Chapter 1

Jessica.

What would it feel like to give up? A voice asks in my head as I wake up. I groan, grabbing my throbbing head with shaky hands. My blurry gaze takes a while to clear, and I realize that I'm on the ground. A frown forms on my lips as I try to sit up. Did I pass out here? A bitter chuckle escapes my lips as I contemplate my answer. Of course, I did. I could barely see my way home last night.

Standing up on my feet, I wipe the nosebleed that had trickled down to my lips and wash my face, trying to regain some semblance of control. With a heavy heart, I trudge to my sister's room and find her sleeping between her books. A new school year has begun, her final year of high school. My lips twitch, but they don't quite form a smile. Going to school only meant it would be a season of expenses. I walk to the side of her bed and gently wake her up. Her long lashes flutter open, and she squints at me, her gaze unfocused.

"Is it morning already?" she asks as she gazes down at me. I nod, too tired to speak.

"When did you arrive?"

"Sometime past midnight. I used my keys to get in," I tell her, and she relaxes on the bed.

I glance at her. "You need to prepare for school; you're finally a senior. Congratulations," I murmur.

Her eyes light up, and she grins. "Thanks," she mutters and drags herself out of bed. I watch her head into the bathroom before walking out of her room and into the kitchen. There, I see a pile of bills that are yet to be paid, and my stomach constricts. Anytime from now, they'll start knocking at my door. I have no money to give anyone. Ignoring it, I walk to the fridge and take out ingredients to make breakfast.

"Did Sophie call?" I call out as I turn on the stove, placing a pan on it.

"No!" Emma replies, her voice muffled.

That bitch. She's distancing herself from me again. I try not to remember our recent argument about me working too hard. I don't want to get a migraine. Mindlessly going through the motions of making breakfast for Emma, I place it on the counter before glancing through the pile of bills. Once again, I look away.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze. I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. That's not supposed to be me. Is it? I'm only twenty-seven years old. Why do I look forty? "You look pathetic," the voice says again. I snicker. Thanks, I know.

It takes a while for Emma to step out of her room in faded jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair is still wet. She spots her meal on the kitchen counter and smiles, immediately coming down to sit. She mutters a short prayer and starts wolfing it down. I sit next to her, watching her as she eats. I'm hungry as well, but there's just enough food for one person.

"Oh, by the way," Emma speaks up as if remembering something. "This came in the mail." She says as she picks up a letter from the top of the bridge. Passing it to me, she goes back to sit down. Apprehensive, I tear it open, reading the contents. Though I try to keep my reactions controlled, it only takes my hands tightening on the paper for Emma to know something's wrong.

"What does it say?" She asks cautiously, staring at me. I fold the piece of paper and place it back in the envelope.

"Nothing serious," I tell her, my voice hoarse. No, it's everything serious. We've just been given an eviction notice. We have only one week to spend in this dingy apartment. I smile at Emma. "You should eat."

"I'm full though. I should go. Don't want to be late for my first day. Thanks for the meal." Packing her hair into a tight bun, she pushes the rest of her food to me. "Help me out on this one?" She asks before picking up her school bag and slinging it over her shoulders. I watch as she picks up her phone and earphones before striding toward the door.

"Are you with your meds?" I ask her, glancing at her.

"Always!"

"Make sure not to get bullied!" I call out after her.

"You know that can't happen!" She replies, and I hear the door close behind her.

Whatever smile I have on drops, and a cold, sinking feeling washes over me. Get your ass up, Jessie, I mutter to myself. Time to get to work.

.

.

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After spending an ungodly amount of time in the shower, I finally summon enough energy to drag myself to my second job as a waitress in a breakfast restaurant. It's located in the affluent part of the city, and my boss especially hates tardiness. Though I've been sluggish all morning, I still manage to arrive early. My co-workers see me, and one of them waves. I immediately recognize her to be Stephanie.

"Good morning, Jess!" she greets, her voice as cheerful as always. I wear my usual smile, giving her a nod.

"Good morning to you too," I mutter, dropping my bag in the locker and putting on my apron.

"Are you okay? You look a bit tired," she asks, her eyes filled with concern.

"I didn't sleep well last night," I tell her as I walk towards the counter, cleaning the top with a clean rag. She's right there behind me.

"In that case, you should get more rest. I can cover for you if you want," Stephanie offers.

"Thanks, but I kind of need the pay."

"We all do, don't we?" She says, chuckling. When I don't return the same enthusiasm, she pats me on the back and leaves me alone. The restaurant is going to open soon, and I have to attend to those annoyingly spoiled customers, pretending to be excited about it when all I want to do is just burn the restaurant down. It's okay; I can pretend to be excited. I can pretend to be anyone as long as it's not me. I take a deep breath, ignoring the churning in my stomach as I switch to work mode.

The restaurant opens, and we have our first customer, and then another and another. Before you know it, this breakfast restaurant is bustling with people, and I have no time to think about the deplorable state of my life. I get a few stares here and there, but it only takes one glare for them to look away, pretending to be busy with their coffee. This morning, however, the restaurant feels different. We've seen an increase in young ladies, all huddled up together and giggling over their phones, excited about something.

"What's going on?" I ask Stephanie, watching a table filled with this group of young women talking to themselves.

"Oh, you don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"There's a weird post breaking the internet lately. A billionaire has requested a mail-order bride."

I raise my brow. "In this day and age?"

"I know, right?" Stephanie giggles. "Couldn't he just go to Tinder or something? Well, according to the post, interested participants should send in their applications."

"Is it real, though?" I ask, and Stephanie shrugs.

"I can't be too sure, but people are already sending in their applications." She clicks her tongue, grimacing. "Rich people do the weirdest things," she mutters before going back to her station.

For the rest of the day, I try to push away the conversation to the back of my mind, but it doesn't quite work out. Occasionally, I catch myself thinking of what it would feel like to be a billionaire's wife. I need the money; we would be homeless soon. And I'm sure the reason Sophie isn't calling as well is that she needs money too. By the end of my shift, the thought has taken so much root in my mind that it's hard to shake it off.

My head pounding, I trudge out of the restaurant to a nearby library and walk in. Accessing the internet through their desktops, I find the viral post and confirm its authenticity before accessing my email. Clacking away at the keyboard, I write out my qualifications and fix an appropriate title before stopping to read what I wrote. I let out a bitter laugh, palming my forehead.

This is ridiculous. Why would a billionaire choose someone like me? There's no doubt he would read what I wrote and delete it immediately. It's even taking all the energy I can muster to not delete this as well and run out of this library. If rich people do the weirdest things, poor people do shameless things.

And I've done more brazen things. Dangerous things even. It wouldn't hurt to add this to the pile of things that I've done. With that thought firmly in my head, I take a deep breath and click on send, my heart skipping a beat.

Email sent.