Matched To The Untouchable Billionaire King

The phone vibrated against the sticky metal of the dumpster, the screen lighting up with a name that made Eileen's stomach clench.

Bridget Howell.

She ignored it, letting the call go to voicemail. The smell of stale beer and old grease from the restaurant's back alley hung heavy in the humid air. She just needed a minute. Just sixty seconds of air that wasn't thick with the noise of clattering plates and fake smiles.

The phone vibrated again. Insistent. Impatient. Just like her mother.

With a sigh that felt like it scraped the bottom of her lungs, Eileen swiped to answer, pressing the greasy screen to her ear.

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me, Eileen," Bridget's voice crackled, sharp and fast. "Did you get it? The final notification from The National Partnership Mandate."

Eileen closed her eyes. Of course. That's all it was ever about.

"I'm at work, Bridget."

"I don't care if you're on the moon. Today is the deadline. Your twentieth birthday is in three days. If you refuse the match, we get hit with the fine. Do you have any idea what a quarter-million-dollar penalty does to a family's credit? We'll be ruined. Frank will lose his job."

The word 'family' was a joke. Bridget only cared about the money. The threat. Eileen could feel the air thinning, the familiar sensation of a cage being built around her, bar by invisible bar.

"I'll check it when I get home," she lied, just to end the conversation.

"Don't you dare hang up on me-"

She hung up.

Her hand was slick with sweat as she stared at the phone. The official email was there, sitting at the top of her inbox, its subject line cold and impersonal.

"Federal Match Result Notification"

This was it. The moment her life would be decided for her by some government algorithm. Her finger hovered over the screen, a tremor running up her arm. She pressed her thumbnail into the soft skin of her palm, the small, sharp pain a welcome distraction.

She tapped the email open.

It loaded slowly, as if the universe was giving her one last second of her old life. Her eyes scanned past the formal jargon, past the legal warnings, and landed on the one line that mattered.

Matched Spouse Name.

Harrison Butler.

The name didn't register at first. It was just letters. Then her brain caught up, and the air left her lungs in a painful rush.

It had to be a mistake. A different Harrison Butler. A plumber from Ohio. A high school teacher from Idaho. Anyone but the Harrison Butler.

Her fingers, shaking uncontrollably now, scrolled down. Below the name was a summary of his personal information and a single, state-issued ID photo.

The man in the picture was unfairly handsome, with a jawline that looked like it could cut glass and eyes so deep and cold they seemed to see right through the screen. It was him. The man from the cover of Forbes, the