Trapped In The Billionaire's Past

Isla Reyes had learned early that life didn’t wait for anyone to catch their breath. Bills didn’t care if she was tired, and rent didn’t care if her small cake orders barely covered groceries. At twenty-two, she carried her family’s weight like it was stitched to her skin — her mother’s soft voice always reminding her of the next thing due, her little brother’s school fees, her father’s medicine. Every dollar had a destination before it even touched her hand.

That morning, sleep ended the way it usually did — with a fist hammering on her door.

“Reyes! Rent was due last week!”

Her landlord’s voice scraped through the thin wood like sandpaper. Isla groaned, half-buried under her blanket. She checked the cracked clock on the nightstand — barely past seven. Clara, her best friend, stirred in the next bed, muttering something about noise complaints that would never happen.

“I’m coming!” Isla shouted, even though she wasn’t.

She sat up, heart already racing. The knocking stopped for a second, then started again, harder this time. Her landlord wasn’t a bad man, but kindness didn’t pay his mortgage either. Isla’s mind raced — she could probably buy two more days if she promised him something from next week’s cake order. If that order even came.

When she finally opened the door, her landlord stood there in his stained T-shirt, holding a clipboard like it could scare her into money.

“Miss Reyes, I’ve been patient,” he began.

“I know, Mr. Collins. I’m sorry. The payment’s coming soon — I swear.”

He sighed, tapping his pen against the board. “Tomorrow. No more delays.”

The door shut with a dull click, and Isla leaned her forehead against it, breathing out the frustration that sat in her chest. One more day. That was her life — stretching everything one more day.

The phone on her table buzzed just as she walked back to the bedroom. Her stomach dropped before she even checked the screen. Mom.

“Hey, Ma,” she said, trying to sound awake.

Her mother’s voice came through in that tired, gentle way that somehow made everything heavier. “Mija, I’m sorry to bother you early, but the school called again. They won’t let your brother take his exams if we don’t pay the fees this week.”

Isla pressed her hand over her face. “How much?”

“Three hundred.”

Three hundred might as well have been three thousand. “Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll figure it out.”

She hung up before her mother could say thank you. Isla hated that word — it sounded like defeat.

Later that morning, Clara stumbled out of bed, her hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing one of Isla’s old shirts. She squinted at her friend. “You look like someone punched you in the rent.”

Isla managed a small smile. “Pretty much.”

“Coffee?” Clara asked, already reaching for the kettle.

“Only if you don’t remind me I can’t afford it.”

They shared a tired laugh — the kind you give when