I Stole the Sleeping Billionaire
And me? I was Sadie, his caregiver, and I was just about to join the exodus. My last sweater was folded in my worn-out suitcase. My hand was on the zipper.
That’s when the words appeared, shimmering in the air right in front of my face. A cascade of ghostly text messages, like a live-stream chat for my life.
[THE MOST CRITICAL PLOT POINT IS HERE! The Blackwoods faking bankruptcy is a genius move. Best way to smoke out the traitor in the company!]
[My heart breaks for the male lead. Pretending to be in a coma to fly under the radar is tough enough, but now he's completely alone. ]
[Where the hell is his fiancée? Isn't she supposed to show up now? I'm here for the romance between the main characters!]
My brain screeched to a halt. Then, a different kind of plan clicked into place. I zipped my suitcase, spun around, and sprinted back up the grand staircase. I found Ethan lying still, as always, and eased his limp body into his wheelchair. With my suitcase handle in one hand and the wheelchair in the other, I made my escape.
As I pushed him down the long, gravel driveway, I made sure to produce a few fat, theatrical tears.
“Don’t you worry, Ethan,” I wailed, my voice cracking just so. “Even if the Blackwood name is mud, even if we’re broke and have nothing, I will never, ever leave you!”
1
My name is Sadie, and my mouth has always run a mile a minute. It’s a habit I picked up at the group home where I grew up.
When I was eight, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood came to the home looking for a “companion” for their son. As the director pushed me forward, she hissed in my ear, “Try to keep it down, Sadie. Don't scare them off.”
The moment I saw Ethan Blackwood, I forgot every word she said.
It was my first time inside a real mansion. Ethan was lying in a small bed in a room filled with more toys than I had ever seen. He wore pajamas patterned with little white bears, his skin as pale as porcelain, every strand of his soft brown hair perfectly in place.
Mrs. Blackwood knelt down and smoothed my messy ponytail. “Sadie, our Ethan is sick,” she said, her voice soft and sad. “Would you be willing to come here and just… talk to him? For an hour every day? We’ll enroll you in a good school. We’ll buy you new dresses.”
I stared at Ethan’s still, beautiful face and nodded so hard my neck hurt. I moved in that same day.
That night, they set up a little cot for me in the corner of Ethan’s room. I crept over to his bed, my small hand hovering before gently touching the back of his.
“Hi, Ethan,” I whispered. “I’m Sadie. I’m going to be your friend now. The director says I talk too much, but I don’t think so. Oh, and guess what? The stray cat at the home, Daisy, had her kittens today. There are three of them, and one is orange, like a little puffball. I’ll bring you a picture next time, okay?”
He didn’t move, but I wasn’t discouraged.
Every night became our ritual. I’d lean against his bed and tell him everything: how I got a C on my math quiz because I swore 3+5 was 10; how my drawing of a sunflower got taped to the classroom door for everyone to see; how the boy from the next class over tried to pick a rose for a girl and got stung by a bee.
Sometimes, I’d take the old, worn-out barrette my mom left me and gently clip it behind his ear, just to see how it looked in his hair. I’d stare at his perfect features and sigh.
“If you were awake,” I’d mumble, “you’d be the most popular boy in school. A hundred times more handsome than Mark from social studies.”
One time, a wild idea took hold of me. I pulled out the frilly pink dress Mrs. Blackwood had bought me, convinced it would look hilarious on him. I’d just undone the top two buttons of his pajama shirt when Mrs. Blackwood rushed in, her face a mask of gentle panic. She put a hand over mine. “Oh, Sadie, honey! We don’t put dresses on boys!”
I blinked up at her. “Why not?”
She fumbled for words. “Because… because dresses are for girls. Ethan wouldn’t be happy about it.”
I sort of understood. I never tried the dress again, but I would often tuck my favorite worn teddy bear into the crook of his arm. “Here,” I’d whisper. “He can keep you company when I’m not here. You can talk to him, okay?”
When I started middle school, I was finally tall enough to pivot him from the bed to his wheelchair by myself.
Every sunny weekend, I’d push him out to the rose garden. I figured if sunlight helped flowers grow, it had to be good for Ethan, too. I’d spread a blanket on the grass at his feet, my textbooks scattered around me, and stumble through my French vocabulary.
“Pomme… apple,” I’d recite. “Banane… banana… Ethan, do you think I have any chance of passing my next exam?”
The wind would carry my voice away. Sometimes, I’d see his finger twitch and dismiss it as a trick of the light. But once, I fell asleep while trying to memorize a history chapter, my head pillowed on my textbook. When I woke up, his hand was resting on my hair, the tips of his fingers radiating a faint, surprising warmth.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I held my breath, afraid to move, until Mrs. Blackwood called us in for dinner. His hand slowly slid away.
When I left for college, I moved into a dorm near campus, and my time with Ethan dwindled. But I still came back to the Blackwood mansion once a week. I’d bring him those warm, cinnamon-dusted nuts they sell from a cart near campus and sit by his bed, telling him all about the drama in my creative writing club.
I always believed he would wake up. That one day, he’d open his eyes, and we’d be able to talk for real. We could go get those cinnamon nuts together.
Today’s visit was just a whim, a sudden urge to see him. I hadn’t expected to walk into the final act of the Blackwoods’ financial ruin. If it weren’t for those impossible, shimmering words that appeared in the air, I would have been long gone with the rest of them.
But now… being the caregiver to the Blackwood heir was one thing. Being his savior? That was a promotion I was willing to work for.
The wheels of his chair crunched over the gravel, leaving two thin tracks behind us. And I knew, in that moment, that the real story of Ethan Blackwood and me was just beginning.
2
As I pushed Ethan toward my tiny rental apartment, the ghostly comments kept scrolling past my eyes.
[No way. Is this side character seriously kidnapping the male lead? Where’s the heroine? She's supposed to be the one to save him!]
[OMG the plot is going off the rails! The fiancée was supposed to rescue him, not some random caregiver!]
[Anyone notice his hands? The fingers on his lap… I think they just moved! Did this girl’s terrible acting make him cringe? LOL]
[Hey, be nice! I think he's secretly relieved. At least this caregiver is more reliable than his runaway fiancée. She didn't abandon him!]
I froze on that last comment and glanced down at Ethan’s hands. His fingers had indeed curled slightly, a movement as subtle as a feather stirring in a breeze. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it completely.
So the comments were right. He was faking it.
My apartment was on the second floor of a walk-up. There was no elevator. I wrapped an arm around Ethan’s waist, letting him lean his weight against me as we shuffled up the narrow staircase, one grueling step at a time.
He still smelled of the Blackwood mansion—cedar and old money—a scent that mingled strangely with the smell of fried onions from the hot dog cart downstairs. It was a surreal combination.
I gritted my teeth and whispered a threat into his ear, giving his side a little pinch.
“Ethan Blackwood, if you’re playing dead on me and not pulling your own weight, I swear I’ll leave you in this hallway for the mosquitos to feast on.”
This time, his reaction was undeniable. Though his eyes stayed shut, the hand gripping my arm tightened, taking a fraction of the burden off me.
The comments exploded.
[He responded! He actually responded! I ship it! This is way cuter than anything with the actual heroine!]
[Can we not break up the OTP, please? I’m holding out for the main couple!]
[This girl has guts, pinching the male lead like that. Isn't she afraid he’ll get revenge later?]
Revenge? I wasn’t scared. I knew his secret now. If he tried anything, I’d expose his little charade to the world. Of course, I was just bluffing. If I did that, I’d lose my leverage as his “savior.”
When we finally stumbled into my apartment, I collapsed onto the bench by the door, gasping for breath.
My place was barely five hundred square feet, a simple one-bedroom with a living room window that faced south. The sun warmed the cheap laminate flooring.
Ethan sat in his wheelchair, eyes still closed, but I knew he was taking in the cramped space. He was used to a sprawling mansion with manicured gardens. This shoebox must have been a shock.
The next morning, a harsh reality hit me: I was unemployed.
The Blackwood “bankruptcy” meant my caregiver job was gone. To cover rent and food for two, I needed to find work, fast.
I landed a part-time gig at the convenience store down the street. Eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, fifteen bucks an hour. It would barely cover our expenses.
My life became a frantic loop. I’d wake up at six to make breakfast for Ethan and give him a sponge bath. Dash off to work at eight. Clock out at four, grab groceries, cook dinner, feed him, and change his clothes. At night, I’d massage his arms and legs, terrified his muscles would atrophy from the act.
One night, while I was rubbing his ankles, exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave. I slumped forward and fell asleep with my head resting on his legs.
In the hazy space between dreams and waking, I felt a hand gently stroke my hair. The touch was familiar, warm. A moment later, a jacket was draped over my shoulders.
My eyes flew open. Ethan was exactly as I’d left him, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. But the jacket on my back was definitely the one he’d been wearing that morning.
The comments flared to life again.
[He covered her with his jacket! He totally feels bad for her!]
[Awww, he’s so gentle! I wish she had woken up a second sooner!]
[Can the fiancée please show up already? This plot is moving so slowly.]
Half a month crept by with no news from the Blackwoods. Online gossip about their bankruptcy intensified, with tabloids publishing photos of Mr. Blackwood meeting with shady-looking men in coffee shops, speculating he was “liquidating assets.”
I watched my bank balance dwindle and felt a cold knot of panic tighten in my stomach. Were the comments real? Was this truly a ruse? What if I was the one being played?
What if the Blackwoods were actually ruined, and Ethan really was in a coma? How could a recent college grad like me, buried in student loans, afford to care for him? We’d be on the street in a month.
Just as despair began to set in, the comments surged.
[They got the mole! It was Vice President Miller! He always seemed so loyal, but he was feeding info to a rival company the whole time!]
[YES! The mole is caught! The Blackwoods are about to make their comeback, and the side character’s hard times are almost over!]
[Am I the only one still waiting for the fiancée?]
[Who cares about the fiancée? The ride-or-die loyalty between these two is way more compelling!]
A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. My days of counting pennies were numbered.
3
I was stocking shelves at the convenience store when the comments exploded in front of my eyes, blazing in a bright, warning red that made my heart seize.
[RED ALERT! Miller, the mole, knows he was set up! He’s hired thugs to kidnap the male lead to use as leverage against Mr. Blackwood!]
[T-MINUS 10 MINUTES! Their unmarked black van is already at the entrance to her apartment complex! Side character, get back there NOW!]
[This is bad. She's at work! The male lead is still in his “coma” persona; he can’t fight back!]
I dropped the box of cereal and scrambled for my phone, my voice trembling as I burst into my manager’s office. “Mark! I have a family emergency, can I please take a half-day? I swear I’ll make up the hours!”
Seeing the genuine panic in my eyes, he just nodded.
I grabbed my jacket and bolted out the door. The store was only a few blocks from my apartment, a five-minute walk I now covered in under three, my lungs burning as if I were inhaling fire.
Just as the comments said, a black van was parked under a flickering streetlight at the complex entrance. It was covered in a film of grime, the windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. Most alarmingly, it had no license plates.
I didn't dare stare. I ducked my head and ran for my building. The stairwell light was still broken, and I nearly tripped twice racing up the shadowy steps.
My hands were shaking so violently it took me three tries to get the key into the lock.
I threw the door open. The apartment was silent. Ethan was still in his wheelchair, his head tilted slightly, the picture of a sleeping invalid. The ten-minute warning from the comments was now down to two.
I flew to the entryway closet, yanked open a drawer, and found the pepper spray Mrs. Blackwood had given me years ago. My fingers closed around the cool metal canister. Next, I ran to the balcony and grabbed the wooden baseball bat I kept for my half-hearted attempts at exercise. It was solid, heavy, and holding it settled a tiny bit of the frantic terror inside me.
Just then, a loud, aggressive BANG-BANG-BANG echoed from the front door. A gruff voice yelled, “Open up! Property management, checking the meters!”
My blood ran cold. The property managers here were sweet old ladies, not… this. It had to be them.
“We just had our meter checked last month!” I shouted, trying to sound firm. “You don’t need to come in!”
“Less talk, more opening!” the voice snarled back. “Open this damn door now, or we’re kicking it in!”
I scrambled to push Ethan’s wheelchair toward the bedroom, desperate to hide him. But just as I reached the doorway, the front door splintered inward. The deadbolt flew across the room, and wood chips sprayed across the floor.
Three men in black bomber jackets stormed in. The leader was broad-shouldered with a buzz cut and a nasty scar bisecting his eyebrow. In his hand, he held a gleaming switchblade.
“Where’s Ethan Blackwood?” the man with the scar demanded, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on the bedroom behind me. “Hand him over!”
I planted myself between them and Ethan, holding the baseball bat across my chest like a shield. “There’s no one here by that name. You have the wrong place!”
“Wrong place?” Scarface sneered, taking two steps forward until the tip of his knife was inches from my throat. “I watched you wheel him in here myself. Now be a good girl and hand him over, or things are going to get messy.”
His two goons fanned out, cornering me. I tightened my grip on the bat and took a half-step back, shielding Ethan more completely.
Suddenly, the man lunged, grabbing my wrist in a grip so tight I felt the bones grind together. With his other hand, he slashed the switchblade toward my arm.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a strangled yelp caught in my throat. I braced for the sharp, searing pain.
But it never came.
I opened my eyes to see Ethan Blackwood standing in front of me. His hand was clamped around the thug’s wrist, stopping the blade a mere inch from my skin. And his other arm was wrapped firmly around me, pulling me safely behind him.
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