The billionaire's fixation

Ava's POV

The alarm blares in my ear, a sound that's almost too loud for this time of the morning. I reach over, slamming my hand down on it, but it's already too late. I am awake now, forced to face another day, another round of routine, the same endless cycle.

I push myself up from the bed, the old mattress creaking under my weight. My apartment is small, too small but it's mine, and that's something. It smells like coffee and stale air. It doesn't help that I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in weeks.

The sound of my feet hitting the cold floor feels like a reminder. Another morning. Another set of responsibilities I can't escape from. My eyes flick to the clock on the wall, 6:45 AM, and just enough time to make my brother Tyler's breakfast before heading out.

I head to the kitchen, the space barely big enough for the coffee maker and the counter where I usually eat. Tyler's bedroom door is slightly cracked, and I don't knock. He doesn't like that. I know better by now. I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Tyler's still asleep, tangled in the sheets, his face turned toward the wall. I stand there for a moment, just watching him. He's twenty-three, but sometimes he looks younger than he is. The addiction has taken so much from him, and I can't stop it. I never could. It's like this invisible hand that tightens around his throat every time he's close to breaking free. The rehab center we put him in hasn't been enough. Not yet.

I move quietly, making sure not to disturb him. The last thing he needs is a reminder of what he's fighting against. He needs rest, and I need to get out of here before he wakes up in a mood that'll ruin the rest of the day.

The kitchen smells of coffee before I even start brewing. I'm so used to it, it's like the place is infused with the scent now. I make his breakfast, just scrambled eggs and toast, nothing fancy. He likes it simple. I don't have the energy to make anything more complicated.

I pull out my phone and check the time 7:00 AM. I have thirty minutes before I need to leave for work. I pour a cup of coffee for myself, but I'm not really drinking it. I'm just holding it, letting the heat from the mug warm my hands.

The quiet of the apartment is broken only by the sound of my brother moving in his room. He groans, and then there's silence again. I sigh and set the cup down on the counter. It's going to be a long day. It always is.

After a few minutes, I hear the door to his room creak open. Tyler stumbles into the kitchen, looking disheveled. His hair is a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but there's a certain alertness there now. He's awake. For better or worse.

"Morning," I say, trying to keep the tone light.

He nods but doesn't say much. He grabs the plate of eggs and toast I've made for him, then looks at me with that distant, blank expression I know too well. His eyes aren't focused, not yet.

"Did you sleep okay?" I ask, hoping to spark some kind of conversation.

He shrugs, taking a bite of the eggs without answering. His lack of response sends a wave of frustration through me, but I hold it back. I don't want to fight. Not now, not today.

"You need to take your meds," I remind him, my voice a little firmer than I intend it to be.

Tyler winces. He's been ignoring his prescription for the last few days. I don't know why it bothers me so much. Maybe because I'm exhausted from constantly being the one to remind him. Maybe because it feels like I'm the only one trying.

"I'll take them later," he mutters, his eyes darting to the TV in the corner of the kitchen. He seems to lose interest in me, in the conversation. I can't help the frustration that rises in my chest.

I try not to show it.

"Tyler," I say, voice softening. "You can't keep doing this. You have to get better."

His gaze flicks over to me, a flash of something, anger maybe before he looks away again.

"I know," he says quietly. "I'm trying."

But I know better. He's not.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I don't want to start a fight, not this early. Instead, I focus on my own breakfast, the ritual of it. There's something calming about the mundane. The toast. The eggs.

When I look up again, Tyler's already finished his food, and he's retreating back to his room. I don't try to stop him. He's not ready to talk, not yet. I can't force it. Not today.

I grab my things, heading for the door. I don't want to leave, but I can't stay. I have a job, and I need it. I just need to get through the next shift.

The walk to the pub isn't long. It's a straight shot down the street, the city bustling around me. I don't mind the walk. I used to. It was long, tiring. But now it's just another part of my day. The familiar faces, the sounds of honking cars and people arguing, it all blurs together.

I walk into the pub just in time for my shift, the cool air from outside fading as I step in. The place smells like beer and the faint scent of old wood. Hank, the owner, greets me with his usual grunt. He doesn't do small talk. He never has.

"Late night again?" he asks, glancing at the clock on the wall.

I nod, not bothering to explain. It's not worth it. He doesn't care about the details of my life. Not really. As long as I am there on time, working, and doing my job, that's all that matters.

I start prepping for the evening crowd, the familiar rhythm of the pub taking over. I move between tables, pulling glasses, mixing drinks, smiling at the customers who've come to escape their own realities for a few hours.

It's easy to get lost in the noise, to forget about everything else, even if just for a little while. I need this. I need the routine, the distraction. Without it, I'm not sure what I'd do.

The night drags on. I watch the clock tick away. I don't think about Tyler. I don't think about the money I've been saving to help him. I don't think about the guilt that gnaws at me every night as I close the door to this place and head back home, hoping that tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow never is, though. It never is.