The scent of roses and fresh-cut lilies filled the cramped little flower shop, a scent Lila Hart usually loved.
Today, it only made her stomach turn.
She wiped her hands on her apron and stared down at her cracked phone screen, rereading the message from her sister for the tenth time.
Emergency. Please call. We need $50,000 before tomorrow.
Fifty thousand.
She might as well have asked for the moon.
The ticking clock on the wall seemed louder now, hammering against her skull. Her family wasn't poor — no, they worked hard, lived decently — but $50,000 in twenty-four hours? Even if they pulled strings, begged banks, sold heirlooms — it was impossible. And she refused to drag them into panic mode.
No. This had to be her burden.
Her fingers clenched around the counter's edge. She had a few hundred dollars to her name. Enough for rent, textbooks, some instant noodles. Not enough for miracles.
A gust of cold wind swept through the shop as the glass door swung open.
Men and women in sharp suits rushed past, laughing into their Bluetooth headsets, their designer shoes clicking briskly on the sidewalk. The glass tower across the street—Cross Enterprises—stood like a monolith, shadowing the entire block.
Normally, Lila paid them no mind.
Today, she couldn't look away.
She watched them glide by, smelling faintly of wealth and power. She didn't envy them. She didn't even particularly like them. But for the first time, she wondered... what if someone over there could help?
Her gaze dropped to the crumpled newspaper on the counter, open to the business section.
A headline stared back at her:
DAMON CROSS: THE ICE KING OF WALL STREET.
The article described a ruthless billionaire known for toppling industries and freezing out competitors.
Yet buried halfway down the page, a single line caught her eye:
> Sources claim Cross quietly donates millions to urgent causes — without ever seeking credit.
Her heart stuttered.
Donating... quietly?
Someone with that much money wouldn't even feel fifty thousand dollars.
Maybe... just maybe...
Her eyes skimmed the article again. No photo, just a description:
Tall. Cold. Unsmiling. Wore black suits like armor.
Sounds like a mob boss, she thought dryly. Probably old. Cranky. Half-blind. Perfect.
If he had a heart under all that ice, maybe he would understand desperation.
Decision made, Lila yanked off her apron and grabbed a small bouquet from the fridge — nothing flashy, just cheerful sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
A peace offering.
Her palms sweated as she smoothed the paper.
Okay. You've done harder things. Midterms. Job interviews. Karaoke night at Jenna's bachelorette party.
She could do this.
She had to.
Taking a deep breath, she marched out of the shop and crossed the street.
The marble lobby of Cross Enterprises was as intimidating as a cathedral.
Cool, echoing silence.
Pristine floors polished to a mirror shine.
Receptionists in tailored black uniforms barely glanced up from their screens as Lila entered, clutching her modest bouquet like it was a shield.
She approached the front desk, her voice wobbling slightly.
"Hi, uh... I'm here to see Damon Cross."
The receptionist raised an arched brow, her red lips twitching in something between amusement and pity.
"Do you have an appointment?"
Lila shifted on her sneakers.
"No, but... it's urgent."
Another eyebrow lift.
"Take the elevator to the top floor. Good luck."
That sounded ominous.
Still, Lila squared her shoulders and headed toward the gleaming gold elevators. As the doors closed behind her, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored walls: a short, curvy girl in jeans and a floral hoodie, holding sunflowers like a nervous prom date.
Yeah, very professional, she thought dryly.
The elevator shot upward, and Lila tried to steady her breathing. She rehearsed her plea in her head — short, respectful, desperate but not pitiful. She would appeal to the man's secret charity streak. She would make it quick.
When the doors slid open, she found herself facing a long hallway lined with glass offices.
And at the end — a large, open lounge where an elderly man in an elegant suit sat alone, sipping coffee.
Lila's heart lifted.
Finally. Someone normal.
She walked briskly up to him, smiling brightly.
"Excuse me, sir, are you Damon Cross?"
The old man chuckled, setting down his cup.
"Not quite, my dear. But close enough."
He tilted his head thoughtfully, examining her.
"You're very brave, coming here without an appointment. Not many have the guts."
Lila flushed.
"I, um, I need to speak with Mr. Cross about... a charitable donation. It's urgent."
The old man's eyes twinkled.
"And you thought bringing flowers would help?"
She glanced down at her sunflowers and winced.
"I didn't exactly plan this out."
He laughed, a warm sound that somehow relaxed her.
"Come. Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Tell me what you need."
Within minutes, Lila poured out her story — careful, but honest.
Family emergency. Massive medical bills. Nowhere else to turn.
The old man listened, nodding occasionally, his expression thoughtful.
When she finished, he steepled his fingers together.
"I like you," he said finally. "You have courage. And stubbornness."
Lila blinked, unsure what to say.
He leaned back, studying her like a puzzle he was eager to solve.
"I'll help you. But not for free."
Her stomach twisted.
"Wh-what do you mean?"
The man smiled slyly.
"I want to see my grandson fall in love. He's stubborn. Cold. Impossible. But you... you might just be the disruption he needs."
Lila stared at him.
Grandson?
"You want me to... make him fall in love?"
The old man shrugged.
"Not necessarily with you. Though," he winked, "stranger things have happened. Just find him a match. Get him interested in someone within three months. That's all."
Lila opened her mouth to protest.
This was insane. This wasn't what she came here for. She wasn't a matchmaker!
But then she thought about her family.
The hospital bills. The time slipping away.
She tightened her grip on the bouquet.
"Three months," she said. "And you'll help my family?"
"Cross my heart," the old man said with a smile.
Lila swallowed hard, heart pounding.
What choice did she have?
"Alright," she said, standing up and straightening her shoulders. "I'll do it."
The old man laughed in delight.
"Good girl. Damon should be back any moment."
As if on cue, the glass doors across the lounge swung open.
And Lila's heart plummeted straight into her stomach.
Because the man walking toward her was not old.
He was tall, lean, powerful — wrapped in a black tailored suit that screamed money and danger. His hair was dark and just a little messy, like he didn't have the patience to keep it neat.
His face was sharply handsome, all sharp cheekbones and an unforgiving jawline.
And his eyes — God — his eyes were like glaciers, cold and piercing.
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze flicking over her unimpressed.
"Who's this?" he demanded, voice low and gravelly.
The old man beamed.
"Your new... personal assistant."
Lila opened her mouth to correct him — to say no, not assistant, matchmaker — but Damon Cross turned those arctic eyes on her, and the words caught in her throat.
He looked at her like she was something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.
"You're five minutes late," he said icily. "And completely unqualified."
Lila blinked.
Then she smiled — wide and cheerful — and tucked a sunflower behind his computer monitor.
"Then I guess it's lucky you're not hiring me to work," she said brightly.
For a long moment, Damon just stared at her.
Then he turned away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like,
"What the hell is going on?"
And Lila Hart — college student, part-time florist, desperate daughter — smiled to herself.
Three months. I can do this.
Probably.