The billionaire's Contract

Chapter 2

POV: Glory

The taxi drops me off at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I forget how to breathe.

The building rises against the night sky like a temple of glass and stone, its famous steps glowing under thousands of tiny lights that twinkle like captured stars. Red carpet stretches from the curb all the way up the stairs, and on that carpet, the most beautiful people I've ever seen are gliding like they own the world.

Women in gowns that cost more than my apartment. Men in tuxedos that probably cost more than my mother's entire treatment. Cameras flash everywhere, so bright they leave spots in my vision.

I step out of the taxi in my borrowed red dress, and I feel like an imposter.

"Glory!"

Diamond appears out of nowhere, her silver gown shimmering under the lights like liquid metal. She looks like a goddess, tall and confident, her hair swept up in a sleek bun that shows off her diamond earrings. She's beaming like she's just won the lottery.

"You came," she says, grabbing my hands. "Oh my God, you actually came. And you're wearing the dress. You look incredible."

"I look like I'm about to be arrested for trespassing." I glance at the red carpet and the paparazzi and the impossibly beautiful people. "I don't belong here, Diamond. These people can smell someone like me from a mile away."

"Someone like you?" Diamond scoffs. "You mean someone brilliant, hardworking, and so fierce she once made a billionaire cry during a negotiation?"

"I did not make him cry. I made him reconsider his life choices. There's a difference."

She laughs and loops her arm through mine. "Same thing. Now come on. We're going to walk up those steps like we own them. Chin up. Shoulders back. And if anyone asks what you do, you tell them you run a boutique wealth management firm that handles retired athletes. Don't mention the cramps, the debt, or the fact that you ate ramen for dinner three nights in a row."

"Four nights," I mutter. "It was four nights."

"Even better. It builds character."

She pulls me toward the steps, and I force my feet to move. The red carpet is soft under my heels, like walking on velvet. The cameras flash, and I instinctively throw my arm up to shield my face.

"Don't block the cameras!" Diamond hisses. "You're supposed to look like you want them to take your picture."

"Why would I want"

"Because it makes you look important. And important people get clients. Now smile."

I smile. It feels like a grimace. The cameras flash again. I'm probably going to end up in some tabloid as "Mystery Woman Looks Terrified at Gala." At least I'll be memorable.

We walk through the massive glass doors, and the inside of the Met takes my breath away all over again. The Temple of Dendur is just ahead, an ancient Egyptian stone structure set against a wall of windows overlooking Central Park.

The room is filled with round tables draped in white linen, centerpieces of roses and candles, and chandeliers that drip with crystals. The air smells like expensive perfume, champagne, and money. So much money I can practically taste it.

"Okay," Diamond says, steering me toward the bar. "We start with champagne. Then we find you a client. Then we make you so rich you never have to worry about hospital bills again."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm ambitious. There's a difference." She flags down a waiter and grabs two glasses of champagne, thrusting one into my hand. "Drink. It'll calm your nerves."

"My nerves are fine."

"Your hands are shaking."

I look down. She's right. I grab the champagne glass and take a long sip. The bubbles tickle my throat. "Okay. Maybe I'm a little nervous."

"A little? You look like you're about to be sacrificed to the Egyptian gods."

"Very funny."

"I'm hilarious. Now come on. I see Marcus Webb over there. He's a retired basketball player. Rumor has it he's got ten million in investments that he's looking to move. Talk to him."

I take a deep breath, paste on my most professional smile, and walk toward the table where Marcus Webb is holding court. He's tall, broad, and surrounded by admirers who laugh at everything he says.

"Mr. Webb?" I extend my hand. "Glory Daniels. I'm a wealth management consultant. I specialize in helping retired athletes secure their financial futures."

He looks me up and down, and I see the calculation in his eyes. He's assessing me, my dress, my smile, my worth. I've been assessed by men like him my whole life.

"Glory Daniels," he says, taking my hand. "Pretty name. Pretty face. What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

"Building a career," I say smoothly. "I represent over twenty retired athletes. I've helped them navigate investments, legal contracts, and retirement planning. I don't just manage money, I protect futures."

He grunts. "I've heard that before. You got a card?"

I hand him one. He takes it, glances at it, and tucks it into his pocket.

"I'll think about it," he says. "But you should know, I've been burned before. By pretty women in pretty dresses promising they're different."

"I'm not a pretty woman in a pretty dress," I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I intended. "I'm a professional with a track record. But if you're not interested, I won't waste your time."

He raises his eyebrows, surprised. "Well, well. You got some fire, don't you?"

"Fire is what keeps my clients' portfolios from burning. Have a good evening, Mr. Webb."

I walk away before he can respond, my heart pounding. Diamond appears at my side.

"That was smooth," she whispers. "He's going to call you. I can feel it."

"He looked at me like I was a dessert menu."

"Then you made him change his order. That's called power."

I'm about to respond when I hear a voice behind me. Sleek. Smug. Dripping with condescension.

"Glory Daniels? The gymnast who couldn't make it?"

I turn around. Standing in front of me is a man I recognize from tech magazines—Richard Blake, some Silicon Valley startup founder who made his fortune selling data. He's handsome in a polished, plastic way, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's looking at me like I'm a bug he wants to squash.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Glory Daniels," he repeats, savoring my name like a joke. "You used to be a gymnast, right? Olympic hopeful? Until your knee gave out. What a shame. I remember reading about it. 'The Girl Who Could Have Been Great.' That was the headline, wasn't it?"

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I don't let it show. I've been dismissed my whole life. I know how to handle men like him.

"That was a long time ago," I say, my voice calm. "But you're right. I couldn't make it. Life happens. What's your story? I'm guessing you made it in tech by being the smartest guy in the room?"

He grins. "I like to think so."

"Funny," I say. "I run a wealth management firm. I've seen a lot of tech startups crash and burn. Usually, it's because the CEO doesn't understand people. They understand code, but not humans. They mistake arrogance for confidence."

"Are you saying I'm arrogant?"

"I'm saying you called a woman who lost her career to a devastating injury 'the girl who couldn't make it.'" I smile, sharp and cold. "That's not arrogant. That's cruel. And cruel men don't make good leaders. They make good cautionary tales."

Richard's face goes pale. The smile drops. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." I step closer, my voice dropping so only he can hear. "I know you're divorced twice. I know your company's stock dropped twelve percent last quarter. I know your investors are nervous, and you're here tonight to make them feel better about themselves. But you're not going to do that by picking on a woman who didn't start with the silver spoon you had."

"You've got a sharp mouth for someone begging for clients."

"Who's begging?" I take a sip of my champagne. "I'm working. That's different. I don't beg. I earn."

I turn around and walk away, my heart racing, my hands shaking. I can feel his eyes on my back, and I know I just made an enemy. But I don't care. The way he looked at me, like I was nothing, like my injury was a joke.I couldn't let that stand.

"Glory!" Diamond catches up to me, her face split in a wide grin. "Oh my God. Oh my God. You just ate Richard Blake alive. That was the best thing I've ever seen."

"He deserved it."

"He completely deserved it. But you have no idea who he is, do you?"

"A tech bro who got too rich for his own good?"

"He's Richard Blake," Diamond says, eyes wide. "The Richard Blake. He owns like half of Silicon Valley. He's a billionaire. Literal billionaire. And you just told him he was a cautionary tale."

I freeze. "A billionaire?"

"Billionaire. Plural. With a B. That man could buy this entire museum and not blink."

I want to throw up. "I just insulted a billionaire."

"You owned him. There's a difference." She grabs my arm. "You're magnificent. You're terrifying. I love you."

"I need to leave."

"You need to stay. Because right now, everyone saw what you did. Everyone saw a woman in a red dress tell Richard Blake he was a cautionary tale. Do you know how powerful that makes you look?"

"Powerful or insane?"

"Both. It's a good combination." She drags me toward the bar. "Come on. Another drink. Then we find you someone who actually deserves your brilliance."

I let her pull me along, but my mind is still spinning. A billionaire. I just insulted a billionaire. That's not how you network. That's not how you survive.

But somewhere, deep down, a little voice whispers: He deserved it. And you're not sorry.

We reach the bar, and I order another champagne. I'm sipping it, trying to steady my nerves, when I feel it. A gaze. Heavy. Intense. Boring into my back like a physical touch.

I turn around.

Standing at the edge of the bar, watching me with cold gray eyes, is a man I've never met.

He's tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His suit is black, simple, probably worth more than my car. He's not smiling. He's not doing anything except standing there, perfectly still, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.

Our eyes meet, and I can't look away.

His gaze is ice, but it's also fire, cold and burning at the same time. I feel like he's seeing through me, past the dress and the champagne and the bravado, all the way down to the desperate girl who checked her bank account this morning and found $412.

I should look away. I should smile politely and turn back to Diamond and pretend I didn't notice him.

But I don't.

I hold his gaze. I raise my champagne glass in a silent toast. I let him see that I'm not afraid.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't raise his own glass. He just watches, a faint flicker of something—interest? surprise?—passing through those cold gray eyes.

And then he turns away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.

"Glory?" Diamond's voice cuts through my trance. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing," I say, but my heart is pounding. "I thought I saw someone I knew."

"Well, you're going to see a lot of people you don't know." She grabs my arm. "Come on. I see a group of retired football players. Let's go make you some money."

I let her pull me away, but my eyes keep searching the cro

wd for that tall figure in the black suit. He's gone. Vanished like smoke.

But I can't shake the feeling that I just caught the attention of someone I really, really shouldn't have.