The Billionaire's Bait

Zara

For some reason, New York is freezing today. It’s April. Spring. Everyone should be in light jackets, drinking iced coffee, pretending the sun is warm. But here I am in my cubicle at Luxe & Lace Magazine, drowning in an oversized hoodie that smells like hospital disinfectant and yesterday’s coffee.

My phone vibrates against my desk for the third time, dragging my attention away from the article I'm supposed to be editing.

Hospital.

Hospitals don't call with good news.

Not when your father has been in a coma for seven months.

My heart immediately drops.

For a moment, I stare at the screen, afraid to answer.

"Hello?" I finally say.

"Good morning, Miss Whitman. We need you to come to the hospital immediately."

Immediately.

The word sends panic racing through my veins.

"Is he awake? Is everything okay?" I ask hopefully.

There is a brief pause.

"Please come as soon as possible."

The line goes dead.

I grab my bag, mumble “hospital emergency” to my editor, and run.

I don't wait for questions or permission.

I simply run.

I flag down a cab with trembling hands.

"New York General Hospital," I blurt out as soon as I climb inside.

Sweat soaks through my hoodie. It feels like it’s choking me. God, please let him be awake. Please let it be good news. The doctors said the septic infection was bad but treatable.

For the past year, my life has revolved around hospital visits, medical bills, and hope.

Seven months ago, my father suffered a devastating injury at a Sinclair Construction site.

He had been a construction supervisor there for nearly twenty years. One morning, a partially completed structure collapsed during inspection. A concrete slab and several bricks came crashing down.

One of them struck my father. The impact damaged his spine and left him unconscious.

He never woke up.

The worst part?

Sinclair Construction buried the entire incident. They claimed it was an unfortunate accident.

My father had told me for years that the company ignored safety concerns.

Workers complained. Supervisors filed reports. Corners were cut.

But money had a way of making problems disappear.

And Sinclair had plenty of money.

When the cab finally stops at the hospital entrance, I throw cash at the driver and run.

The automatic doors slide open.

My lungs burn. My legs ache, but I don't stop.

I’m panting at the reception desk when the nurse sees me. She’s known me for months. Her eyes say everything, but I choose to ignore the look.

“I got a call. Is my… is my dad okay?” I’m breathing through my mouth like that’ll stop the panic.

“The doctor will see you in his office, Zara.” I don’t wait. I run. Then I see them. 

Two nurses wheeling a gurney out of Dad’s room. Covered sheet. Too still.

“No.” My legs stop working. “No, no, no.”

I lunge for the gurney and yank the sheet down with shaking hands. My Dad is lifeless.

“DADDY, WAKE UP!!!” I’m shaking him, screaming, as a small crowd watches. 

I grab the doctor’s collar, “Wake him up! You’re doctors! Do something! Fix it!”

The doctor’s face crumples, “I’m sorry, Miss Zara. The sepsis overwhelmed him. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

My hands fall. The gurney rolls toward the morgue, my knees give out, and I’m on the floor. 

I don't know how long I sit there, crying.

Minutes. Hours. Time no longer matters.

My phone buzzes.

I stare at it blankly.

Jules

My best friend.

Are we still meeting for ribeye and drinks?

I dial with numb fingers. She picks up instantly. 

“What’s good, girl?”

“My father is dead.” The word breaks me again. 

“Sh*t. I’m on my way.”

Thirty minutes later, Jules is holding me in the cafeteria. We’re both crying. She’s seen me sleep on hospital chairs. She’s seen me sell things to pay one bill. She knows everything.

“What now?” she asks after the water stops tasting like metal.

“I don’t know. I have to bury him.”

The next days blur. Funeral planning. Paperwork. His helmet on my table. I don’t go to work. I can’t. The TV drones in the background until one headline snaps me awake: “Sinclair Constructions partners with Japanese firm for $20M housing estate.”

Something in me breaks. I open my laptop and type an email to their official address. Nasty. Raw. All the grief I couldn’t scream in the hospital. I send it. Then I find their Instagram, LinkedIn, and PR posts, and I leave comments. 

“Murderers.” “You killed him.” “I’ll make you pay.”

It feels like breathing for the first time in a week.

The funeral takes place five days later.

The sky is cold, just like I feel. 

As the casket is lowered into the ground, a part of me goes with it. My father was all I had left.

My mother died in a car accident ten years ago. Now he's gone too.

Jules squeezes my hand while tears stream down my face.

One by one, people offer condolences.

Friends, former coworkers, neighbors, then a man in an expensive black suit approaches.

I don't recognize him but the logo pinned to his lapel catches my eye.

Sinclair Construction.

My blood turns to ice.

"Miss Whitman," he says politely. "On behalf of Sinclair Construction, we'd like to express our deepest condolences regarding your father's passing. He was an amazing worker."

I stare at him.

My shock quickly becomes rage.

"You've got some nerve to come here."

His professional smile falters.

"We understand this is a difficult—"

"Difficult?"

My voice rises.

Heads turn.

"Difficult is spending seven months watching your father lie unconscious in a hospital bed!"

The man shifts uncomfortably.

"We simply wanted to offer our support."

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope.

“How DARE you?” 

I lose control.

"Take your money and get the hell out of here!"

Gasps erupt around us.

"You ignored him when he was alive! Where were you when he was rotting in that hospital bed?"

For the first time, genuine discomfort appears on his face.

Jules quickly steps between us.

"Sir, you need to leave. This is clearly not a good time."

The representative hesitates before turning and walking away.

I watch him go as I’m shaking in fury. 

“They have the nerve. After everything.”

Jules rubs my back. “I know. I know.”

I was going to let it go. Grieve quietly and move on, but they showed up at my dad’s funeral. It felt like a spit on my face.

If the Sinclairs think burying my father would bury the truth about their company, they have just made the biggest mistake of their lives.

Because I am about to make sure the whole world knows their name.

Zara

After my father's funeral, I throw myself into one thing: destroying Sinclair Construction.

Every evening after work, I sit hunched over my laptop, searching for anything that could expose them.

Old news articles, worker complaints, construction reports, and online forums.  

Anything I could lay my hands on.

My father had spent years warning me about the company. He always said they cut corners, ignored safety concerns, and paid people to stay quiet.

Back then, I thought he was exaggerating.

Now I knew better.

The deeper I dug, the more suspicious things I found.

There were reports of workers threatening strikes over unsafe conditions, only for the stories to mysteriously disappear days later.

Former employees posted complaints online and then deleted them.

It was as if someone was constantly cleaning up their mess.

I saved every piece of information I could find.

One day, I'd