Laugh A Little, 1112, Dona Natividad Building, Quezon Avenue, Quezon City, metro manila (2026)

14/04/2026

ELDERLY WIDOW FED 30 STRANDED BIKERS ON A BITTER COLD NIGHT — BY SUNRISE, 800 HELLS ANGELS SHOWED UP AT HER DOOR AND REBUILT HER ENTIRE HOUSE, LEAVING THE WHOLE TOWN SPEECHLESS

The screen door on Margaret Pearson’s house had not closed properly in years. It hung a little crooked, always swaying when the desert wind moved through the edge of town, tapping softly against the frame like an old clock that refused to die. Margaret had meant to fix it. She had meant to fix a great many things.

At seventy-three, she had learned that good intentions often had to stand in line behind survival.

Her house sat on the outer edge of Williams, Arizona, where Route 66 thinned into a lonely stretch of road and the town’s neat little charm gave way to weathered fences, dry grass, and silence. The paint on her house had long since peeled away. The porch sagged on one side. One upstairs window was covered with plywood because the glass had cracked two winters earlier, and replacing it had cost more than she could spare. The roof bowed in the center where years of monsoon rain had slowly won their war against old wood.

Still, it was home.

It had been Harold’s house too once. Her husband had built half of it with his own hands, back when his contractor business was steady and their daughter still came home on weekends with stories and laughter and life in her eyes. But Harold had been gone for fifteen years. The heart attack took him in one terrible hour. Their daughter moved to California after that, called less and less, then stopped calling much at all. Medical bills swallowed what savings Margaret had, and age crept into her bones with the same quiet determination as the desert wind.

Now she lived alone on Social Security, canned food, a tiny vegetable garden, and the stubborn dignity of a woman who had already survived more than most people ever would.

That afternoon, she stood on her porch with one hand shielding her eyes, staring toward the horizon. Dark clouds were building over the San Francisco Peaks, thick and low and mean. She knew that sky. Arizona monsoons did not ask permission. They arrived like judgment.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of hot asphalt, rain, and something heavier.

Engines.

Margaret looked down the road and saw them.

Motorcycles. Dozens of them. Riding in a tight formation, black leather, chrome flashing, engines rolling like thunder across the empty highway. Even from the porch, she could make out the patches. Hell’s Angels.

Most of the town would have panicked.

Patricia Walsh, who lived three houses down and treated every unfamiliar vehicle like a criminal threat, would have locked her doors, turned off the porch light, and called Sheriff Murphy before the bikes even reached her property line.

But Margaret just stood there and watched.

She had lived long enough to know that fear and truth were rarely the same thing.

The lead motorcycle pulled into her dirt driveway just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The rider who climbed off was a large man in his fifties with a weathered face, silver at the temples, and a scar cutting through one eyebrow. His vest marked him as someone important. Vincent “Hawk” Blackwell.

He removed his sunglasses and gave her a respectful nod.

“Ma’am,” he said, glancing back at the wall of storm rolling toward them, “sorry to bother you, but that weather’s moving fast. We’re trying not to get caught on the open road. Is there any kind of shelter nearby? Barn, garage, anything at all?”

Margaret looked past him at the rain curtain racing toward town. Lightning flashed inside the clouds. The air smelled metallic now.

“There’s nothing for miles,” she said.

Vincent glanced at the road, then back at her. “Understood. We’ll keep moving.”

Margaret frowned. “And get struck dead in that storm? Don’t be foolish.”

He blinked.

“Bring the bikes around back,” she said. “There’s an old carport. It won’t hold all of you, but it’s better than nothing. The rest of you can come inside.”

For a second, Vincent just stared at her.

“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “there are thirty of us.”

“Well, I can count,” Margaret replied. “Move fast.”

There was a pause, then Vincent gave a short nod to the men behind him.

Within minutes, motorcycles were being guided around the side of the house in orderly lines. The riders moved with surprising discipline, helping one another cover the bikes as the storm finally hit in full force. Rain pounded the roof like thrown gravel. Thunder cracked overhead. Wind tore through the trees hard enough to bend the branches.

Margaret opened the back door before the first rider reached it......
👉 To be continued in the comments.

14/04/2026

CEO LOST ALL HOPE WHEN THE SYSTEM CRASHED — BUT SHOCKED EVERYONE WHEN THE BLACK MAID’S SON FIXED IT

Part 1

The boardroom on the top floor of Whitmore Tech looked like a temple built for people who never failed.

Glass walls framed the city skyline. A polished black table stretched the length of the room. Screens usually filled with live analytics were now dead, blank, and humiliating. Every few seconds, one of the monitors flickered, then went dark again, as if the building itself were trying and failing to breathe.

Victoria Whitmore stood at the head of the table, arms folded so tightly across her chest that her shoulders ached. At thirty-eight, she was the founder and CEO of a company once called unstoppable. She had built Whitmore Tech from a folding table in her garage into a global cloud platform used by banks, hospitals, and small businesses in fifteen countries. Her name had been on magazine covers. Investors called her visionary. Business schools studied her rise.

Now her company had been on life support for three days.

Seventy-two hours earlier, every system had crashed at once.

Not gradually. Not department by department. Not one region at a time.

Everything.

Transactions froze mid-transfer. Hospital record portals locked up. Payroll systems vanished. Client dashboards went black. Then backup servers failed too, as if something had reached into the heart of the company and crushed it with one deliberate hand.

The damage was catastrophic. Half a billion dollars lost every day. Lawsuits already forming. Investors in open revolt. Clients threatening to walk. Three thousand employees waiting for an answer she could not give.

Around the table sat the people who were supposed to save her.

A former Apple security chief. An MIT systems professor. A legendary cyber consultant who charged more per day than some people earned in a year. They had spent the last three days hunched over laptops, speaking in technical language sharp enough to scare everyone else in the room.

And they had solved nothing.

Dr. James Carter took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked ten years older than he had on Monday.

“The corruption goes deeper than we thought,” he said. “Every time we isolate one failure point, three more appear. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen.”

Sarah Martinez, the MIT professor, stared at a screen full of scrolling diagnostics. “We may be dealing with system-wide structural damage.”

“Structural damage,” Victoria repeated. “To software.”

Sarah did not answer.

That silence said more than any explanation.

Near the wall, moving quietly between chairs with a trash bag and a coffee tray, Maria Washington did her best to stay invisible. She had cleaned Victoria’s offices for five years. Reliable, soft-spoken, never late. Victoria barely noticed her most days. Maria was simply part of the building, like the plants or the air vents.

Beside her stood her son, a thin boy in a faded blue T-shirt and sneakers with loose laces. He looked out of place among executives and consultants, but he stood very still, hands clasped in front of him, trying not to disturb anyone.

Victoria noticed him only when board member Robert Hayes snapped, “Maria, what is that child doing here? This is a board meeting, not a daycare.”

The words landed harder than they needed to.

Maria lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. School’s out this week, and I couldn’t leave him alone.”

Victoria let out a frustrated breath. “Just keep him quiet.”

The boy nodded once, solemnly, as if he had already mastered the art of shrinking himself.

At the far end of the room, another alert flashed red.

More data loss.

More client systems offline.

More money bleeding out into the dark.

Victoria pressed her hands to the table and looked at the people she had trusted most in this moment. These were the best minds she could buy. The most decorated experts. The kind of people her company had always been built around: elite, proven, impressive on paper.

But paper meant nothing when every screen around her was dead.

“We need to discuss contingency planning,” Robert said at last, his voice careful and cold. “If this is not restored by tomorrow morning, we begin bankruptcy procedures.”

The word hit the room like broken glass.

Bankruptcy.

Not restructuring. Not downsizing. Death.

Victoria stared at the dead screens. Twelve years of work. Thousands of employees. Clients who had trusted her with their most critical systems. All of it collapsing because of code no one in this room could understand.

She swallowed hard.

“Call legal,” she said quietly. “Draft employee notices. Prepare a statement for the board. We make the announcement tomorrow if nothing changes.”

A hush fell over the room.

The experts began gathering their things. No one wanted to look at her.

That was when a small voice rose from the corner.

“Excuse me… can I look at the computer?”

Every head turned.

It was Maria’s son.

For one absurd second, no one moved.

Then a few people laughed, not because it was funny, but because despair often disguises itself that way.

The boy didn’t smile. He just looked at the black screens with a kind of focused curiosity that didn’t belong on a child’s face.

Victoria stared at him.

“What did you say?”

“I just want to look,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”
👉 To be continued in the comments.

14/04/2026

“YOUR TRANSLATOR IS LYING!” — THE BLACK WAITRESS STOPPED THE MILLIONAIRE JUST SECONDS BEFORE HE SIGNED THE CONTRACT, AND WHAT SHE REVEALED CHANGED EVERYTHING

The restaurant glowed with the kind of warmth that makes people lower their voices without realizing it. Amber light rested softly on polished glasses, white tablecloths, and quiet faces. A piano melody drifted through the room like a memory too gentle to disturb anyone. It was an evening built for old promises, expensive decisions, and the kind of conversations people believe will change their lives.

At a corner table near the window sat Victor Hail.

At fifty-six, Victor had the look of a man who had spent most of his life carrying responsibility in silence. His hair had gone silver at the temples, and his shoulders held the quiet weight of years that had not always been kind. He wore a dark tailored jacket and a calm expression, but there was something tired in his eyes. Across from him sat Adrien Cross, thirty-seven, polished, smooth, and carefully confident. Adrien was the translator for the evening, hired to help Victor negotiate a partnership with an overseas company whose representatives sat several tables away.

Between them rested a black leather folder.

Inside it was a contract Victor believed might shape the final chapter of his working life.

He had built his company from almost nothing. Long before success, before private flights and boardrooms and articles calling him visionary, there had been a rented garage, unpaid invoices, cracked concrete floors, and a woman who told him not to give up when the world gave him every reason to. His late wife had stood beside him through the hard years, through the humiliating ones, through the quiet days when hope had to be chosen on purpose. She was gone now, and success, for all its comfort, had never managed to fill the space she left behind.

Victor looked down at the folder as if the paper inside could hear him thinking.

At his age, a man learns that time moves differently. It no longer stretches. It narrows. Every opportunity begins to look like either a final blessing or a final mistake.

Standing beside the table was Laya Brooks.

She was thirty-two, her dark hair pulled back neatly, her posture straight, her uniform simple and spotless. She moved with the steady grace of someone who had spent years learning how to serve without being seen too much. Laya had worked in that restaurant for a long time. Long enough to know when a smile was fake. Long enough to hear tension hiding under polite words. Long enough to understand that people often tell the truth with their faces before they ever say it with their mouths.

She poured red wine into Victor’s glass.

The deep color caught the light for a moment like something alive.......
👉 To be continued in the comments.

14/04/2026

THUGS BULLY AN OLD VETERAN... THEY INSTANTLY REGRET IT!

The city bus sighed to a stop at the corner of Jefferson Avenue and Elmwood Street just as the last light of evening slipped across the glass of downtown windows. Its doors folded open with a tired groan, and a line of passengers climbed aboard carrying the weight of another ordinary day. Office workers with loosened ties. Mothers with grocery bags cutting into their fingers. Teenagers with earbuds in and faces lit by their phones. A little boy dragging a backpack almost as big as he was.

And among them was an elderly Black man with a wooden cane and a paper bag of groceries cradled against his chest like something precious.

He moved slowly, but not weakly. There was purpose in every step, a kind of measured patience that comes only from a long life. His shoulders were slightly bent, his coat was old but clean, and his face bore the kind of lines that did not come from age alone. They came from weather, grief, endurance, and time.

He made his way toward the back of the bus while other passengers glanced up briefly and then away again. A young woman rose to offer her seat, but he gave her a small nod and a quiet, “Thank you, I’m all right.” He settled into a seat near the rear, rested the cane against his knee, and turned his eyes toward the window.

Outside, the city rolled by in restless layers. Corner stores with flickering signs. A mother hurrying across a crosswalk with two children in tow. A man closing the gate of a barbershop. The bus lurched forward, and inside it the usual soundtrack returned—engine rumble, muffled conversation, the ping of a message notification, the rustle of shopping bags.

The old man remained still.

Not stiff. Not withdrawn. Just calm. The kind of calm that doesn’t need attention and never asks for it.

Most people barely noticed him.

But when the bus pulled up near Lincoln High School, the mood changed all at once.

The doors opened again, and four teenage boys climbed aboard in a burst of noise and swagger. Their laughter was too loud for the small space. Their backpacks hung from one shoulder. Their confidence had the careless edge of boys who had not yet learned the difference between power and cruelty.

They scanned the bus the way kids do when they are searching for entertainment.

Then one of them spotted the old man.

“Yo,” said the tallest one, a boy in a backwards baseball cap. “Look at this.”

The others followed his gaze, and a slow grin spread from face to face.

Passengers felt it instantly. That subtle shift in the air. Trouble looking for a target.

The boys moved down the aisle, careless and loud, until they stopped a few feet from the old man’s seat.

“Hey, grandpa,” the boy in the cap said, leaning across the seat in front of him. “You miss your stop at the retirement home?”

A few passengers looked up sharply.

The old man did not answer.

He kept his eyes on the window.

Another boy, shorter, with his hood pulled halfway over his head, laughed and pointed at the cane. “That thing for walking, or is it the only thing keeping you upright?”

The others burst into laughter.

Still, the old man said nothing.

A woman near the front tightened her grip on her purse. A man in a business suit stared hard at his phone, pretending not to hear. A college student with headphones around her neck bit her lip and glanced around as if waiting for someone older, someone louder, someone braver to step in.

No one did.

The boy in the cap took another step closer.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked. “Cat food? Coupons? Got some old-man candy in there?”

The smallest of the group let out a nervous laugh, but it sounded weaker than the others. He kept glancing toward the driver, then toward the old man, like some part of him already knew this had gone too far.

The old man finally moved.

He lifted his head and looked at them.

That was all.

No anger. No fear. No performance.

Just a steady, unblinking look that made the laughter stumble in the boys’ throats.

“You deaf too?” the boy in the hoodie snapped, trying to recover. “We’re talking to you.”

Now the old man spoke.

His voice was low, roughened by age......a blade through cloth.
👉 To be continued in the comments.

14/04/2026

CEO MOCKED A POOR MECHANIC: “FIX THIS ENGINE AND I’LL MARRY YOU” — THEN HE DID IT

The boardroom on the fiftieth floor of Automotive Mendoza felt less like a meeting room and more like a pressure chamber.

Behind its glass walls, Madrid stretched into the distance under a pale winter sky, but nobody inside was looking at the view. All eyes were fixed on the machine sitting in the center of the room like a beautiful curse.

It was supposed to be the future.

A revolutionary hybrid engine. Clean, powerful, elegant. The invention that would secure a five-hundred-million-euro contract with SEAT and push Automotive Mendoza into the top tier of European engineering. On paper, it was genius. In real life, it was a disaster. For six months, twelve of the best engineers in Europe had tried to make it work. For six months, the prototype had answered every attempt with violent vibrations, impossible heat spikes, and a metallic howl that sounded like failure.

At the head of the room stood Isabel Mendoza.

Twenty-nine years old. Brilliant. Ruthless. Beautiful in the kind of way that made people straighten their posture without realizing it. She had inherited a two-billion-euro empire and run it with an intelligence so sharp it often looked like cruelty. Her employees respected her. Her competitors feared her. The press called her “the iron heir of Spanish industry.”

That morning, she felt neither iron nor untouchable.

In three days, SEAT’s deadline would expire. If the engine failed, Automotive Mendoza would lose the contract, lose its momentum, and possibly lose the reputation her grandfather had spent seventy years building.

Dr. Alejandro Herrera, head of the engineering team, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We have tested every software adjustment. We’ve modified the cooling system, recalibrated the timing maps, rechecked every tolerance. It should work. It just… doesn’t.”

One of the other engineers muttered, “We may need to admit the design is flawed.”

That sentence snapped something inside Isabel.

“Flawed?” she repeated. “You told me this engine would change the market. You told me we were ahead of the Germans, ahead of the Italians, ahead of everyone. And now you’re telling me it’s flawed?”

No one answered.

The silence only deepened the humiliation boiling inside her.

Then came the knock.

Soft at first.

Nobody moved.

A second knock came, firmer this time.

Isabel turned sharply toward the glass door. Standing there was a man in a gray janitor’s uniform with a cleaning cart beside him. He was tall, lean, and entirely out of place in that room full of tailored suits and advanced degrees.

Her secretary appeared, ready to remove him, but the man didn’t step back.

He simply looked past everyone else and kept staring at the engine.

Irritated, Isabel crossed the room herself and yanked the door open.

“What is so important,” she asked coldly, “that you think you can interrupt this meeting?”

The man met her gaze calmly.

“Señora,” he said, “I know what’s wrong with the engine.”

For one second, nobody reacted.

Then the room exploded with laughter.

Twelve exhausted engineers, standing beside months of failure, looked at the cleaner as if he had.....with a broom and a prayer.
👉 To be continued in the comments.

09/04/2026

TEACHER FORCES BLACK STUDENT TO CLEAN THE CLASS… NOT KNOWING HE OWNS THE SCHOOL

The paint hit the floor with a wet, ugly splash just seconds before the bell rang.

By the time Jamal stepped into the classroom, the blue stain had already spread across the tiles like a small disaster, creeping under desks and soaking the edges of a stack of art paper. Twenty heads turned toward the mess. Then, almost at the same time, they all turned toward him.

“Clean it up.”

Mrs. Hargrove didn’t even look at him when she said it. She was still flipping through her lesson folder, her voice flat, impatient, already bored by the situation.

Jamal stopped in the doorway.

For a second, he thought maybe he had heard wrong. Maybe she was speaking to someone else. Maybe one of the kids sitting near the spill would stand up and say, “It wasn’t him.”

But no one moved.

“I didn’t make that mess,” Jamal said slowly.

Now Mrs. Hargrove looked up. Her expression carried the kind of tired sarcasm adults use when they’ve already decided they don’t believe you.

“Of course you didn’t,” she said. “It’s always someone else, right?”

A few students snickered.

Jamal felt his jaw tighten.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I just walked in.”

But she had already crossed her arms.

“You were the last one to enter this room. Since no......admit it, you’ll be the one to clean it.”
👉 To be continued in the comments.

08/04/2026

THE MISTRESS AND THE HUSBAND THREW THE WIFE AND MOTHER-IN-LAW INTO THE RAIN, UNAWARE THAT THE DYING BILLIONAIRE SHE...

The rain started as a whisper and turned into judgment.

By the time Dorothy Callahan stepped out of the front door with two suitcases and nowhere to go, the sky had opened without mercy. Water slammed against the stone steps, ran in silver sheets across the driveway, and soaked her hair, her coat, and the last bit of warmth left in her body. Still, she didn’t move right away.

She stood there, one hand gripping a suitcase handle, the other pressed against her chest, breathing slowly because breathing was the only thing she could still control.

Behind her, the front door closed.

Not slammed.

Closed.

Softly. Deliberately. Finally.

That quiet click hurt more than a scream would have.

Nine years, three months, and eleven days of marriage ended with that sound.

Inside the house, Richard Callahan had looked at her with the polished calm of a man who had already rehearsed his cruelty. He told her the house was his now. The accounts were his. The future was his. The lawyers would handle the rest. He told her to take only what she could carry and leave without making a scene.

And standing behind him, draped in a silk robe Dorothy had never owned but somehow immediately recognized as something intimate, stood Vanessa Holt.

Vanessa said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Her presence in Dorothy’s kitchen said everything words would have made cheap.

Worse than all of that was what came next.

They threw out Eleanor too.

Richard’s mother.

Sixty-seven years old. Recovering from hip surgery. Dependent on a cane. Living in the east wing ever since Richard’s father died three years earlier. In that house, Eleanor had been Dorothy’s only true ally. The one who stayed up with her when Richard came home late again. The one who taught her old family recipes. The one who saw the marriage cracking long before Dorothy admitted it to herself.

But Vanessa had decided.....with the new dynamic.”
👉 To be continued in the comments.

08/04/2026

“DON’T TOUCH HER AGAIN” — THE MAID ATTACKED THE BILLIONAIRE’S FIANCÉE

The slap came so fast it barely made a sound.

One moment, Sarah Yoon’s hand was raised high above Kang Yunji’s face, her expression cold and effortless, as if hurting a helpless old woman had become just another part of her routine. The next moment, a second woman crossed the room like instinct itself and struck first.

The sound cracked through the penthouse.

Not loud enough to shake the walls, but strong enough to freeze every living soul inside them.

Ruth Okonkwo stood between the wheelchair and the fallen fiancée, breathing hard, her right hand still trembling from the blow she had just delivered. Her gray dress and white apron looked almost too plain for the storm she had just caused. Her chest rose and fell sharply. She was terrified.

Not of Sarah.

Of herself.

Of what she had just done.

Of the line she had crossed and the fact that there was no crossing back.

On the floor, Sarah pressed one hand to her cheek, stunned less by the pain than by the insult of it. She was beautiful in the polished, expensive way money creates—perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect posture even in cruelty. Women like Sarah were used to controlling rooms. They were not used to being stopped by maids.

Behind Ruth, Kang Yunji sat in her wheelchair, her cracked glasses on the marble floor, one cheek freshly red with the mark of Sarah’s hand.

Then the door opened.

Kang June stepped into the room and stopped.

In one glance, he saw everything.

His fiancée on the floor.
His mother in a wheelchair with a handprint on her face.
His Nigerian maid standing......but refusing to move.
👉 To be continued in the comments.

08/04/2026

“YOU’RE NOT BLIND, IT’S YOUR WIFE WHO’S PUTTING SOMETHING IN YOUR FOOD...” THE GIRL SAID TO THE MILLIONAIRE

For months, Elias Hart had been living inside a body that no longer felt like his own.

At first, he blamed age.

Then stress.

Then the endless meetings, the late-night deals, the pressure of carrying a business empire that employed thousands and fed entire families. That was what his doctors said too. Stress, exhaustion, maybe burnout. Rest more. Eat clean. Take your supplements. Slow down.

But no matter how many pills they gave him, the weakness kept growing.

Some mornings his hands trembled so hard he could barely button his shirt. Some afternoons the room tilted beneath him without warning. Some nights he lay awake beside his wife, staring at the ceiling, wondering why his heart seemed to beat with fear even when there was nothing around him to fear.

Or so he thought.

That afternoon he sat alone on a park bench, just two streets away from the massive house he had spent years building. He had left the office early because the dizziness came again, sudden and vicious, as if someone had reached inside his chest and wrung the strength out of him.

Children ran past in the distance. Birds hopped across the grass. Somewhere nearby, a vendor was shouting the price of roasted corn. The world carried on.

Elias sat still, elbows on his knees, trying not to let the spinning inside his head show on his face.

That was when the little girl appeared.

She couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. Her dress was worn thin at the edges. Her sandals looked like they had survived too many roads. But there was something unsettling about the way she looked at him—not with fear, not with hunger, not with the pleading expression he had come to expect from children living too close to poverty.

She looked at him the way a doctor studies an X-ray.

Directly. Carefully. As if she already knew what was wrong.

“Sir,” she said softly, stepping closer. “You are not sick the way they say.”

Elias lifted his head slowly.

He was too tired to be irritated, but not too tired to be confused.

“What?”

The girl didn’t move. “Someone at home is making you weak.”

A strange silence fell over him.

The words were simple, but they hit him with a force he could not explain.

He almost laughed. Almost......
👉 To be continued in the comments.

08/04/2026

THE BILLIONAIRE FELL INLOVE WITH HIS HOUSEHELP ….

When Ada Nwosu stood outside the towering black gates of Damian Cole’s mansion, gripping the handle of a mop like it was a passport into another life, she told herself one thing over and over:

This is temporary.

Temporary until her father stopped hunting for her.
Temporary until Chief Badmos, a man old enough to have grandchildren her age, stopped asking when the wedding would be fixed.
Temporary until she could breathe without feeling like someone else was writing her future.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Chisum, if you call me one more time, I’ll throw this phone into the gutter,” she whispered.

Her best friend did not sound convinced. “Ada, you are a University of Lagos graduate with a first-class degree in economics. Your father wants to hand you over to Chief Badmos like a business asset, and now you are standing at the gate of a billionaire’s house wearing a maid’s uniform. How is any of this fine?”

Ada glanced at her reflection in the side mirror of a parked car. Plain dress. Scarf. No makeup. No trace of the woman her father’s business rivals would recognize.

“It is fine,” she said quietly. “Because Chief Badmos will never think to look for Acha Nwosu’s daughter in a househelp uniform.”

“And when this arrogant billionaire finds out who you are?”

“He won’t. They say he barely notices the staff. One girl worked here three months before he looked at her properly.”

“That is not a flex.”

“I’m not here for romance,” Ada muttered. “I’m here for survival.”

She ended the call before Chisum could say the one thing Ada was afraid of hearing.

Don’t fall in love......
👉 To be continued in the comments.

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