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Once upon a Billionaire Heiress.

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Thelia had always believed that she would inherit her father's multi-billion chains of industry. After all, she was the only child the man had. Her shock came when her father died from an assassination and she found out that the man had left all his assets and wealth to a total stranger, leaving her almost penniless. Now, she has to do everything possible to get back her wealth back from the man. ****** When Cohen had saved the old man from death, he had done it for humanity's sake. When the old man had passed his entire inheritance to him, he didn't know that he was getting more than just the wealth. He was getting the secrets and the trouble associated with the wealth. ******* Two different people from two different backgrounds, fighting the different demons from their past. Would they be able to get past their differences and insecurities to get the truth?

Rescuing the old man.

Berlin, Germany was not quiet at night. It was rowdy and its streets were filled. Drunks roamed the taverns and clubs, night walkers roved the bars and motels. Loud German music spilled from salons and cheap diners and the city lights, bright and blinding as they were, did not reach the darkest corners of Berlin. Deep in an alleyway, in a run down shack, Cohen stepped into the forgotten building and knocked on a door.

To anyone new and foreign to the downside of town, one would think the door was a beaten up piece of wood that led to nowhere good. And in a way, they would not be wrong.

A piece of wood that blocked the rectangular peep hole on the raggedy door slid aside revealing dark eyes.

"Password?" A voice boomed from the other side.

"How about I break your face?" Cohen hissed.

Silence hung in the air and then slowly, the piece of wood slid in place, a series of locks clicked open and slowly the door gave way.

"Learn to take a joke man." A burly man grinned behind the opened door and stepped aside revealing a series of stairs. Cohen grunted and climbed down slowly preparing himself mentally.

In contrast to the darkness outside the door, the underground was brightly lit with low quality LEDs. They casted a warm yellow glow on the crowd that filled all the possible spaces they could, yelling and hooting at two men locked in a brawl within a wrestling ring. Their roars were loud and the air had saliva that flew randomly out of their mouths.

For a minute Cohen struggled, squeezing his rather bulky body through the throng of mindless people. He glared at the men in the wrestling ring and shook his head.

"So much pain for getting paid." He murmured and pushed further.

By the time Cohen had gotten to his destination, his clothes had stuck to his skin, drenched with saliva and sweat that weren't his. They weren't the nicest pair of clothes he had, but they were the comfiest and oldest. A ratty tee shirt with tiny holes and crazy jeans.

"You made it man!" Jones yelled as soon as he sighted him. Jones was tall and his lanky limbs were sprawled all over the chair he sat on. He had a permanent bandage wrapped around his head. Cohen had always wondered why, but knowing Jones, the guy probably needed the bandage to keep his head together.

"This had better be worth it, Jones." Cohen spat, rubbing a rough hand over his face. His green eyes were narrowed in slits and thick black brows that matched the locks on his head were furrowed in a frown. "I hate coming here and you know it!"

Jones sniffed and gestured at an empty chair before him. They were at the rear end of the underground, a place where fighters assembled and convened with their coach. Jones's brother, Amrit, was locked in the ring with a man three times his size and getting beat up.

"He's going to die." Cohen muttered as he took his seat. The plastic chair creaked and threatened to break.

Jones glanced at the arena and shook his head. "Then he has no place in this world."

"No one should have to fight for a place in this world." Cohen grumbled.

The lanky man gave him a snide look and fished a cigar out of his chest pocket.

"You talk as if you have not fought your battles." Jones said, dragging a puff. He stretched out the cigar towards Cohen who collected it.

"I wasn't given a choice." Cohen said, spewing out smoke from his lips. "Amrit should have a choice."

"Enough about the boy already." Jones coughed, waving the cloud of smoke before him. "I need you on a job."

Cohen sighed and sunk deep into the frail chair. A jib with the underground was never good and never clean. He ran a hand through his wavy black locks and then slid them down to hold his masculine jaw.

"I don't think I'm down man." He said gruffly.

Jones paused mid puff and glared at him, his blue eyes becoming bloodshot by the second. "Come on, not this again."

Cohen shrugged. "Last time was a favour. I'm not doing it."

"What the hell man?!" His friend flipped. "I just need a protector, that's all. You're one of the best fighters we got-"

"I don't fight." Cohen grinded out and slowly rose to his feet.

"Cut the bull sh*t." Jones hissed and stood up as well. "I'm offering you some way to earn some good cash. Just get me in and get me out. Easy peasy."

"Easy?" Cohen barked a harsh laugh and flexed his right arm. A barely healed bullet wound lay in the upper arm. "Last time was supposed to be easy. And here's what I got. The feds put a f*ck*ng bullet on in my arm Jones. I'm not going after cash when I can't be alive to f*ck*ng spend it."

Jones sighed and placed a hand on the big guy's shoulder. Two fingers were missing from the hand and the absence of it both creeped Cohen and strengthened his resolve. He had not lost a body part to the feds, drugs or the gangs nor did he plan to lose any.

He brushed off the older man's hand and took one good look at him. Jones was a solid ten years older than him. At thirty five however, he looked sixty with streaks of white in his balding black hair, wrinkles lining his forehead and blackened lips. Cohen shuddered at the idea of being exactly like the man before him in a few years to come.

"No more risks man. This is why I quit. I want no more risks." He stated and turned around.

Behind him.Jones sneered, "You're just a pansy *ss. Missing out on three grand? You? What the heck happened to the Cohen we all knew?"

Cohen Anschutz closed his eyes and tightened his fist. He ought to teach Jones a lesson for calling him a pansy, he ought to know the onlookers show no longer watched Amit get beat up, but now watched out for a brawl between  two old friends. Slowly he opened his eyes and took in everything he could.

Drunk faces, laughing mouths and loud noises. People snotted in drugs just so they could forget what a shitty life they led, and what a shitty life they would still live. Amit, Jones's younger brother lay crumpled and bloodied on the floor, gasping for air as the crowd hailed the champion sjo had almost snuffed out the life of a poor eighteen year old.

Cohen shook his head. He wanted a choice. He wanted to live. He wanted out and so he turned around to face Jones, eyeing the older man. The crowd watched him raise his clenched fist and drive it into the already mangled face of Jones Fitz.


Some minutes later, Cohen stumbled out into the alleyway, coughing as he tried to draw in breathable and fresh air. His knuckles ached and his knees wobbled but he held back from crouching in pain and stood tall.

Ignoring his blurry vision, he began walking in the direction he hoped would lead to his home. Jones could be worn out and old, but he certainly knew how to pack a loaded punch. He groaned and shook his head trying to relieve the tension that burdened his neck.

The alleyway was dark but not quiet. Somewhere in the darkness, the cries of either helpless or willing women getting pounded echoed. The highway that laid ahead rang with sounds of speeding cars and hooting trucks. Somewhere he couldn't figure out, someone fried chicken and the smell turned his stomach, causing it to rumble in hunger. He had only had breakfast. Perhaps when he got home, he would find something to gnaw on.

As he turned a corner, his vision had become clearer and so had his hearing.

"Please, just take what you want." A man's voice, weak and frail but still a man's, reached his ears.

Cohen stopped walking, his ratty sneakers made a rattling sound against the stones on the ground but the assaulted did not seem to notice.

Four men, dressed in black overalls surrounded a silver car. One had broken the glass and had gripped an old man who was in the car by the neck. From the look on their faces, Cohen knew the loot was just a bonus, the man's life was the prize.

He cracked the muscles in his neck and stretched his fingers and stalked towards them.

"Hey?!" He yelled. "How about I break your faces instead?!"

Thelia and the sad news.

A loud classic pop song, Manner by Herbert Gronemeyer boomed from the stereo in the gym room. The song's rapid beats matched the steady movement of Thelia's feet on the treadmill. She panted with each run she took, drawing in deep breaths.

Her legs, long and strong, hoisted her 5"8 body in the air for every fraction of a second that she was suspended. Her hair, bright flaming red and riddled with curls was tied up in a ponytail. A few stubborn strands had however slipped from the hair tie and stuck to her sweaty face.

To anyone who watched she wasn't strongly attractive in a sense that made one have a whiplash. She had an overly angular jaw and a lightly defined straight nose that made her face look less wide and much longer.

But she was beautiful.

Her blue eyes were cerulean and in an oddly attractive way, they complimented her bright coloured hair. One she had inherited from her mother. Her lips were slightly thin and perhaps a little bi


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