Don't Taint Our Money With Love!

It was on a gray, drizzly afternoon that Klaus Jörg Essen first laid eyes on her. Jemma Vance was standing in the middle of a rundown diner, wearing a cheap, vintage lace dress that was two sizes too small, arguing with a customer.

The customer, a portly man with a flush of alcohol on his cheeks, was giving Jemma a headache. He insisted on ordering something that wasn’t on the menu, all while his eyes darted lecherously at her chest.

“I’ve told you three times,” Jemma said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “We serve spicy stew here, not the traditional fish cake soup you’re asking for. It’s completely different.”

The man wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed on the garish lace dress Jemma had been forced into. It was a horrendous piece of work—bright red, polyester lace, bought by the owner from a discount seller on Etsy for a steal. “Tacky” was too kind a word for it. The loud floral pattern looked like something a grandmother would wear to a bingo hall, yet here she was, parading it to fit the stereotype of the “exotic English girl” for the locals.

Business had been dire ever since a trendy new fusion bistro opened next door. They had white marble tables, velvet chairs, and a head chef who claimed lineage to European royalty. In contrast, Jemma’s workplace had flickering fluorescent lights, linoleum floors, and a chef whose hands shook so badly he could barely hold a ladle.

To draw in customers, Jemma had been coerced into playing the part of the charming, vintage-clad waitress.

The drunk customer leaned in, his breath smelling of stale beer, trying to sniff her neck. “You sure you can’t make an exception?” he slurred, his hand reaching out.

Jemma wanted to punch him.

“Sir, we don’t have what you need,” she said, stepping back.

He lunged forward, trying to touch her chin. “Maybe you need a different kind of job, little lady?”

Jemma snapped. She slapped the menu shut and brought her hand across his face with a sharp crack.

“You absolute creep!” she hissed, switching to rapid-fire English slang that flew over his head. “Get out and take your hands with you!”

The man yelped, clutching his face. “Scheiße! You crazy woman!”

The owner, a frantic man with a receding hairline, rushed over, bowing and apologizing profusely to the customer, while shooting Jemma a look that screamed *behave*. But as soon as the drunk stumbled out, the owner turned to Jemma with a resigned sigh.

“You’ve got guts, Jemma,” he muttered. “But that’s your week’s bonus gone.”

Despite the scolding, when the shift ended, the soft-hearted owner slipped her a thick envelope of cash.

“I’m closing up soon anyway,” he said, looking around the empty shop. “Germany… it’s all monopolies now. Hard for little guys to survive.”

He picked up a newspaper, pointing to a grainy photo on the front page. “Look at this guy. Some people have all the luck.”

Jemma glanced at the headline. *Klaus Jörg Essen, the sole heir to the Essen Banking Empire, assumes control.*

Assets worth over 998 billion euros. The Essen Group practically owned half of Germany’s financial backbone. Being the only heir… it was a life Jemma couldn’t even dream of.

“Take this,” the owner handed her a bag of leftovers. “Go home, eat something. Honestly, why a girl like you comes here to study alone, I’ll never know.”

Jemma took the food. She knew he was going back to his home country soon. This was her sixth month in Munich. Tuition was cheap, but rent in this city was a nightmare. She’d missed out on student housing and was stuck in a paper-thin apartment where the neighbors’ arguments—and other activities—kept her up every night.

But the diner was closing. Fortunately, the owner had pulled some strings and landed her a trial at a high-end Italian restaurant near the Residenz Theatre. Dark wood, candlelight, and prices that could cover a semester of her tuition.

A week in, she was assigned to the VIP section. Her first table: a famous pop singer, Mia, and a group of mysterious wealthy elites.

Among the suits and diamonds, one man stood out. He sat at the head of the table, his hair catching the low light—gold, like spun sunlight.

Jemma kept her eyes downcast, pouring Lombardy champagne, but she couldn’t help but notice how the room revolved around him. Mia, the singer, was practically draped over him, her lace fan fluttering as she laughed like a nightingale.

But the golden-haired man didn’t look at her. Instead, his gaze shifted to Jemma.

For a second, the air left her lungs. His eyes were green—a deep, forest green.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice smooth, cutting through Mia’s chatter. “Could you pour me another glass?”

“Of course, sir.” Jemma stepped forward.

He didn’t let her walk away. “You’re new here,” he observed, a faint smile touching his lips. “How long have you worked here?”

“A week, sir.”

“Ah,” he said, those green eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

Mia snapped her fan shut, her gaze turning sharp as a blade. “Klaus, why are you talking to the staff?” She turned her glare to Jemma. “Where is my white wine? I didn’t pay for you to flirt.”

Jemma apologized and retreated to the kitchen. But she never returned to the table. The manager intercepted her, looking pained. Mia had complained. Jemma was fired from the VIP section effective immediately.

Jemma walked home that night, calculating her lost tips. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Upstairs, her neighbor was blasting music, and the walls shook. She buried her head under her pillow, scrolling through Twitter on her phone.

Her stepsister had posted a new update. Photos of five-star hotels, designer shoes, and yacht parties. The comments were filled with praise: *“Queen!” “Living the dream!”*

Jemma locked her phone. *Living the dream on stolen money,* she thought bitterly.

The next day, the restaurant manager called her into the office.

“Jemma,” he said, looking strained. “Miss Mia was… insistent. We can’t keep you on.”

Just like that. Because she had spoken to a man named Klaus.

They paid her three months’ severance, at least. Jemma took the cash and bought a spicy chicken sandwich and a soda. She sat on a bench by the fountain in the park, the gray sky matching her mood.

She pulled a magazine out of her bag. Klaus’s face was on the cover, smiling that enigmatic smile.

*Klaus Jörg Essen.*

She flipped to the interview. Old money. Banking dynasty. The kind of birth lottery winner who owned the world without lifting a finger.

She read every word, then sighed, leaning back against the hard wood of the bench.

“Why the heavy sigh?”

A man’s voice, polite and amused, cut through her thoughts. Jemma, still chewing her sandwich, didn’t look up.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Just life.”

The man chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Rough day? Lost your job?”

Jemma’s headache pulsed. She was in no mood for some rich playboy trying to pick up a ‘damsel in distress’ in the park.

She looked up, ready to snap, “What the hell is it to you?”

She froze.

In front of her stood a man with hair like gold and eyes like emeralds. In the bright daylight, he looked even more striking than he had in the dim restaurant—tall, immaculate, and undeniably Klaus.

He blinked, his smile widening. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Jemma swallowed her sandwich. She straightened her posture, wiping the crumb from her lip, and switched to her most polite, professional tone.

“I said,” she replied with a tight smile, “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

Please forgive Jemma Vance for her momentary lapse in composure.

The last time she had been this close to the word “billionaire” was before her parents’ divorce. Her grandfather had built a reputable furniture empire in the North of England, a legacy of craftsmanship and solid oak. But his only daughter, Jemma’s mother, had fallen for a handsome man with empty pockets and a silver tongue.

Despite the warnings—sermons, shouts, and tears—her mother had married the pauper. It was a tale as old as time: the wife’s fortune subsidized the husband’s ambitions. Factories were built, profits soared, and the husband came home less and less.

Then came the crash. A scandal ruined the grandfather’s business, bankruptcy followed, and the assets were liquidated. The “loving” husband didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He divorced Jemma’s mother with cold efficiency, married a younger, richer woman, and started a new, blissful family.

*Never uplift a man,* Jemma thought bitt