The Billionaire Contract

Chapter One

Hailey's P.O.V

A serene Monday evening at work; I was just about to start my shift when—

"Hailey!" The shrill voice of my boss, Madame Florence, shattered the calm.

Hi! I'm Hailey Adams, twenty-two and counting down to twenty-three in two months. My workplace? One of Manhattan's swankiest restaurants, where the ambiance screamed luxury, but my paycheck whispered otherwise. What an i***t I was for sticking around. But I had another gig on the side, so it wasn't all gloom and doom.

"Hailey!" Madame Florence's impatient voice rang out again.

Does this woman forget we're in a posh restaurant? Patrons eyed me warily, their gazes bearing the weight of judgment, as if I were the source of the commotion. Newsflash: I wasn't.

"Yes, Madame Florence?" I mustered a saccharine smile.

She eyed me like I was a weed she couldn't quite pluck yet, too preoccupied with the impending arrival of VIP guests to weed me out.

"Table four. The guest needs a fresh bottle of champagne immediately," she commanded in her fake French accent. She insisted she hailed from France, but her New Yorker roots always betrayed her.

"Yes, Madame Florence." I scurried toward table four, hoping to avoid further encounters with my boss's vocal wrath.

As luck would have it, I collided with someone en route. Looking up to apologize, I was greeted by the most handsome yet irritable man to grace my existence. He walked out of a magazine, exuding sexiness and annoyance.

Get a grip, Hailey.

"Could you move? You're wasting my time," His cold voice cut through my admiration. Rude.

"And you're being an asshole," I retorted, my anger trumping my initial awe. There was no need for such rudeness, even if I had bumped into him.

"Excuse me?" He seemed taken aback. Clearly, nobody had dared speak to him this way before. He assumed he could talk down to me, and I'd acquiesce.

Well, he assumed wrong.

I said nothing more, deciding to walk away, watching my step this time.

The table at four was vacant, and I loathed that. I had to wait until the guests returned to serve their wine. Just as I grew restless, the universe conspired to bring me face-to-face with Mr. Asshole again. This was my first close encounter with him, and I couldn't help but marvel at the divine craftsmanship that had gone into creating him.

Chiseled features, stormy gray eyes, perfectly arched brows, and full lips. His gelled black hair complemented his immaculate three-piece suit. My ovaries practically begged to be impregnated.

"You're actually blocking my way now," he grumbled, his annoyance unabated.

I snapped back to reality, moving aside and mentally chiding myself.

"Sorry about that." He wordlessly took his seat at table four.

"Are you my waitress?" he inquired, sipping his wine.

"So it seems," I replied with a plastic smile. A faint smirk played on his lips, as though he relished this game.

God, he was truly an ass.

"Did you say something to me earlier? Can you repeat it?" he taunted. He believed that because I was a server and desired a good review, I would swallow my pride.

Once again, he assumed wrong.

"You want me to repeat myself? I will. You were being an asshole. I know I bumped into you, but there's no need to be rude. I was going to apologize, but you didn't give me the chance. I'm sorry for bumping into you, though." I added the apology in an attempt to make amends.

His expression remained neutral, but I began to feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. Just as I was about to confront him, he was interrupted by a phone call.

"Hello, Father," I couldn't help but giggle. Who calls their dad 'Father' these days?

"Yes, this is the restaurant. I'll be waiting for you and Mother's arrival." He ended the call and returned his attention to me.

"I have a proposition for you," he said, taking another sip of wine and clasping his hands on the table.

"A proposition? What do you mean?"

"A contract. A marriage contract."

"For whom?"

"For you, who else?" He replied, and I burst out laughing. Some patrons shot disapproving looks our way, but I didn't care. This was comically surreal.

"Okay, where's the camera? If I knew you were pranking me, I'd have been nicer. Is this some kind of show? Dress up in an expensive three-piece suit and visit restaurants to prank the staff?" I chuckled, my laughter still bubbling.

But he wasn't laughing.

"Do I look like a joke to you, Miss Adams?" His cold tone was back.

"How do you know—"

"You don't know who I am, and that's why you think you can speak to me like this." His tone grew authoritative.

"I don't care to know who you are, Mr. I'll speak to you however I see fit." I asserted myself.

He looked pissed, but I didn't care. The worst he could do was cost me my job, and I was already tired of it.

"Wow." His expression shifted from anger to something else—still not quite a smile.

"Have a seat, Miss Adams."

"Weren't you just mad at me? Now you're offering me a seat?"

"Have a seat, Miss Adams," he repeated, his voice commanding.

"My boss—"

"Sit down, Miss Adams." His tone grew more authoritative, and I complied, though I couldn't understand his sudden shift.

"This marriage contract I mentioned will change your life 360 degrees. You have a $20 million offer on the table. You only need to sign this contract." He produced a black file and slid it across the table.

"You're serious about this contract?" I realized my voice was uncertain.

"Yes, I am, Miss Adams, and there's no time to waste," he urged, offering me a pen.

"I haven't even had a chance to read the contract, and now I'm supposed to sign it without understanding what I'm agreeing to?"

"Miss Adams, I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunit. Other women would be dying to be in your plce right now and I am not about to beg you to sign it," he pressed, glancing at his watch. "Will you sign the contract?"

My heart raced. This was all happening too fast. How had I gone from serving wine to being offered $20 million to marry a man I didn't even know for the next two years?

"Will you sign the contract?"

Two years of my life for $20 million. It wasn't a lifelong commitment; it was just two years. I repeated that mantra in my head.

Two years.

The pen quivered in my hand as it left my signature on the paper. I handed him back the file and pen, unable to meet his gaze.

"I've made the transfer. I got your account from your boss," he informed me.

"Welcome to my family, Mrs. Bamford."

As the words left his lips, the restaurant's ambiance seemed to shift. It was as if the world had suddenly been plunged into a whirlwind of chaos, and I was left standing at the center of it all.

My mind raced, struggling to process the gravity of what had just transpired. Two years, $20 million, a marriage contract with a stranger—my life had taken an unexpected and surreal turn. I had signed on the dotted line, and there was no turning back now.