at them.
He watched their body language—the small shifts of unease, the way one man’s jaw tensed when their eyes met. The way a woman’s perfectly plucked brows drew together ever so slightly. They were trying to ignore him. But they couldn’t. Not really.
He didn’t just see their clothes or their jewelry—he saw what they were trying not to say.
They were uncomfortable.
They were afraid.
Not of him. Not yet.
But they were afraid of something real. Something raw. Something that didn’t play by their rules.
And Luca? He was all of that.
He smirked.
And walked out slowly, making sure they had to keep looking.
Out in the alley, the world smelled of wet concrete and oil. The rain had stopped, leaving everything slick and grey. Luca ducked under a rusted awning and pulled the two twenties from his pocket—payment for delivering the envelope. He shoved a piece of stale bread in his mouth.
But the food didn’t taste like victory.
Not anymore.
Because something had changed.
They had laughed. Looked down on him. Pretended he didn’t matter.
But he’d seen through them.
Their power was an illusion.
And someday?
He’d sit at those tables.
He’d wear the suits.
He’d own the chandeliers.
No one would ever laugh at him again.
And if they did?
He’d burn the whole place down and build something better.
Something his.
