He Called Me Overreacting, I Married a Billionaire

Chapter 2

Years ago, I got tired of being Charlotte Lane.

As the only daughter of the reigning mafia boss, I knew most people in this city had ulterior motives.

The underlings who bowed and greeted me, the businessmen who buttered me up, the partner families who struck up conversations.

Love, for me, always came with a price tag. Men wanted to be seen by my father through me.

What they wanted were the resources and power the Lane family held—protection, money, connections.

Countless nights, I'd lean against the terrace railing, staring at the distant city lights, and feel this longing in my chest.

I wanted someone who chose me for who I was, not for who my father was.

I wanted to know—where was my true love?

So I ran away from home and started living under the name Charlotte Lewis.

That was when I met Samuel.

He was a doctor at a private clinic—sharp suit, charming smile.

When he laughed, he had these cute dimples.

He'd send me flowers, take me to the movies, push me to try new things.

Then one evening on the street, a drunk tried to rob me. Samuel showed up out of nowhere and got my bag back.

I sat on the steps, dabbing iodine on his scraped knuckles.

His eyes were fixed on me, real intense. "Charlotte, I didn't do all that just 'cause we're friends."

My breath caught in my throat.

That night, he drove me to the pier to watch the sunset.

The salty wind hit our faces, and below us, waves kept smacking against the wooden posts.

His fingers brushed against mine.

"Watching you go through something awful alone, I can't just stand by. I like you."

For five years, I believed Samuel and I were gonna make it.

Maybe we'd have a big fancy wedding, and after that, a cute little baby.

I even planned to bring him home, introduce him to my father, Salvatore Lane.

Show him the world behind those closed doors.

But my father was still kinda sore about me running off.

After his men spotted me at some mall in Crestwood City, they kept pushing me to come back.

My father was considering a marriage alliance with Don Ronald, son of the biggest arms dealer on the East Coast.

I wanted to wait. Wait for Samuel to give me a definite answer.

And today's little joke gave me the final blow.

When I left the estate, I got into a cab.

It was raining, and the city lights outside blurred into a mess.

The email my father sent three days ago was still sitting in my inbox:

Dear, I forgive you for leaving without a word, but the family needs its heir.

Saturday at 3 p.m., the family jet will be waiting for you at Crestwood Airfield.

I never replied. I was still being stupid, still waiting, waiting for that ring on my finger to mean something, waiting for Samuel to keep his promises.

But now I texted back: Dad, I'm coming home. And I agree to marry Don Ronald.

I put down my phone and let out a breath.

Turns out, knowing you're not loved isn't the end of the world.

It's like when your favorite lemon cake is sold out. That's all.

I went back to Samuel's apartment, washed those humiliating words off my face in the mirror, and started packing.

One suitcase held three years of living with him.

Clothes. Books. A brooch with the Lane family crest.

Late that night, I pulled my suitcase to the door.

Samuel was standing there with a cake in his hands. Lillian was right next to him.

"Lillian made this strawberry cake herself. She wanted to apologize, so just take one bite and forgive her, okay?"

He reeked of Lillian's perfume, that sickly sweet scent.

I stared at the cake. Didn't take it.

Once, on a date, I accidentally ate a strawberry jam toast and ended up in the hospital with an allergic reaction.

He held my hand that day, looking so guilty I almost ended up comforting him instead.

"From now on, no strawberries anywhere near me."

And now, he was holding a strawberry cake right in my face, telling me to take a bite. Just so Lillian could feel better about herself.

So that was it. His love for me took a backseat whenever Lillian was involved.

I turned him down and walked out the door.

Samuel grabbed my wrist, his voice tired and strained.

"Enough, Charlotte! You gonna pull a runaway bride on me now?"

Then he hit me with those starry eyes of his.

"Come on. Let's put the suitcase back."

He always said stuff like that when he wanted me to stay.

"Next year, I promise I'll give you a better proposal."

But I pulled my hand free and said one thing.

"Samuel, we're done."