My Fake Engagement With Three Billionaires

The first thing Victoria Sterling said to me, in front of two hundred people, was: "You're a waitress, aren't you?" The ballroom went quiet. The string quartet stumbled over a note. A woman at the next table dropped her champagne flute, and it shattered on the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot. I stood there in a dress that cost more than my car — well, more than the car I didn't own — and I did what I always do when I'm cornered. I licked my lower lip. It's a tell. I know it's a tell. I've known it since I was fourteen and my mom caught me sneaking out and said, "Don't you lick your lips at me, Chloe Bennett, I know when you're lying." I can't stop. Nerve hits, tongue comes out, lip gets licked. My left eye also twitches. Just a little. Just enough that anyone paying attention would notice. Victoria Sterling was paying attention. She'd done her homework. But let me back up. Forty-eight hours ago, I was not standing in a ballroom wearing diamonds and a borrowed dress. Forty-eight hours ago, I was sitting on the floor of a bathroom stall at Luigi's Italian Bistro, staring at my bank app, and the number on the screen was $3.17. Three dollars and seventeen cents. That's what I had to my name. Stacked against it: eighteen thousand four hundred dollars in debt, an eviction notice taped to my door, and an ex-boyfriend named Marcus Webb who'd disappeared three months ago with my credit card, my savings, and what was left of my ability to trust anyone. I checked my balance every morning. Every night. Sometimes three times in between. I don't know why. It's not like the number was going to magically increase because I stared at it. But there was something almost comforting about the ritual — open the app, type the password, see $3.17, close the app, feel the same hollow drop in my stomach, repeat. "Chloe! Table twelve needs refills!" Marge's voice came through the bathroom door, sharp and impatient. Marge was my manager. Fifty-two, a rose tattoo on her wrist from 1987, zero patience for anyone's emotional breakdown on the clock. "One second!" I called back. I wiped my face with a paper towel. I didn't cry. I don't cry. Rule number one. Once you start, you don't stop, and I didn't have time to stop. I had tables to wait, a rent deadline breathing down my neck, and a life that was currently doing its best impression of a dumpster fire. I walked out with my customer-service smile on — the one I'd perfected over three years at Luigi's, the one that said I am happy to be here and I definitely did not just have a breakdown in the bathroom — and headed for table twelve. Table twelve was Mr. Henderson. Seventy-eight, retired, came in every Tuesday and Thursday for the exact same thing: spaghetti with meat sauce, extra parmesan, a side of garlic bread, and a glass of red wine he nursed for two hours. He tipped well. He also liked to talk. "Chloe, my dear," he said as I approached, "you look like the world just sat on your chest." "I'm fine, Mr. Henderson." "You're a terrible liar. You know that, right?" He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Your left eye twitches. And you lick your lips. I've been watching you for three years. I know." I laughed. It came out shaky. "Everyone keeps telling me that." "Then maybe you should stop lying." He took a sip of wine. "What's the problem? Money?" I didn't answer. I started refilling his water glass. "Eviction?" Still no answer. "Marcus?" My hand tightened around the pitcher. Mr. Henderson nodded slowly. "That bad, huh." He set down his wine glass and reached into his jacket pocket. "Here." He held out a folded envelope. I stared at it. "Mr. Henderson, I can't take your money—" "It's not money." He waved it at me. "Well, it's a number. A phone number. A friend of mine called yesterday. He's looking for someone. A young woman. Temporary arrangement. Said he'd pay well. I told him I might know someone." I took the envelope. My fingers felt numb. "What kind of arrangement?" "He didn't tell me. I didn't ask." Mr. Henderson picked up his fork and started twirling spaghetti. "But he said fifty thousand dollars. For one month." Fifty thousand dollars. The number hung in the air like something physical. I could almost reach out and touch it. After the debt, after the back rent, after everything — I'd still have enough to breathe. Enough to stop checking my balance four times a day. Enough to maybe, finally, get my little brother Tyler out of Mom's house and into a community college somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far from her. "It's not illegal, is it?" I asked. Mr. Henderson looked at me over his wine glass. "My friend is a lot of things, Chloe. But he's not a criminal. He's desperate. There's a difference." I opened the envelope. Inside was a slip of paper with a phone number and a name: A. Hayes. And a time: Tomorrow, 10 AM. The Gray Room, Fifth Avenue. Come alone. The Gray Room. I knew it. That fancy café downtown where coffee cost twelve dollars and the waiters wore vests. I'd walked past it a hundred times. Never once gone in. "Mr. Henderson," I said slowly, "who is this friend of yours?" "CEO of Hayes Industries. You've probably heard of it. Buys companies. Sells companies. Makes more money in a day than you and I will see in a lifetime." "A CEO wants to hire me? For what?" "I told you. He didn't say." Mr. Henderson wiped his mouth with a napkin. "But I'll tell you this. You have two choices. You can walk out of here today, go home, stare at that eviction notice, and figure out where you're sleeping in two weeks. Or you can go to The Gray Room tomorrow, find out what this man wants, and maybe walk out with fifty thousand dollars." He leaned forward. "You've survived worse than a job interview, Chloe Bennett. Go find out what he wants." I put the envelope in my apron pocket. That night, I lay on the mattress on my floor — the bed frame had broken six months ago and I couldn't afford to replace it — and stared at the ceiling. The eviction notice was taped to the fridge where I couldn't miss it. The $3.17 was still in my account. Marcus was still gone. Tyler was still at Mom's, probably getting high in the bathroom while Mom watched TV in the living room, pretending she didn't know. And in my apron pocket, there was a phone number and a name and fifty thousand dollars that might or might not be real. I reached for my phone. Opened the messaging app. Typed the number. Stared at the blank text field for a long time. Then I typed: I'll be there. Hit send. A reply came through a second later: Good. Don't be late. And Chloe? Tell no one. Tell no one. Easy. I didn't have friends — not real ones, not the kind you call at 2 AM. I had coworkers. I had regulars. I had a mother who only called when she needed money and a brother who only called when he needed bail. I put the phone down and closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would walk into The Gray Room. I would meet A. Hayes. I would find out what a billionaire CEO wanted with a waitress who had $3.17 in her bank account and eighteen thousand four hundred dollars in debt. And maybe — just maybe — my life would stop feeling like a dumpster fire. I fell asleep to the sound of my neighbor's TV through the wall and the faint, persistent smell of garlic from the restaurant downstairs. I didn't know it yet, but in forty-eight hours, I would be standing in a ballroom wearing diamonds, and Victoria Sterling would say the words that would change everything. "You're a waitress, aren't you?" And I would lick my lower lip. And everything would go to hell.