The Billionaire's $500,000 baby

POV: Liora Hayes

The clock on the grease-stained wall of the Golden Spoon diner was mocking me. 3:00 AM. The red second hand moved with a loud click that made my head throb. I’d been on my feet for eighteen hours straight. My ankles weren’t just swollen; they felt like they were vibrating with pain. Every time I shifted my weight, my back felt like it was being poked with hot needles.

My uniform was a disaster. It was a faded pink polyester mess that fit me all wrong. It smelled like a mix of old fries, industrial-strength floor cleaner, and the cheap floral perfume I used to hide the scent of my poverty. I hated that perfume. It smelled like desperation.

This was my third double-shift in a row. My body was screaming at me to sit down, to close my eyes for just five minutes, but I couldn't. I had to do it. Every cent, every nickel left under a plate, every pity-tip from a truck driver was another minute of oxygen for my mother. I calculated the tips in my head constantly. Five dollars there, three dollars here. That’s another hour of the ventilator.

"Liora! Table six is waving their menu. Move it or I’m docking your break!" Joe barked from the kitchen.

Joe was a man who looked like he’d been deep-fried himself. He sweated grease and had a heart made of gravel. He didn't care that I was tired. He didn't care about anyone. To him, I was just a machine that moved coffee.

"I'm on it, Joe," I whispered. My voice was scratchy. It was worn down to nothing. I wondered if I’d ever have a normal conversation again, or if I’d just spend the rest of my life saying, Do you want fries with that?

I grabbed the glass coffee pot. It was heavy, and my wrist felt weak. I headed toward the booth. My vision blurred for a second, and I had to grab the edge of a table to steady myself. The neon "Open" sign in the window flickered, casting a sickly red light over the empty tables. The diner was a graveyard at this hour. It was for people who had nowhere else to go and people who didn't want to be found. I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I was both.

As I poured the coffee for a tired-looking man in a flannel shirt, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It wasn't a text. It was a long, steady buzz.

The hospital.

My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. I almost spilled the coffee on the man’s lap. I set the pot down with trembling hands and ducked behind the pie display. The smell of stale crust and sugar made me feel nauseous.

"Hello?" I answered. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

"Is this Liora Hayes, daughter of Mara Hayes?" The voice was sharp. Efficient. It reminded me