Contracted to the Broken Alpha

Chapter 1 A waitress's dream

3:47 p.m.

This is the worst time of day.

The dead zone. It’s that empty time in the afternoon, after the lunch rush is over, but before the evening crowd arrives.

The coffee shop is incredibly quiet, as if all the air has been sucked out.

The only sounds are the low hum from the fridge and the slow tick-tock of the clock on the wall.

The air smells thick with old coffee and sugar, and it feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on me.

For the third time in ten minutes, I wipe the steel counter that’s already perfectly clean.

My arm just moves in a circle, over and over. It’s a numb feeling that helps keep my thoughts away.

Eight months. I’ve been living this crappy life for 243 days.

It all started the day Miller Construction, my dad’s company, went out of business. That was the same day my dad had a heart attack.

He held on for six more weeks, but the man who taught me how to read blueprints was already gone.

Since then, my life has been one crazy struggle to survive. I’ve taken any job I could find, no matter how small or bad it was.

I was a waitress in a greasy diner. I walked spoiled poodles for rich people on Beacon Hill. And now, I serve expensive lattes in this fancy coffee shop in Boston’s Back Bay.

This was all supposed to be temporary.

It was like what my dad promised me from his hospital bed. His voice was weak and scratchy but full of hope. “We’ll rebuild, Sarah,” he’d said. “We just need to find the right tools.”

The little brass bell on the door jingles.

The sharp, happy sound cuts through my foggy thoughts. Mrs. Douglas walks in slowly. Her special shoes make a soft squeaking sound on the old floor.

Her cane makes a steady rhythm—tap, tap, tap. It’s a beat I know well. She holds her old, cracked leather purse close to her chest, like it’s full of secret government papers instead of just a wallet and some mints.

“You look tired, kid,” she says. Her voice is rough, like a gravel road in Boston, but it’s also surprisingly warm. She’s been a customer since I started working here. She’s a small, wrinkly lady, but her eyes look like they can see everything.

“Just thinking too much,” I mumble, already grabbing a paper cup for her. I know her order by heart. Black coffee, no sugar, extra hot. It never changes.

“Thinking too much is dangerous,” she says.

Her sharp brown eyes stare at me, like they can see right through the happy barista mask I wear every day.

“Especially when you think about things you’ve lost. You know, your dad would be proud of you, Sarah. The Miller family doesn’t give up. "We just get stronger when things get tough.”

My hand freezes on the coffee pot.

When she mentions my dad, it feels like a punch.

She seldom mentions him. And when she does, she’s so gentle about it, like she’s carefully taking a bandage off a new cut. “Yeah, I know,” I manage to say.

“Thirty years ago, he built my house over in Dorchester. It’s solid as a rock. Never had a single problem,” she goes on, looking out the window like she’s seeing a memory. “He was a good man. An honest builder. He told me once, ‘Sarah, broken things don’t have to stay broken. You just need to find the right tools to fix them.”

She’s saying the same thing my dad said in his last days. Is she doing it on purpose? What is she trying to tell me?

“Thanks for the riddle, Mrs. Douglas,” I say, trying to smile. I pushed the hot cup of coffee across the counter to her.

She just nods, then shuffles over to her usual table in the corner. She sits down with a soft sigh and opens her newspaper.

I turned my attention to the magazine rack by the counter.

It’s a messy pile of magazines about celebrities, diets, and decorating.

I start to straighten them up, lining up the shiny covers, doing anything to keep my hands and mind busy. They are all useless junk. They can’t help me with the pile of bills in the drawer of my tiny apartment. My $800 rent is due on Friday. I only have $347.23 in my bank account.

But then, my eyes land on a Fortune magazine. The cover is smooth and professional. The headline feels like a slap across my face:

“America’s Coldest CEO: Ryan Jones Builds an Empire on Broken Dreams.”

The man on the cover has a hard, sharp look. He has black hair and cold, gray eyes that seem to stare right through the shiny paper. There’s something about him you can’t look away from, a dangerous feeling that is both cool and scary. He’s standing in a super-modern meeting room, his hands behind his back, looking like he is in total control of everything.

I leaned in to look closer at the background—the polished wood walls, the perfectly placed windows, and the way the light was designed to come in at the perfect angle.

Oh my god. That’s One Financial Plaza. The 47th floor.

I spent three months of my life in that room—or, really, in the blueprints for that room. It was my big project during my internship at Hartwell & Associates.

I was obsessed with every light, every piece of wood, every single detail.

It was my masterpiece, the shining star on my resume.

That was before everything I worked for, and everything my dad built, came crashing down.

Before I even knew the name of the man who planned our destruction.

Ryan Jones. In the ruins of my family, his name is a curse. It’s the eviction notice that kicked us out of our home. It’s on the bankruptcy papers for Miller Construction. It’s the cold, official legal letters that broke my dad’s spirit. Shaking, I grab the magazine from the rack and open it. The words inside hit me like a bunch of bullets:

Jones Holdings, a leader in vulture capitalism, has bought over 200 struggling businesses in the past two years. With unmatched, ruthless efficiency, it turns failing family companies into profitable assets…”

“At only 29 years old, Ryan Jones is well-known for his aggressive methods of collecting debt. He forecloses on families and small companies without blinking. Wall Street experts call it ‘extremely effective’…”

I feel sick. We were one of those families, one of those small companies. Just another number on his list of wins.

Then, I see a paragraph that makes my heart stop beating:

“…However, Jones is facing a unique personal problem. A rule in his late grandfather’s will is set in stone. It says he must get married before his 30th birthday—which is only six months away—to get full control of his $8 billion empire. If he fails, the board’s voting power will be split up, and Jones Holdings could be taken over by his rivals…”

I read it again. And then a third time. The words are burning in my brain. Ryan Jones, the enemy who destroyed us, a man worth 8 billion dollars, needs a wife. And he needs one fast. His rivals are waiting for him to fail. His whole empire is on the line.

“Hey, are you deaf or something?” A sharp voice pulls me back. A man in an expensive suit is snapping his fingers in my face. He’s in his thirties and has a smug, know-it-all smile. He’s the kind of customer who thinks paying for coffee gives him the right to treat me like a piece of furniture. I was so lost in the magazine, I didn't even hear him walk in.

“Sorry,” I stammer quickly, hiding the magazine under the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“Large Americano, to go. And make it quick,” he barks. He taps his shiny Italian shoe on the floor, impatient.

My hands are still shaking as I pour the coffee. My mind is a mess, full of a million thoughts about Ryan Jones. When I hand him the cup, a crazy idea pops into my head. “Do you know anything about Jones Holdings?” I ask, just to see what he would say.

He laughs, a short, ugly sound, and snatches the cup from my hand. “What, you think a little coffee girl can make a deal with Ryan Jones? Stick to pouring coffee, sweetheart. That’s what you’re good at.”

“I am an architect,” I say loudly, my voice higher than I meant it to be. “I designed the boardrooms at One Financial Plaza.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a loud sound. “Sure, you did. And I’m the mayor of Boston. Keep dreaming.”