The Billionaire Ex Came Back for My Heart

The paper was red.

That was the first thing I noticed before I even read the words.

It was taped across the glass door of my nonprofit's office, crooked and bold, fluttering in the cold New York wind like it wanted everyone passing by to see my failure.

FINAL NOTICE.

My chest tightened. I stopped short on the sidewalk, my bag slipping down my shoulder as the city rushed around me. Cars honked. Someone laughed behind me. A delivery truck rattled past. The world kept moving while I stood there, frozen, staring at the thing that could take everything away.

"This can't be real," I whispered, though no one was listening.

I peeled the notice off the glass, the tape resisting for just a second before giving way. The paper felt thin and cheap in my hands, but the weight of it pressed straight into my ribs. I folded it quickly and shoved it into my bag like hiding it might make it disappear.

Inside, the office smelled faintly of dust and old coffee. The heater clicked but didn't turn on. The lights flickered once before settling into a dull hum. This place wasn't much-peeling paint, mismatched chairs, donated toys stacked in the corner-but it was mine. It was the one thing I'd built with my own hands.

I locked the door behind me and leaned my forehead against the cool glass.

Breathe, Jane.

My breath came out shaky anyway.

For four years, this space had been full of noise. Kids arguing over crayons. Volunteers laughing too loudly. Music playing from someone's phone while boxes of donated books were unpacked. Today, there was only silence. It wrapped around me, thick and heavy.

I crossed the room slowly, my boots echoing against the scuffed wooden floor. My desk sat where I'd left it the night before, cluttered with files, sticky notes, and a half-empty mug that still smelled like burnt coffee.

I sank into the chair and closed my eyes.

Mom was gone.

Dad was dying.

And now this.

Grief doesn't arrive politely. It stacks itself, one loss on top of another, until your chest feels too small to hold it all. I'd barely learned how to live without my mother before the hospital rooms took over my life. Dad's breathing machines. His tired eyes. The way his hand felt weaker every time I held it.

I couldn't lose this place too. I wouldn't.

My phone buzzed on the desk. I flinched, heart jumping, before grabbing it. The screen lit up with my sister's name.

Sophia.

"Hey," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice.

"You're already there, aren't you?" she asked gently.

"How do you know?"

"Because you never sleep when you're stressed. And you're always stressed."

I managed a weak smile. "I got a notice on the door."

There was a pause. I could hear her breathing on the other end. "What kind of notice?"

I looked down at my bag. "The kind that tells you time is almost up."