Rebate System: From Poor Student To Billionaire Playboy

"Please, sir," Harry, a young man in his twenties begged, his voice low but shaking. "It's just thirty minutes early. I'll do double shifts tomorrow."

"You'll do double today, Farrow." Mr. Davis didn't even look up. His sausagey fingers tapped the restaurant's POS screen as another order beeped out. "You're lucky I still have a job for you after what you did last week.".

Harry ground his teeth. "But, Sir, it wasn't my fault," he attempted to say calmly, his chest hurting as though it were splitting apart. "The scooter broke down in the middle of the trip. And I still delivered it.".

That got Davis's attention. The man finally met his gaze, eyes squinted and set with that nasty little smirk Harry hated. "You kept my customers waiting, and you are telling me this nonsense. Customers don't care if your scooter had a stroke, boy. They care if their food is cold when you deliver it to them."

Some of the employees snickered at him. One of them, a tall man with a hairnet that kept slipping over his forehead, growled, "Yeah, Farrow's always got an excuse."

Harry's fists worked, but he ground a tight smile. "I just need to leave early, sir. There is a make-up test today. If I do not take it, I will lose my scholarship."

Davis snorted, gaze drifting back to the screen. "Perhaps you should stop dreaming about being a college graduate and learn how to make burgers or deliver stuff on time to customers. Poor people like you don't last long in that university anyway."

The words cut like a blow even though he had heard it before. “Poor people like you.” He'd heard it his whole life, from foster homes and social workers, from smiling teachers. It never ceased. The only other constant thing was that he always prevailed even with all the odds against.

He looked at the clock. 3:42 p.m. The test was at 4:30. It was on the opposite side of the campus library. He could make it there, but Mr Davis wasn't budging.

Another ticket flew out of the printer. Mr Davis snatched it and slapped it onto the counter. "VIP Hostel. Room 209. Take it. Don't make me say it twice. Once you do it you can go and continue living in this delusion that you will graduate from this school."

Harry stood still. He read the name on the slip - Marcus Winter.

Of course, that bastard.

Marcus, the son of billionaire CEO Tyrone Winter. He is the kind of dude who treated people like Harry like gross trash. Scratch that Marcus has treated him like trash before. He hired him to do his assignment on three occasions and never paid the complete amount they agreed on.

Davis was still frowning. "Go," he said. "And don't come back here the next day crying when you flunk that test. It's not my fault that you are a delusional idiot."

Harry bit back a comeback, an insult aimed at Mr Davis's pot belly, but he knew could not afford to lose this job. The last time he'd missed a shift, he'd eaten ramen noodles for a week.

He turned to retrieve the delivery bag. His image reflected off the metal warmer, bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, grease stains everywhere. He looked exactly like he did: beat up but still pretending not to be.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A calendar notification lit up the screen: Alicia's Birthday Dinner – 7PM.

He took slow breaths, on the counter floor was a small present bag he'd carried all day. In the bag was a red Givenchy purse, the exact purse Alicia talked about a year ago. She never directly asked him to buy it, but it was on sale for five hundred dollars and he pounced on it. He'd worked for months, gone hungry. Walked instead of taking the bus just to give Alicia something worthy of her.

He imagined her smile, that little laugh she made when she was surprised. Maybe tonight she would actually hear him out. Maybe she would see that he wasn't some poverty-stricken delivery boy she kept around because she felt sorry for him.

"Harry?"

He looked up. Brandon stood in the doorway, still wearing his store apron. His landlord, his roommate, and his only friend. Brandon is basically the guy keeping him from being homeless.

Harry shoved the wrapped gift bag further behind the counter. "Hey, man."

Brandon glared. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Harry." He leaned over the counter so he could see the wrapped gift. "You're kidding."

Harry let out an exasperated sigh. "It's just a small birthday gift for Alicia, okay?"

Brandon's eyes widened. "You're still doing this with that girl?"

"I never said I wasn't. What do you even mean by that?"

"I thought you said she stopped talking to you. Jesus, Harry, you owe me six months' rent and you're out here wasting money that you don't have buying her some dumb gift?"

Harry rubbed his face. "I'll pay the rent next week, I promise. I just love Alicia, she's different, okay? You don't understand."

Brandon laughed out in bitter amusement. "Different? She ignores you half the time. Like you're an inconvenience."

Harry's voice was gruff. "I love her."

Brandon regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Then maybe love yourself a little too. Because this will end in heartbreak."

He collected his order and departed. He didn't even turn back to look at him.

Harry was standing there, his heart pounding. "Close call," he muttered, regarding the bag. If Brandon had actually seen the back he might throw a fit, and rightfully so.

He couldn't even be angry at what Brandon said, he wasn't exaggerating. But love didn't care about reason or logic. Alicia was his driving force. His fire. His driving force for rising when the world continued to push him back down.

When the following order bell rang, he noticed the slip again. Room 209. Marcus Winter.

He cursed, grabbed his helmet, and grumbled to himself, "One last delivery. Then I can go and write this test."

The heavy, hot air outside was thick enough to strangle. He tied the bag to his weary scooter and got it moving. The engine wheezed but refused to quit.

By the time he had reached the VIP dorms, the sun was dipping orange into the horizon. He pulled over to the curb and ran up the stairs, sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

Room 209.

He could hear laughter coming from the room, it was loud and boisterous laughter. And then, he heard Alicia's voice.

That breathy, sultry laugh that he knew by heart.

No. No way. What the hell is she doing here?

He stood there for a second, his heart pounding in his ears. Then he knocked.

"The door's open!" Marcus's voice.

Harry hesitated, then pulled the door open.

The scent met him first. Champagne, and expensive cologne. Music pulsed from a Bluetooth speaker. Marcus lay on the couch, bare-chested, hair tousled, that condescending smile stretched across his face.

And Alicia straddled him like a cowgirl on a horse.

She was wearing a two piece black bikini, something he had never seen her in, even when she made him take pictures of her for a modelling gig.

For a moment, she was still giggling, until she saw him.

Harry froze. The delivery bag was still in his hand. Everything around him simply halted.

Marcus didn't give a damn. He picked up his glass and smiled smugly. "Oh hey," he drawled. "You can just leave the food there, man. Man! I will need that after what I just did to my girl."

‘His girl?’ Harry thought to himself, his mouth suddenly became dry as a desert. His heart was slamming against his ribs so hard that it hurt. He couldn't think. He just stared at her.

"Alicia?" His voice cracked.

She opened her lips, but nothing came out. Not even sorry.

Harry took a step forward, stumbling. His voice was barely a whisper. "What the fuck…"