The Billionare Nextdoor

Racheal  never trusted mornings that started out too quiet.

They usually meant trouble was warming up somewhere.

She stood at her window, toothbrush hanging from her mouth, staring at the black SUV blocking half the compound's entrance. The engine purred like it knew it didn't belong here-too sleek, too expensive, too loud for Rosewater Heights.

"Again?" she muttered, watching two men in dark suits step out like they were rehearsing for a movie no one asked them to film.

For three days straight, these men had been hovering around the empty duplex next door. No smiles. No small talk. No explanation. Just sunglasses and silence. Even the gateman avoided asking questions.

Racheal rinsed her mouth, tied her hair into a breezy puff, and grabbed her tote bag, mentally preparing for another day behind the bakery counter. She pushed open her door and stopped.

The SUV door opened, and a man stepped out.

Tall. Dark-haired. Broad-shouldered. The kind of handsome that didn't feel accidental. He moved like someone who was used to space clearing automatically for him. He didn't look at her, didn't glance around, didn't even pretend to notice the world. He simply adjusted his watch and started walking toward the house next to hers.

For someone so quiet, he carried enough presence to shift the air.

Racheal blinked.

So that's the new neighbor? Great. Just what I need,a walking ego in designer shoes.

She locked her door and stared towards the gate, praying he wouldn't say anything. She wasn't in the mood for awkward introductions or forced neighborly smiles.

But life, as usual, was mischievous.

They reached the narrow path between their houses at the same time.

He paused. Looked at her briefly. His eyes were a startling, cool gray sharp enough to read a person if he cared to, and distant enough to pretend he didn't.

"Morning," she said out of politeness.

He nodded once, barely. "Good morning."

That was it. No smile, no warmth, nothing.

Just two clipped syllables that sounded like they had been dragged out of him with force.

Racheal arched a brow. "Wow. Cheerful."

He glanced at her again, as though deciding if she was worth responding to. Apparently not because he kept walking.

She stopped in her tracks. "Okay... rude."

The man didn't turn, but one of the bodyguards glanced back, almost amused. Almost.

Racheal  pushed through the gate, shaking her head.

"Rich people. They breathe different."

As she crossed the road to catch a tricycle, she couldn't shake the strange energy he carried like he was here but somewhere far away at the same time. Something about him didn't sit right, and not just the attitude. There was an edge in his expression. A distraction that looked expensive and dangerous.

Still, it wasn't her business.

He was the mysterious billionaire next door. She was the girl who minded her own life.

They would probably never speak again.

At least, that's what she told herself.

But by the time she reached the bakery,