The billionaires accidental bride

Chapter 7

Elena's POV

By the time I reached the restaurant, my nerves had already tied themselves into knots so tight I could barely breathe.

I had chosen something simple—or at least, simple by my standards. A fitted black dress that hugged the right places without screaming desperation, a pair of diamond studs that caught the light just enough, and nude heels that clicked softly against marble floors. My hair was pulled into a low bun, neat but not too polished. Effortless, or at least the illusion of it.

I told myself I was dressing for answers, not seduction.

But when I caught my reflection in the window of the waiting car, I didn't even believe it.

The driver opened the door for me, and the cool evening air slipped across my skin like silk. The restaurant stood tall and understated—one of those hidden gems that only the wealthy and bored seemed to know existed. Candles flickered along the tables. Low conversations hummed beneath the faint sound of glasses clinking. Everything smelled faintly of aged wine and truffle oil and money.

I checked my phone. No new messages. He was already inside.

My heels made barely a sound as I walked in, but every head that turned felt like a silent whisper—*the influencer, the scandal, the trending girl*. I ignored them all, letting the maître d' lead me to a private corner booth where he sat waiting.

Andre.

It was the first time I'd seen him in person, and the first thing I thought was: *he's real.*

Not a catfish. Not some elaborate prank orchestrated by a bored rival or vindictive ex. Just a man—tall, polished, dark hair slicked back neatly, wearing a black suit tailored to precision. A silver watch glinted beneath his cuff as he stood.

When he smiled, it was warm. Practiced, but warm.

"Elena," he greeted, his voice smooth and controlled.

"Andre," I replied, sliding into the seat across from him.

So this was him. The man I was supposed to meet that night. The man whose name had been attached to a profile I'd swiped right on weeks ago, back when I'd been bored and curious and looking for nothing more than a distraction.

The man who wasn't *him*.

"You look beautiful," Andre said, gesturing gracefully.

I looked down at the menu, the compliment landing softly, politely. Too politely.

The stranger never said things like that. He'd just looked at me, silent, intense, like words were unnecessary distractions from what his eyes were already saying.

I blinked hard, shoving the thought away. I came here for clarity. To confirm that this Andre this real, actual person sitting across from me, existed. To put the mystery to rest so I could stop wondering if the whole thing had been some sick joke.

Well. Mystery solved.

"You're even more composed in person than online," Andre added, leaning back with easy confidence.

A waiter appeared, discreet and efficient. Andre ordered wine without asking what I preferred. When the waiter left, silence fell between us, not charged, not electric. Just polite.

"So," I said finally, resting my hands on the table. "You wanted to make up for standing me up."

"I did." He nodded, his expression earnest. "And I'm genuinely sorry about that."

His apology was neat. Rehearsed. Sincere enough, but packaged too carefully.

The stranger never apologized, he just acted, moved, commanded. No explanations, no pretty words wrapped in ribbon.

I took a breath, forcing myself to focus. Stop comparing. Stop thinking about him.

"Lucky for you," I murmured, "I don't hold grudges."

"Do you?" Andre asked, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes. "You seem like the type who remembers everything."

I smiled without answering.

The food arrived, delicate, artfully plated. I toyed with it, pretending to eat while my mind kept drifting. Andre watched me with polite interest. Safe interest.

The stranger's gaze had devoured.

"I have to admit," Andre said, breaking into my thoughts, "I didn't expect you to say yes to meeting me again. Especially after I flaked."

I lifted my gaze to his. "Curiosity is dangerous."

"Then I should feel honored."

"Don't," I said softly. "It's not flattery. I hate unanswered questions."

And now the question was answered. Andre was real. He existed. He was exactly who he claimed to be—a polite, charming, successful man who probably had a dozen other women he could call if this dinner went south.

Nothing special. Nothing extraordinary.

Just... not him

"Why me?" I asked suddenly, testing him. "You could talk to anyone on that app. Why pick me?"

His lips curved into a smile. "You didn't try to impress me. You were authentic. Real. That's rare."

Pretty words that slid right off me like water off glass.

I took a sip of wine, barely tasting it. The conversation continued, easy, flowing, perfectly pleasant. He asked about my work, my opinions, my thoughts on art and travel. He listened, nodding at the right moments, laughing at my dry observations.

He was engaging. Thoughtful. Present.

And I felt absolutely nothing.

"So," I said, leaning back slightly, "are you always this articulate, or is it part of the billionaire charm package?"

He laughed—open and easy, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I didn't know charm came in packages."

"It usually does," I said dryly. "With a press kit and a scandal clause."

He looked genuinely amused. "You think I'm a scandal waiting to happen?"

"I think you're exactly what you appear to be," I said, the words coming out more honest than I intended.

Something shifted in his expression—just a flicker of confusion, like he couldn't tell if that was a compliment or an insult.

Neither could I.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of pleasant conversation and untouched food. He talked about finance in vague, modest terms. I answered questions about my brand with rehearsed precision. Everything was smooth, polished, predictable.

Everything was fine.

And that's how I knew I'd made a terrible mistake.

Not coming here tonight. Not meeting Andre.

The mistake had been made weeks ago, in the back of a car, with a man whose name I didn't know. The mistake had been letting him touch me, letting him unravel me, letting him leave an imprint on my skin that apparently no amount of logic or distraction could erase.

Because now I was sitting across from the man I was *supposed* to want—the man who checked every box, who said all the right things, who looked at me with genuine interest—and all I could think about was the way a stranger's hand had felt wrapped around my throat.

When the bill came, Andre slid his card across the table before I could protest.

"I invited you," he said simply.

Polite. Controlled. Predictable.

When we stepped outside, the evening had become cooler. A shiver ran through me before I could stop it.

"Are you cold?" Andre asked immediately.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

He didn't listen. Instead, he shrugged off his coat and wrapped it over my shoulders before I could protest.

The moment his fingers brushed against my neck, I froze.

I waited for it—the spark, the electric shock, the fire that had stolen my breath and made my skin come alive.

But there was nothing.

Just warmth. Careful, gentle warmth that my body didn't recognize at all.

No surge of heat. No sharp intake of breath. No involuntary lean into the contact.

Just... pleasant. Polite. Meaningless.

My chest tightened, the realization hitting me like cold water: Andre wasn't him. Andre had never been him.

And the stranger—whoever he was, wherever he was—was gone. A ghost I'd never see again. A man whose name I didn't even know, whose face I could barely recall in clear detail, whose touch had somehow branded itself into my nervous system like a scar I couldn't see but would always feel.

I'd slept with a complete stranger.

And now I was standing here with the man I was supposed to meet all along, pretending everything was fine while the weight of that truth crushed the air from my lungs.

"Elena?" Andre's voice cut through softly. "You okay?"

I blinked hard, forcing normalcy into my expression. "I'm fine. Just cold."

He studied me with quiet concern, like he could sense something had shifted but didn't know what or why.

"Let me drop you off," he offered gently.

"No," I said, too quickly. I softened my voice. "I'll manage. But thank you."

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. Just nodded, respectful and polite as always. "Then, until next time."

I nodded once, gripping the coat tighter as I turned away, my heels clicking against the pavement with a finality that echoed in my chest.

But as I walked toward the waiting car, one thought replayed on an endless loop—whispering, taunting, relentless.

I would never see the stranger again.

And I would never stop wondering who he was.