His billion dollar bride

If someone had told Olivia that the worst day of her month would end with the best mistake of her life, she might have laughed in their face. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floors of the upscale Midtown lounge, her tight red dress hugging her body like a secret she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell. Faith had dragged her out of their cramped apartment, insisting she needed “a night off from poverty and pain.” "You need to stop surviving and start living," Faith had said, practically shoving her into the dress. "No more ramen noodles and crying over debt. Tonight, we pretend to be women who have choices." Pretend. That was the key word. The lounge smelled of citrus and cologne. The bar glowed amber. Everyone looked expensive, bored, and beautiful. Olivia didn’t belong here, and she knew it. But with her lips glossed, her curls pinned, and her heart aching beneath her ribs, she played her part. She sipped her cocktail slowly, twirling the straw absentmindedly, eyes half-focused on the city skyline outside the glass walls. Midtown pulsed like a heartbeat she couldn’t catch. Then he appeared. He slid onto the barstool beside her like he was stepping into a boardroom—confident, sharp, and impossibly composed. A black suit tailored within an inch of its life clung to his broad shoulders. His jaw was sharp enough to wound. But it was his eyes—intense, unreadable—that made her still. “Long day?” he asked, his voice smooth, like old jazz and richer than her bank account. She arched a brow. “Is that your opening line?” “It’s better than asking if you come here often.” She smirked, then turned slightly to face him. “And what makes you think I’d entertain a conversation with someone like you?” He gave her a slow, amused smile. “Because you’ve been watching the door since you sat down. You're waiting for someone who isn’t coming. So now… you're curious about me.” He was cocky, but not wrong. “I’m not interested,” she said, turning away. But her voice lacked bite. He leaned in, not touching, but close enough that the warmth of him kissed her skin. “You will be.” And somehow… he was right again. They didn’t share names. Not real ones, at least. He called her “peach,” for the dress, and she called him “Suit,” because that’s what he wore like armor. One drink turned to two. Then three. His laugh was low and rare, like thunder far away. Hers bubbled up easier than it had in weeks. When he asked if she wanted to leave, she didn’t hesitate. Maybe she should have. But something in her was already unraveling. His penthouse was all glass and steel and views of the city that reminded her how small she was. The room was silent except for their breathing. And then even that was gone. His mouth found hers like a secret slipping loose. His hands burned paths on her skin. The night blurred, like a dream half-remembered—moans, tangled sheets, kisses that felt like confessions, though no truths were spoken. No pasts. No futures. Just now. When it was over, she lay there with her head on his bare chest, his heartbeat under her ear steady and maddeningly calm. “I don’t usually do this,” she whispered. “Maybe you should,” he murmured. She smiled in the dark. But by morning, he was gone. No note. No name. Not even a number. The sheets beside her were cold. She dressed silently, feeling a strange hollowness settle in her chest. She didn’t expect more. But some foolish part of her had hoped. Her phone buzzed. Mr. Bob. Crap. Two Hours Later “Olivia, open up!” Mr. Bob’s voice thundered through the apartment door, rattling it on its hinges. “I know you’re in there!” She stood frozen in the hallway, still in yesterday’s clothes, her makeup smudged, the scent of him somehow still clinging to her skin. “I’ll be back!” Mr. Bob roared. “You can’t hide forever!” When the footsteps finally faded, she sagged against the door. Her phone buzzed again. Faith. “Liv, where are you? Valentina’s asking. I told her you were in early. Don’t make me a liar.” “I’m coming,” she mumbled, throwing on the least wrinkled blouse she owned. She made it to work in a rush, crashing into someone as she turned the corner near the flower shop. The bouquet flew out of his hands. “Hey!” a familiar deep voice snapped. She froze. It was him. Suit. The stranger from the night before. He looked equally shocked—for a split second—before slipping into a cool scowl. “You again,” he muttered. “You have a habit of ruining my mornings.” Olivia swallowed hard. “You—” “Missy, you’re gonna pay for those flowers,” he said sharply, the mask slipping back into place. She blinked at him, something sinking in her chest. So this was it. No recognition. No softness. Just a stranger again. “Pay for them yourself,” she muttered, brushing past him. He didn’t stop her. And maybe that was worse than if he had. Inside the office, Faith looked up and gasped. “What happened to you?” “Long night,” Olivia muttered, then plastered on a smile. “Valentina wants us in the meeting room now,” Faith whispered. “Big client. Super rich. Real mysterious.” Olivia nodded, tugging at her blouse. She tried to steady her heartbeat. But her mind still replayed last night in flashes of skin and heat and eyes that saw too much. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t know she’d just slept with the man her company had been hired to work with. Didn’t know that her one-night stand… was Elijah Williams. **** As Valentina swept into the room, heels clicking, she turned to Olivia with a tight smile. “Good. You’re here. The client’s just arrived. Play nice. He’s watching everything.” The conference room door opened. And in walked the man from last night—immaculate in a black suit, not a single trace of last night’s fire in his eyes. Elijah Williams. CEO. Billionaire. Her one-night stand. Olivia’s blood turned to ice. He paused. Their eyes locked. And he said—cool and unreadable—“Have we met?”