The Billionaire’s Broken Vow

Chapter three

Ashley Murphy’s Point of View

I pin tulle to the mannequin in my studio, my hands unsteady as the fabric whispers secrets of its own. The air smells of fresh silk and lingering tension, Nicole’s engagement ring shining brightly under the overhead lights, almost like a warning beacon amid the Strip's distant neon hum. My secret—Scott’s baby growing inside me—makes every movement heavier, every breath a calculated risk in this city of high rollers.

Scott’s text from last night burns in my mind: “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you everything,” with that blurry contract fragment marked “Sterling Holdings.” What does it mean? Why’s he hiding it, and why share fragments with Nicole but leave me in the dark?

Nicole’s been cold since the bridal suite, her eyes sharp and probing, like she’s waiting for me to slip on the casino floor. She knows about me and Scott—has for years, since I cried on her shoulder after he ghosted me, spilling my heart in her luxury condo while the fountains danced below. So why’s she acting like I’m the enemy now, her poise cracking into something ruthless?

“You’re off today, Ash,” Nicole says, her voice clipped as she adjusts her scarf, her gaze flicking to Scott in the corner like she's marking territory. “I need my dress perfect—flawless for the spotlight.”

“Working on it,” I mutter, my throat tight. I’m pregnant with her fiancé’s child, and she’s staring at me like I’m the one trying to steal a jackpot. I hate how my heart still races for him, how I've started embedding thorns into the lace designs as subtle symbols of the betrayal festering beneath the glamour.

Scott’s flipping through fabric samples, his dark eyes on me rather than the silk, intense as a poker stare-down. He didn’t show up uninvited; I asked him here to explain that text, but now I’m regretting it. His presence is a fire I can’t put out, warming places I thought I'd iced over.

“Scott, what about this lace?” Nicole asks, her tone sweet but sharp, like she’s testing him in a game where the stakes are their future—and mine. She steps closer to him, her hand on his arm, claiming him with the elegance of a socialite used to winning.

He looks at me, not the lace, his voice low and resonant. “It’s beautiful, Ashley. Like everything you do—edgy, defiant.”

My cheeks burn. His words pull me back to that gala weeks ago, where I fell into his arms amid champagne flutes and high-stakes whispers, reckless and stupid in a suite overlooking the chaos. Nicole’s eyes narrow, catching the heat between us like a dealer spotting a cheat.

“Show him the sketch,” she says, her smile tight, forced. She’s been like this since I took the job, suspicious, like she knows I’m not over him—and perhaps senses the thorns I've hidden in the patterns, symbols of deceit waiting to prick. She’s right; I'm channeling my pain into the fabric.

I open my sketchbook, my fingers trembling. The gown’s bold—plunging neckline, flowing train—but all I see is Scott’s guilt, his secrets layered like the city's hidden underbelly. I need to know about that contract, why it's tied to shadows I can't yet see.

“It’s stunning,” Scott says, stepping closer, his shoulder brushing mine in a spark that ignites old flames. “You’re incredible, Ashley, turning pain into art.”

My breath catches. His touch is a spark, and I hate how I want more, how it fuels my impulsive urge to confront everything now. Nicole’s stare burns, her fingers tightening on her purse like she's holding a losing hand.

“Careful,” I whisper to Scott, my voice shaky amid the studio's quiet hum. “She’s watching us like a hawk on the prowl.”

He flinches, his eyes raw with conflict. “We need to talk,” he says, low and urgent. “About the contract—and what it really means.”

My heart races. I want to demand answers now, but Nicole’s here, her suspicion like a blade glinting in the light. I’m carrying his child, and he’s dangling secrets I can’t reach without risking it all.

The door chimes, and a delivery guy steps in, breaking the standoff. “Ashley Murphy,” he says, handing me an envelope with Scott’s handwriting scrawled across it. My stomach drops—this must be the full contract, the truth I've been chasing.

Nicole’s eyes lock on the envelope, sharp as a casino security cam. “What’s that?” she asks, her voice sharp, like she’s caught me palming an ace.

“Fabric order,” I lie, shoving it into my bag with sweating hands, praying she buys it. I need to read this alone, away from her watchful gaze.

The door swings open again—no, it's already open, but Nicole steps forward anyway, her red dress tight against her elegant frame, her eyes blazing like the Strip at night. “Enough games, Ashley,” she snaps, her heels clicking on the floor like countdown ticks. “I know about that contract. Scott told me last night—it’s why he left you, to secure his future.”

My breath stops. The contract—Sterling Holdings, the payment to end us—was our secret, something he sent to me in fragments. He told *her*? My hands shake as I turn to Scott, his face pale, guilt etched deep like a scar from a bad fold.

“What?” I whisper, the word barely escaping. Nicole’s always known about our past, but this? This feels like a deliberate play.

“You’re trying to take him back,” Nicole says, her voice sharp but proud, like she’s won the pot. “Scott’s my fate, Ashley, not yours. Stop digging into things that don’t concern you—focus on the dress, or I'll make sure your career folds.”

I clutch the envelope, my heart pounding like a jackpot alarm. “I’m designing your dress, Nic,” I say, my voice trembling. “That’s all.

Scott steps forward, his jaw tight. “Nicole, you’re wrong—”

“Stop,” I snap, my voice shaking. I turn to Scott, tears burning. “You told her about the contract, but not me? What else are you keeping from me?”

Nicole laughs, cold and fierce, the sound echoing like a loser's sigh. “Keep your secrets,” she says, her eyes on me with ruthless poise. “But Scott’s mine, and you’re not changing that—not with your designs or your lingering looks.”

I grab my sketchbook, my hand brushing my stomach where the baby stirs my resolve. Our child is a secret I can’t share, not with her like this. I need the truth, now, before my impulsiveness ruins everything.

Nicole pulls Scott toward the door, her grip possessive as a winner's clutch on chips. “We’re done here,” she says, her voice venomous. “Cake tasting, babe—let's celebrate our future.”

Scott hesitates, his eyes locked on me. “Ashley, we’ll talk,” he says, his voice low, like a promise in a city that breaks them daily.

They leave, and I collapse into my chair, my hands trembling. I’m pregnant with his child, and he’s sharing secrets with her, not me. What’s he hiding—and how does it tie to the thorns in my designs?

I tear open the envelope, my fingers shaking. The contract fragment glares back, “Sterling Holdings” at the top. One line stops my heart: “Payment to terminate relationship with Ashley Murphy.”

Someone paid Scott to leave me three years ago. Who? And why? In Vegas, every deal has a price, and I'm ready to call the bluff.