Rejected By My Ex, I Married A Hidden Billionaire

The cold Seattle rain lashed against my car window, blurring the downtown neon lights into streaks of red and blue. I clutched a velvet ring box tight in my lap, my chest fluttering with nervous excitement. Today marked three years with Jake Miller, the man I’d worked two flower shop jobs to support through business school. Tonight, I was going to ask him to marry me. I’d saved six months of tips for the simple silver band, and baked his favorite chocolate cake before my morning shift. His apartment door hung ajar when I arrived, and I pushed it open ready to yell surprise—until a high, breathy laugh stopped me cold. It was Mia, my best friend, followed by Jake’s low, rough voice, the tone he only ever used with me. “She’s so naive, thinking I’ll marry a broke flower shop girl. You’re everything she’s not.” The cake slipped from my hands, splattering across the floor as I rounded the corner to find them tangled in his bed. They froze, faces draining of color, as I stared at the man I’d given everything to for three years. I tossed the ring box at his chest, the silver band bouncing off his skin. “We’re done. You two deserve each other.” I ran out into the pouring rain without looking back, my dress soaked through, my chest hollow with a burning ache. I wandered the streets for hours, until I found a sleek, upscale bar, and slipped inside, ignoring the judgmental stares of the well-dressed patrons. I slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, ordering a whiskey neat and downing it in one go. I was halfway through my second glass when a low, smooth voice with a faint British lilt spoke beside me. “Rough night?” I looked up, and my breath caught. He was devastatingly handsome, with sharp chiseled features, stormy blue eyes, and a tailored black suit that screamed old money. He was Ethan Hale—CEO of Hale Group, the billionaire Jake had been begging for a meeting with for months. “I heard every word he said about you,” he said, his voice cold with quiet anger. He leaned in, his cologne rich and woody wrapping around me, his eyes locking onto mine. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Moore.” My heart skipped a beat. He knew my name. “I can ruin him with one phone call. I can give you the money, status, and power to make him regret every word he ever said about you.” He smiled, a faint, dangerous tilt of his lips. “All you have to do is marry me.” The words hung heavy in the air between us. One year, a fake marriage, no strings attached—everything I needed to get my revenge. He murmured, his voice low and tempting, “So what do you say, Lila? Do you want to make him pay?”