2 Broke Girls x 1 Rich Man [TV series 2 Broke Girls ff]

Words: 2.9k Big one.

Ranking: 7. Keep droping those Powerstones.

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Caroline and Max were dead.

Not literally, but close.

The diner cleanup had nearly killed them, and after six hours of scrubbing, mopping, and regretting all their life choices, Han had finally taken pity on them.

"Here," Han had said, sliding two envelopes across the counter. "Consider this hazard pay."

Caroline and Max had snatched the envelopes so fast they nearly caught fire from the friction.

Inside?

Fifty extra bucks each.

Max looked at Han as if he had just proposed marriage. "Oh my god, are you feeling okay? Blink twice if you're being held hostage."

Han had just given her a deadpan stare. "You're both unbearable when you're broke. This is self-defense."

Now, it was the next morning, and Caroline was sprawled out on the couch, groaning into a pillow while Max sat cross-legged on the coffee table, aggressively chugging an iced coffee like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"I swear to god," Caroline mumbled into the pillow, "if I ever have to clean that diner again, I'm quitting and becoming a hermit in the woods."

Max slurped her coffee. "Babe, you wouldn't last five minutes without Wi-Fi."

Caroline lifted her head. "I could last at least ten."

Max smirked. "Oh yeah? What about food?"

Caroline groaned. "Ugh. Fine. A high-maintenance hermit."

Max patted her shoulder. "There you go. Aim for realistic goals."

Just then, Caroline's phone buzzed. She grabbed it and squinted at the screen.

Alex Wilson: Delivery date set: 2 weeks, 10 AM. Lester Street, building 24A.

Caroline stared at the message for a full three seconds. Then she sat up so fast she nearly headbutted Max. "OH, CRAP."

Max, who had been mid-sip, nearly drowned in her own coffee. "JESUS—WHAT?"

Caroline turned the phone toward her. "Alex just set the date for the cupcake order."

Max's eyes widened. "Wait, already? I thought rich people took forever to make decisions! Don't they have, like, seven levels of meetings just to pick the font for their emails?"

Caroline groaned. "Apparently not this rich guy!"

Max took the phone and read the message, tapping her chin. "Hmmm. Two weeks, huh? That's plenty of time."

Caroline narrowed her eyes. "Max. What's our plan?"

Max blinked. "Plan?"

Caroline waved wildly. "FOR THE CUPCAKES, MAX."

Max blinked again. "Oh. Right."

Silence.

Caroline leaned forward, deadly serious. "Max. Do you actually have a plan?"

Max grinned. "Absolutely not."

Caroline threw a pillow at her face. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO PLAN?!"

Max cackled, dodging the pillow. "Babe, relax! We've been making cupcakes for years. We just do what we always do, but, like… faster."

Caroline groaned. "Max, this isn't just any order! This is one thousand cupcakes! We need to make sure they're perfect! We should probably take lessons from some professionals to really make sure they're eye-catching."

Max froze mid-sip of her coffee. Slowly, she lowered the cup. "Caroline… think very carefully about what you just said."

Caroline sighed. "Oh, come on, we could—"

Max cut her off, shaking her head. "Nope. No way. Not again. The last time we took a baking class, we nearly got mental scars."

Caroline rolled her eyes. "You're being dramatic."

Max pointed an accusing finger. "AM I?! Or did we spend six hours with those two bitchy pastry chefs from hell who literally tried to psychologically break us over the size of our frosting swirls?"

Caroline winced. Okay, yeah. That… had been a rough experience.

"Max," she tried, "not every professional is going to be like those two."

Max crossed her arms. "Uh-huh. You do remember that one of them looked me dead in the eye and said, 'You spread buttercream like a sewer rat with arthritis'? Because I do."

Caroline winced harder. "…Okay, so she was a little mean."

"A little?!" Max threw up her hands. "Caroline, that woman tried to gatekeep frosting."

Caroline sighed. "Alright, fine. Maybe a class is a bad idea. But we still need to do something! How are we going to make one thousand cupcakes without help?"

Max thought for a second. Then shrugged. "Eh. We'll wing it."

Caroline stared. "We'll wing it?"

Max nodded. "Yeah. Like always."

Caroline put her head in her hands. "We are so doomed."

Max grinned, throwing an arm around her. "Babe, if we haven't burned this business to the ground yet, we never will."

Caroline groaned. "That's not comforting."

Max held up her coffee cup like a toast. "To winging it."

Caroline sighed. Then, reluctantly, clinked her coffee cup against Max's.

This was definitely going to be a disaster.

...

Max was not an optimistic person.

She was the type to say, "It'll probably go wrong, and I have nothing to lose, so let's do it anyway," and she had survived this long in life by sheer force of chaotic willpower. But for some ridiculous reason, she woke up that morning with an actual, genuine urge to put in the effort.

She blamed Alex.

That stupidly handsome billionaire had just handed them twenty grand with no strings attached. No creepy rich-man deal. No hidden motives. Just, "Make good cupcakes."

That kind of trust? It was both flattering and terrifying. So, while Caroline was out doing double shifts at the diner, Max made a very rare decision... She was going to give it her all. And that meant, ditching her morning nanny job.

[9:42 AM – Max's Apartment Kitchen]

Max tied her apron, pulled her hair into a messy bun, and stared at the battlefield before her. After Caroline left, she went to the market and bought all the ingredients she could possibly need and zero supervision. Bags of flour. Sticks of butter. Bowls of eggs. Chocolates. Jam. Sprinkles and some other ingredients that were missing from her usual baking stock.

'Time to work some magic,' She cracked her knuckles. "Alright, sugar demons," she muttered to the ingredients, "let's make some history."

[Attempt 1: The 'Classic but Better' Approach]

Max figured she'd start simple, just enhance their usual recipe. More butter. A little extra vanilla. A secret pinch of cinnamon.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled the cupcake from the oven, golden brown and beautiful.

She took a bite.

Chewed.

Then promptly spat it into the sink.

"What the hell is that?!" she gasped.

The cupcake was weirdly salty like it had been baked by Poseidon himself. Max frantically checked the counter and immediately facepalmed.

She hadn't used sugar.

She had used SALT.

"Damn you, Caroline. How dare you put salt in the sugar jar?" Max groaned, shoving the tray away. "Okay. Not great. But we recover."

She cracked her knuckles again.

[Attempt 2: The 'Fancy Bakery' Experiment]

This time, she went full gourmet mode.

She made a chocolate ganache filling, hand-piped an intricate buttercream swirl, and even sprinkled gold flakes on top.

(Where did she get gold flakes? No one knows.)

She took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

…Paused.

Max narrowed her eyes.

'Tastes good… But is it too good? Like, the kind of "good" that pretentious rich people would call "decadent" while tilting their heads at a weird angle. Would kids at an orphanage appreciate something this… fancy?' She sighed. "Alright, back to basics."

[Attempt 3: The 'Max Special']

Max decided to trust her instincts.

She baked her signature vanilla cupcakes, but this time, she stuffed them with homemade strawberry jam—just a tiny burst of surprise sweetness inside. She topped them with fluffy cream cheese frosting and added little candy pearls for fun.

Taking a deep breath, she bit into one.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Paused.

Then grinned.

Bingo!

It was delicious.

Not too sweet. Not too fancy. Just simple, perfect happiness in a bite.

Max fist-pumped the air. "YES! I AM A GOD."

…And then immediately burned her finger on a hot baking tray.

"OW! I AM A MORTAL GOD!"

[Later That Afternoon]

When Caroline finally dragged herself home after her first diner shift from hell, she barely had time to take off her shoes before Max shoved a cupcake in her face.

Caroline blinked. "Uh. Hi?"

"Eat."

Caroline sighed, grabbed the cupcake, and took a bite.

Her eyes widened.

"…Holy crap!"

Max smirked. "Right?"

Caroline swallowed, staring at her in shock. "Max. This is actually… amazing."

"I KNOW."

Caroline took another bite, groaning. "Where was this energy when we were making cupcakes for rent money?"

Max shrugged. "Apparently, I need 20 grand to feel motivated."

Caroline snorted. "Wow. We really are money-motivated gremlins."

Max collapsed onto the couch, stretching her arms behind her head. "So. What do you think?"

Caroline finished the cupcake, licking some frosting off her thumb. "I think we might have a shot at this."

Max grinned. "Damn right, we do."

For the first time in forever, they felt like real business owners. And for once? Max actually believed they could pull this off.

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[Back to Alex] [Blackstar Studios]

Alex stepped out of his Porsche, adjusting the cuffs of his navy blue blazer as he approached the towering glass facade of Blackstar Studios. The massive production house loomed over the Hollywood skyline, sleek and modern, its tinted windows reflecting the late morning sun.

He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders.

'Alright, let's get this over with.'

He had been in far too many meetings like this before where executives smiled through their teeth, sugarcoating their disapproval while trying to manipulate the narrative in their favor.

And Vanessa Harper?

She was a master at it.

As CEO of Blackstar Studios, Vanessa had helped launch his career. She had believed in his talent when others had dismissed him as just another ambitious filmmaker with big dreams and no real connections. And in return, he had given Blackstar five years of gold.

Blockbusters. Awards. Prestige. Money.

And now?

Now, she wanted to control him.

Alex took a deep breath, straightening his posture as he walked through the revolving doors.

'Not happening, Harper.'

A receptionist, a young woman with sharp red lipstick and an expression of barely disguised terror—jumped to her feet the moment she saw him. "Mr. Wilson! Ms. Harper is expecting you," she stammered.

Alex smirked slightly. "Of course she is."

[Executive Office]

Vanessa Harper's office was as sharp and calculating as the woman herself. Minimalist. Sleek. Coldly elegant. A massive black marble desk dominated the room, positioned in front of a sprawling floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Los Angeles. No personal photos. No sentimental clutter. Just an air of controlled power.

And there, behind the desk, sat Vanessa Harper.

Immaculately dressed in a tailored gray pantsuit, her platinum blonde hair pinned into a precise bun, she radiated the kind of effortless authority that came with running one of the most successful studios in Hollywood.

She was scrolling through her phone, long fingers tapping the screen, when Alex entered.

Without looking up, she spoke.

"You're late."

Alex smirked, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't aware this was a date."

Vanessa sighed, setting her phone aside. When she finally met his gaze, her ice-blue eyes were coolly assessing—always calculating, always three steps ahead.

"So," she said smoothly, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Alex sat down across from her, draping an arm over the back of the chair. Completely at ease. Like he hadn't just detonated a Hollywood-level bomb with his decision.

"I figured," he said casually, "since you've been blowing up Rachel's phone all morning, I should stop by and clear things up."

Vanessa's lips curved into a smile.

"Ah. So you are aware of the chaos you caused."

Alex shrugged. "I made a decision about my next film. I didn't realize that was illegal."

Vanessa leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. "Alex. You know as well as I do that this isn't about the film. It's about your unilateral decision to cut Blackstar Studios out of the equation."

There it was.

The real issue.

Alex tilted his head. "You sound surprised."

"I am." Vanessa's smile thinned. "We had an understanding."

"No," He corrected, "we had a contract. One that ended with my last film."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, tapping her manicured fingers against the desk. "So you're telling me that after five years of partnership, you're just… walking away?"

Alex's smirk deepened. "Pretty much."

Vanessa let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "You're making a mistake."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's my mistake to make."

She studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp, searching. "Is this about control?" she asked finally.

Alex met her stare without flinching. "It's about ownership. It's about creative freedom. It's about not having to answer to people who only care about profit margins."

Vanessa leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "So, what? You're going full independent filmmaker now? You think you can handle all the logistics, all the funding, all the distribution without Blackstar?"

"I don't think," He said, standing up. "I know."

Vanessa sighed, rubbing her temples. "Alex, you and I both know how this industry works. Hollywood doesn't reward idealists. It rewards power players. And without a major studio backing you, you..."

"I'll be fine," he interrupted smoothly.

She exhaled sharply. "You're gambling with your career."

Alex leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on the edge of Vanessa's sleek marble desk. His smirk never wavered, but there was something sharp in his eyes, something unshakable.

"Five Oscars," he repeated, voice smooth as silk. "Multiple awards. Blockbuster productions. One of the best scriptwriters and directors in the industry. Zero flops." He tilted his head. "If you think I got this far by just gambling, Vanessa, then you haven't been paying attention."

Vanessa held his gaze, her perfectly composed expression not shifting even a fraction. But he could see it. The slight twitch in her jaw, the way her fingers tapped just a little too fast against the desk.

She was calculating. Reevaluating.

She hated losing control.

And right now?

She was losing him.

Alex straightened, adjusting his blazer. "I'm not some desperate kid anymore, Vanessa. I don't need Blackstar to hold my hand. I built my own production company for a reason."

She exhaled slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You really think you can run an entire production by yourself?"

Alex chuckled. "I won't be by myself. I have my team. People who actually give a damn about making good films, not just marketable ones."

Vanessa folded her hands, eyeing him like a chess piece she was about to move. "Alex," she said smoothly, "you know how much I respect you. But let's not pretend this industry is a meritocracy. Talent is only half the game. Connections, power, backing—that's what keeps you on top. If you go solo, you'll be competing with giants."

"I am a giant," Alex shot back without hesitation.

Silence.

Vanessa Harper, the woman who had once championed his career, now sat across from him, trying to salvage what little control she had left. Alex could see it... the calculated restraint, the icy composure of a woman who never lost.

Well, there was a first time for everything.

Alex adjusted the cuff of his blazer, offering Vanessa a polite, almost amused smile. "Well, Vanessa," he said smoothly, "it was nice working with you. As long as it lasted."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

No lingering looks. No second-guessing.

Just a clean, final exit.

As he reached the door, Vanessa's voice rang out—cool, crisp, and dripping with certainty.

"Lost in Translation will never work."

Alex stopped.

Her chair creaked slightly as she leaned back, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen Hollywood crush dreamers before.

"You think you're making something profound, something different," she continued. "But let me tell you how this really ends. Your 'quiet, introspective romance' will bomb at the box office. Critics won't be able to decide if they love it or hate it. Audiences? They'll barely notice. And then?"

She let out a soft, almost pitying chuckle.

"You'll come crawling back."

Alex didn't move.

For a moment, all he did was stand there, his hand resting against the cool metal of the door handle.

Then, slowly he turned his head, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

His smirk was still there. Unbothered. Unshaken.

But his eyes?

His eyes said watch me.

"We'll just see about that, won't we?"

He walked out the door, never looking back.

[Parking Lot]

Alex stepped out of the glass tower, inhaling the fresh Los Angeles air.

It was funny. He should have felt nervous about what he had just done. Cutting ties with Blackstar, burning bridges with one of the most powerful studios in the industry.

But instead?

He felt lighter. Like he had just dropped a hundred-pound weight off his shoulders. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

Rachel picked up immediately. "So?"

Alex smirked. "We're officially flying solo."

There was a pause. Then a deep sigh. "…Jesus Christ, Alex."

He chuckled. "That's the spirit."

She groaned. "Do you have any idea how pissed off you just made the entire Hollywood elite? Vanessa Harper is going to turn you into a cautionary tale."

He leaned against his car, glancing up at the towering Blackstar Studios building. "Let her."

Rachel muttered something about stress ulcers before exhaling. "Alright, what's next, genius?"

Alex grinned. "We make a movie."

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[8 advance chs] [All chs available for all tiers]

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AN: That's it for today. I might take a little break tomorrow. Well, depends on how many chs I manage to write tonight. See ya.