The Billionaire Forbidden Bride

By nine-thirty that morning, Amara had already received three phone calls she didn't want to answer. The first was from the hospital. The second was from her landlord. The third was from her younger brother, who had spoken for less than thirty seconds before saying, “Please, don't worry. I'll figure something out.” He hadn't figured anything out. Neither had she. Amara sat on the edge of her narrow bed with the phone pressed against her ear, listening to the silence after the call ended. For a few seconds, she didn't move. The room was unusually quiet. Outside her window, traffic crawled along the wet street, tires hissing over the road after the morning rain. Somewhere downstairs, a woman was arguing with a delivery rider. A radio played softly from another apartment, the voice of a man advertising some miracle product that could apparently solve every problem known to mankind. Amara almost laughed. If only. She looked at the message again. BALANCE DUE: $4,800. The hospital had been polite. That somehow made it worse. Her mother needed another procedure, and the money she'd been saving for months had disappeared into medication, consultations and bills she had never imagined she would have to understand. She rubbed her forehead. “Okay,” she whispered. Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. “Okay.” She said it again because sometimes pretending something was manageable made it feel slightly less impossible. Her phone vibrated. This time, it was her landlord. She stared at the name until the call stopped. Then another message appeared. AMARA, I CAN'T KEEP WAITING. PLEASE SORT OUT THE RENT TODAY. She locked the phone. For several seconds, she simply stared at the wall. Then she stood. There was no point crying. She had cried yesterday. And the day before that. Crying hadn't produced money either. --- By six that evening, Amara was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a hotel bathroom, trying to convince herself that she belonged there. The dress wasn't hers. Almost nothing about tonight was hers. The dress had been borrowed from her friend Nneka. The shoes were two sizes too small. The diamond earrings were fake, although they looked convincing enough under the warm bathroom lights. Even the invitation had technically belonged to someone else. Nneka had gotten sick that afternoon and called her in desperation. “Please, Amara. Just go for me.” “I don't know anybody there.” “You don't need to know anybody. Eat expensive food, smile at rich people and come home.” “That sounds suspiciously like prostitution.” “It's charity.” “Charity with champagne.” “Exactly.” Amara had laughed then. She wasn't laughing now. She stepped out of the bathroom. The ballroom was enormous. Crystal lights hung from the ceiling like frozen rain. Waiters moved between tables carrying glasses of champagne. Men in dark suits spoke quietly in groups while women in expensive gowns smiled with the kind of effortless confidence Amara had never learned. She felt like a person who had accidentally walked into somebody else's life. She picked up a glass of water. Not champagne. Water. At least water wouldn't make her say something embarrassing. “Amara?” She turned. A woman she vaguely recognized from Nneka's circle smiled at her. “You came!” “Apparently.” The woman laughed. “You look beautiful.” “Thank you.” “You have to meet some people.” Amara's stomach tightened. “I actually—” But the woman was already pulling her toward a group near the far end of the ballroom. Amara followed reluctantly. She smiled when she was introduced. She nodded when people spoke. She tried to remember names. Then someone mentioned the Vale family. The conversation changed almost immediately. “Damian is here tonight.” “Is he?” “I heard he arrived twenty minutes ago.” “He won't stay long.” “He never does.” Amara didn't know who Damian was, but apparently everyone else did. She glanced across the room. And saw him. He wasn't the loudest person there. That was the first thing she noticed. He stood slightly apart from the group surrounding him, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass he hadn't touched. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. His expression was unreadable. People approached him constantly. He listened. He answered. He nodded. But he didn't seem particularly interested in anyone. Then his eyes moved across the room. And stopped on her. Amara looked behind herself. There was nobody standing there. She looked back. He was still watching her. She frowned. Then she looked away. Absolutely not. She had enough problems. She didn't need an arrogant stranger adding himself to the list. Five minutes later, she escaped the ballroom. She walked quickly down the hotel corridor, desperate for somewhere quiet. She pushed open the first door she found. “Finally.” She stepped inside. The room was dark. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. For the first time all evening, she exhaled. “Beautiful hotel,” she whispered to herself. “Terrible people.” “I'm standing right here.” Amara froze. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. Someone was sitting near the window. The man stood. Her heart jumped. It was him. Damian. He walked toward the light from the corridor spilling beneath the door. “You're in the wrong room,” he said. Amara stared at him. “I was looking for the restroom.” “This is a private suite.” “I can see that now.” He looked at her dress. Then at her face. “Who are you?” The question irritated her. “Someone who would like to leave.” She reached for the door. “Wait.” She stopped. “Why?” “You walked into my room.” “I apologized.” “You didn't.” Amara turned around. “Fine. I'm sorry.” She opened the door. “Goodnight.” “What's your name?” She looked over her shoulder. “Why?” “I asked you a question.” “And I asked you why.” Something changed in his expression. Not anger. Surprise. As though people didn't normally answer him that way. Amara opened the door wider. “Goodnight, Mr. Private Suite.” She walked out. She made it three steps before she heard him behind her. “You're wearing the wrong shoes.” She looked down. Her borrowed heels were indeed different from the ones she had entered the ballroom wearing. She looked back at him. He pointed toward the shoes. “You've been walking around all evening in shoes that don't belong to you.” Amara stared at him. Then, despite herself, she laughed. “That's the first intelligent thing you've said.” His eyebrows lifted. She walked away before he could answer. She didn't know his name. She didn't know why he had been watching her. And she certainly didn't know that by the end of the night, that man would offer her six million dollars to become his fake fiancée. She only knew one thing. She had walked into the wrong room. And somehow, she had just walked into the biggest mistake of her life.