The Billionaire’s Enemy Bride

The first lie I ever told Braxton Atkins was that we’d met by chance. If I had known how that lie would unravel my life, I would have walked away before it ever left my lips. Instead, I spent three years preparing for that moment. Three years collecting every article ever written about the Atkins family. Three years studying annual reports, charity appearances, interviews, and photographs until their faces became as familiar to me as my own reflection. Three years convincing myself that revenge wasn’t an obsession. It was justice. It was the only promise I had left to keep. The leather journal resting inside my handbag was proof of that promise. It had belonged to my father. The cover had cracked with age, the corners softened from years of being carried everywhere, but I still treated it as though it were made of glass. It contained newspaper clippings, photocopied financial statements, handwritten notes, and questions that no one had ever answered. Every page represented another piece of a puzzle that had stolen my childhood and left me with nothing except anger to keep me warm. I slid my fingers over the worn leather and drew a slow breath before looking up at the entrance of Maison Verre. The restaurant was exactly as elegant as every review had described. Sunlight filtered through towering windows, spilling across polished marble floors that reflected crystal chandeliers overhead. Conversations drifted softly between tables dressed in white linen, accompanied by the quiet melody of a grand piano tucked into one corner of the dining room. The air carried the rich aroma of roasted garlic, fresh herbs, and expensive wine, the kind of scent that spoke of old money and effortless luxury. It wasn’t a place where ordinary people wandered in for lunch. It was where billionaires negotiated mergers over dessert and politicians smiled across tables while plotting each other’s downfall. It was also where Braxton Atkins ate lunch every Thursday after the board meeting at Atkins Global Holdings. Always at one o’clock, not a minute before or after, Always at the same table and always with his closest friend. Predictability was a dangerous habit for powerful men. I checked the time on my watch on my left wrist. Twelve fifty-eight pm, right on schedule. The hostess suddenly straightened, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her tailored blazer. Several waiters glanced toward the entrance almost instinctively, and conversations nearby dipped into curious whispers. I didn’t have to turn around to understand the reason why. Because He was here. Yet i couldn’t stop myself from looking. Braxton Atkins walked through the revolving doors with the quiet confidence of a man who had long ago stopped noticing when people stared. He wasn’t trying to command attention. He simply did. He was taller than I’d imagined, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled out a charcoal suit tailored to perfection. Dark hair framed a face that magazines had declared devastatingly handsome, though none of them had captured the severity of his expression. There was no arrogance in the way he carried himself. If anything, he looked… detached. Like someone who had mastered the art of keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length. His eyes swept across the restaurant without lingering on anyone. Not on me, not yet Good. I lowered my gaze to the menu before he could catch me watching him. The last thing I needed was to draw attention before the plan had even begun. “Miss Hayes?” I looked up to find the waiter smiling politely. “Would you like another glass of sparkling water?” “Yes, thank you.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. As the waiter disappeared, I allowed myself another glance. Braxton had taken his usual seat near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A moment later, another man approached him with an easy grin and clasped his shoulder before sitting down. Clinton Brooks. A former Special Forces and Head of Security at Atkins Global. But most importantly, Braxton’s closest friend. Unlike Braxton, Clinton smiled easily. He spoke with animated gestures, clearly saying something amusing because one of the waiters chuckled as he poured wine into their glasses. Braxton didn’t laugh, never for once forced himself to. He merely shook his head with what looked suspiciously like the ghost of a smile before reaching for the leather folder the waiter had placed in front of him. Interesting. Every article described him as cold, ruthless, and impossible to read. None of them mentioned that tiny almost-smile. I tucked the observation away. Details mattered, of course they always had. My phone vibrated against the table. Molly Calling. I stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering. “If you’re calling to tell me to go home,” I said quietly, “save your breath.” “I wasn’t,” Molly replied, though I could hear the worry beneath her teasing tone. “I was calling to make sure you haven’t thrown a glass of wine in his face yet.” A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “Give me some credit.” “I am giving you credit. You’re dramatic enough to make an entrance.” “I don’t do dramatic.” “You once dyed your hair black because your high school crush said blondes weren’t his type.” “I was seventeen.” “You were ridiculous.” “I was heartbroken.” “You were ridiculous.” Molly insisted. I laughed softly despite myself, earning a curious glance from an elderly couple seated nearby. Molly seized the opportunity. “There she is.” “What?” “That laugh. I haven’t heard it in weeks.” The smile faded from my face almost as quickly as it had appeared. Silence settled between us for unbearable seconds. Finally, she sighed. “You can still leave, Cam.” “I won’t.” “I know.” “I have to do this.” “You have to find the truth,” she corrected gently. “Those aren’t always the same thing.” My eyes drifted back toward Braxton. He was listening to Clinton now, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup while the other rested loosely on the table. From where I sat, he looked nothing like the man I’d spent years imagining. He looked… Human and the realization irritated me. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” “I hope so,” Molly whispered. “Because once you step into his life, there’s no going back.” I ended the call before she could say anything else. She wasn’t wrong. There would be no turning back, definitely not after today. I slipped my phone into my handbag and reached for my father’s journal instead. The familiar scent of old paper greeted me as I opened it beneath the table, hidden from curious eyes. Tucked inside the front cover was a photograph. My father stood beside Richard Atkins outside the headquarters of Atkins Global. They were both smiling, dressed in business suits, looking like two men celebrating another successful year. It was the last photograph ever taken of him. I traced my thumb across my father’s face. “You promised we’d always have each other,” I whispered so quietly that even I barely heard the words. The memory arrived with painful clarity. My father kneeling in front of me the night before my fifteenth birthday, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear as he smiled. “No matter how busy work gets, princess, your birthday belongs to you.” He never came home that godforsaken day. Instead, two police officers stood on our doorstep the following morning. One carried his cap in his hands and the other female officer couldn’t meet my eyes. That was the day my world ended. And today… Today was the day someone else’s would begin. I closed the journal carefully and slid it back into my handbag just as Braxton rose from his chair. My pulse slowed instead of quickening. Three years of planning had led to this exact moment. The first move on the board had finally begun.