THE BILLIONAIRE BARGAIN: A ONE NIGHT STAND

The city of Eden glowed under the rich, fading hues of the evening sunset, casting a warm, nostalgic light that only deepened the shadows creeping through the streets. Beyond the skyscrapers and sleek buildings where the wealthy played and lived, lay the city's neglected underbelly, a place where the brightness of Eden felt like a distant memory. Within this ghetto sat Mr. Williams, slouched in his worn-out armchair in a small, cramped apartment.

The ceiling was low, the paint chipped, and the walls seemed to lean inward as though drawn by the sorrow and despair that filled every inch of the room. Once a respected lecturer at the local university, he had been well-spoken, dignified, and looked up to by students and colleagues alike. But now, his once-bright gaze had dulled, his presence worn down, and the spark of passion he once had for his work and life seemed lost forever.

He sat there, one hand wrapped possessively around a half-empty bottle of whiskey, while his wife stood across from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was set, her gaze hardened with frustration and disappointment. She was small but sturdy, her eyes betraying the resilience that had kept her here for so long, trying to support a man who, in so many ways, was no longer her husband. The air between them was thick, heavy with unsaid words and simmering anger, and it seemed as though they were both holding their breath, waiting to see which one would break first.

"Is that bottle all you care about now?" Her voice, sharp yet steady, cut through the silence, but Mr. Williams didn't look up. He took another slow, deliberate sip, letting the whiskey burn down his throat. It was as if her words had barely touched him, barely made a dent in the fog that clung to him.

"One more drink isn't going to change anything," he muttered, his words slurring slightly. He gazed down at the bottle, his fingers tracing its glassy curve, finding comfort in its familiar weight. To him, it was a friend, a solace in the darkness he couldn't escape, something to numb the ache that had settled into his bones ever since he'd lost his mother.

But his wife was relentless. She stepped forward, her voice raising an octave, each word sharper than the last. "It's always one more, isn't it?" Her tone was bitter, almost mocking. "One more bottle, one more excuse. Do you even see what it's done to us? You're not the only one suffering, you know."

He flinched, though he quickly masked it with a scoff. "You don't understand," he replied, his tone defensive, his eyes flicking anywhere but to her face. "You never did."

"I understand more than you think," she shot back, her voice trembling with restrained anger. "I understand that this drinking of yours has drained us dry. Every cent we had-gone. And for what? So you can sit here and wallow?"

His grip on the bottle tightened as if it were a lifeline, and he glanced up at her with a flash of irritation. "You think I wanted this?" His words came out as a low growl, his voice thick with resentment. "Losing everything-my mother... She was all I had left, and then she was just gone. Disappeared like she never existed. You think I can just forget that?"

She stared at him, her eyes unyielding. "Maybe I don't know what it's like to lose a mother, but I know what it's like to watch my husband drink himself into oblivion every night. To watch him waste away in front of me, while everything we built crumbles around us. I thought you'd fight, that you'd be strong, but instead, you've turned into a stranger."

A tense silence settled over the room, and for a brief moment, his gaze softened as he looked down at the bottle, as though he, too, saw the stranger he'd become. But just as quickly, he shook it off, shrugging with a bitterness that ran deep. "You don't get it," he murmured, more to himself than to her, dismissive and hollow.

And then, without warning, she lunged forward, her hand darting out to grab the bottle. He reacted instantly, his fingers tightening around it, unwilling to let go. They struggled in silence, each pulling with equal determination, her small frame somehow a match for his. The bottle became a symbol of everything unsaid, a tug-of-war between what once was and what could no longer be. She yanked hard, her eyes blazing, her jaw set in stubborn resolve. "I'm done, you hear me? Done with this drinking, with these excuses."

He held on, his grip unyielding, his gaze defiant. "Let go," he warned, his voice dangerously quiet, but she didn't back down.

They wrestled for a few seconds more, the bottle swaying between them, until she finally released it with a defeated sigh, stepping back. Her face twisted with frustration and hurt, and her hands shook as she smoothed the sides of her dress. "You want to drink yourself to death? Fine. But don't expect me to stick around and watch."

Her words hung in the air, sharp and cold. He didn't reply, barely even looked at her, as she grabbed her bag, her movements brisk, final. She paused at the door, her gaze lingering on him one last time, hoping for something-a word, a gesture, anything that might prove there was something left to fight for. But he only slouched further in his chair, his gaze blank, his world reduced to the amber glow of his drink.

And with that, she was gone, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through the small apartment. The silence that followed was suffocating.

In that silence, a small figure crept into view, standing in the doorway of a bedroom barely big enough for a twin bed and a worn dresser. Ava, their twelve-year-old daughter, watched with wide, frightened eyes, her tiny frame leaning against the doorframe, as though she might disappear if she stayed still enough. She had heard everything, seen every argument, every bottle, and yet each time, it was like a wound reopening. She bit her lip, holding back the tears, watching as her father staggered to his feet, the bottle still clutched in his hand.

His steps were slow, unsteady, and with each one, Ava felt her heart sink a little more. He stumbled toward the wastebasket, barely making it before the whiskey came back up, harsh and sickening, filling the room with a bitter smell. He wiped his mouth, his shoulders heaving as he caught his breath, his gaze bleary as he looked up-and saw her.

For a brief moment, his eyes seemed to clear, a flicker of recognition, almost remorse. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a scowl that turned his face hard and cold. He glared at her, his voice rough and unforgiving. "What are you looking at? Get out," he snapped, his words like stones thrown in anger.

Ava flinched, the harshness of his tone hitting her like a physical blow. She hesitated, staring at him with wide, teary eyes, her small frame tense, hoping for something kinder, something gentler. But he only looked away, dismissing her as though she were a stranger in his life.

Swallowing hard, Ava turned and slipped back into her room, the door closing softly behind her. She pressed her back against it, sliding down to the floor, her face buried in her hands as she began to cry. She was alone, left with nothing but the silence of her small room and the coldness of her father's words echoing in her mind.