The Billion Dollar Wife

#2.

Ava’s got back to her apartment. She slammed her bag onto the wooden kitchen table, the heavy thud echoing through the small space. With a groan that carried the weight of the morning’s adrenaline, she collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling until her vision blurred.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. She didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling.

"It’s done," she said, skipping the greeting as she pressed the phone to her ear.

"And?" the voice on the other end was calm, cultured, and devoid of warmth. "Did anything happen?"

Ava shifted. "It didn’t exactly go according to the script. I might have pushed a little harder than we discussed. I called him an arrogant bastard and told him I’d rather date his father and threw money at him."

A brief silence followed. Then, a low, dry chuckle. "Perfect. Dominic is used to being worshiped. He’s spent thirty years surrounded by people who treat his word like gospel. You didn’t just get noticed, Ava, you became a splinter in his mind. He won’t be able to stop thinking about the girl who threw money at him and walked away."

"He looked like he wanted to have me arrested," Ava muttered, rubbing her temples.

"He’ll want to do much more than that now. Listen carefully. There’s a gala tomorrow night—the royal Benefit. It’s high security, high stakes. I’ve already secured an ID and a digital invitation for you. You won’t just be a girl in a coffee shop anymore. You’ll be a guest."

Ava sat up, her heart kicking against her ribs. "Tomorrow? That’s not much time."

"It’s enough. This is the moment, Ava. You need to pull him in completely. Make him believe you’re the only person in that room who sees him for who he truly is."

"I know the job," she said, her voice dropping an octave.

"Good luck. Don’t let the lights blind you."

The line went dead. Ava tossed the phone aside and pulled her laptop onto her knees. The search results for the Gala were a sea of gold foiled invitations and guest lists that read like a Who's Who of the global elite. She scrolled through the names, senators, tech moguls, old money dynasties until she found the dress code, Midnight Masquerade.

She leaned back, a grim smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She didn't have a dress that cost five figures, but she knew someone who could make a cheap one look like a weapon. "Olivia," she whispered to the empty room. "I’m going to need a miracle."

— —

The Blackwood estate was a monument to ego. Dominic walked in, his jaw still tight, his fresh shirt crisp but the memory of the coffee stain still stinging like an insult. His father, George Blackwood, didn't look up from the laptop on his desk.

"You’re late," George said. His voice was hard. "The board meeting started ten minutes ago. I had to make your excuses."

"I was delayed," Dominic said, dropping into the leather chair opposite his father. "A girl. A brat with a coffee cup and a death wish."

George finally looked up, his grey eyes piercing. He sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "You’re supposed to be the face of this family, Dominic. Not some hot head who gets into street brawls with commoners."

Dominic leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests. "Let’s skip the lecture, Dad. Have you made a decision about the succession? The company is looming, and the board needs a single name."

George leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. "I haven't decided. Neither you nor silas have given me a reason to trust you with the legacy."

"I’ve tripled our tech holdings in three years," Dominic snapped.

"And yet, you’re thirty two and alone," George countered, his voice rising. "A man who cannot manage a household cannot manage an empire. Neither of my sons is serious. No wife, no heirs, just a string of headlines and scandals. You think a company this size runs on profit margins alone? It runs on stability. On bloodlines."

Dominic rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine irritation breaking through his icy composure. "Don't start with the 'legacy' speech again. It’s the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages. I don't need a wife to sign a contract."

"Then you don't need the chair," George shot back, his eyes narrowing. "Get serious with your life, Dominic. You have billions in the bank, but your personal life is a vacuum. Find a woman who matches your stature, or I’ll find one for you. Or perhaps I'll just leave the keys to Silas and watch him burn it all down for the insurance money."

Dominic stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the hardwood floor. The heat in his chest wasn't just anger anymore, it was the lingering sting of the girl’s words from the coffee shop. If I wanted a rich man’s attention, I’d be aiming for your father.

"I'm done listening to this," Dominic said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"The gala is tomorrow," George called out as Dominic reached the door. "Try not to embarrass me. And for God’s sake, Dominic—find someone who actually challenges you for once, instead of these vapid models you parade around."