The Billionaire’s Substitute Bride

Chapter 3

Chloe’s POV

The park was nearly empty at this hour. A few scattered figures sat on benches, lost in their own worlds, but no one paid attention to the girl curled up on the wooden seat, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Me.

I pulled my knees to my chest, the cold October air stinging my cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the raw ache in my chest.

I had lost it. My highest-paying job. Because of some f*****g food.

I buried my face in my hands, trying to muffle the sobs threatening to escape. The humiliation, the anger, the helplessness…it all crushed me at once. I had worked so hard, swallowed my pride a thousand times, endured endless shifts on my feet for her.

My sister.

Now, how the hell was I supposed to pay for her treatment?

A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. Our inheritance had been stolen by our father’s family, leaving us with nothing but a hospital bill that grew every single day. The doctors needed money. The nurses needed money. The machines keeping her alive needed money.

And now, I had one less source of it.

I sniffed, wiping my face with my sleeve, and forced myself to check my wristwatch.

8:00 PM.

Shit.

I needed to be at the club.

I sucked in a shaky breath and forced myself to stand. My legs felt stiff from sitting too long, but I had no choice. I had to move. Crying wouldn’t put food on my table or pay the bills.

And it sure as hell wouldn’t wake my sister up.

I wiped my face one last time and made my way out of the park, my steps heavy, my mind still clouded with frustration. The subway was packed as usual, the stench of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to the air. I squeezed myself into a corner, gripping the cold metal pole as the train rattled forward.

When I finally arrived at the club, the bass of the music thumped through my chest before I even stepped inside. The moment I walked in, neon lights flickered overhead, casting eerie purple and blue hues over the sweaty bodies on the dance floor. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and expensive cologne hit me all at once.

I walked past the grinding bodies, ignoring the drunken murmurs and lingering stares. The bar was already crowded, and I barely had time to change before I went straight to work, mixing drinks, pouring shots, and dodging the grabby hands of men who thought a bartender was part of the entertainment.

I barely had a moment to breathe between pouring shots and dodging wandering hands when a woman’s voice cut through the noise.

“Whiskey for two.”

I glanced up to see two women seated at the far end of the bar, dressed in sleek designer outfits that screamed money. The auburn-haired one had a sharp, commanding presence, while the blonde beside her exuded quiet confidence. They looked out of place in a club like this…too polished, too put-together.

Still, it wasn’t my business. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and two glasses, making my way toward them. As I approached, their conversation drifted through the loud music.

“I still can’t believe she ran.”

“It’s a disaster. The wedding is in three days, and she just vanished.”

“She didn’t vanish,” the auburn-haired woman scoffed. “She ran.”

“Camille wouldn’t do that. Not without a reason.”

“Please. If she had a reason, she’d have told someone. Instead, she ran. That is a big blow to the Prescotts’.

A wedding. A runaway bride. The name Camille floated between them, laced with tension.

I placed the glasses down and began pouring, trying not to eavesdrop, but a name they mentioned clung to me. Prescott.

Where had I heard that name before?

Then, at the worst possible moment, my hand slipped.

The whiskey splashed over the table, spilling toward the blonde’s perfectly manicured hands.

Shit, s**t, not again.

I snapped upright, already grabbing a napkin. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” My voice was low, rushed, desperate to defuse the situation before it escalated.

The blonde turned to me, eyes flashing with irritation. “You this—” But her words died on her lips the moment our eyes met.

Her expression shifted from anger to something else entirely—shock, disbelief.

“Wow,” she breathed, almost to herself.

The auburn-haired woman furrowed her brows, confused by her friend’s reaction. “What?”

Then she looked at me too. And just like that, her breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth. “She looks exactly like her.”

My stomach twisted. Exactly like who?

The woman who had first spoken stared at me like she’d seen a ghost. Her companion looked just as shocked.

I forced a nervous laugh, wiping at the spilled whiskey with a rag. “I—uh—sorry about that. I can get you another one.”

Neither of them responded. They just kept staring, their gazes flickering between me and each other like they were silently communicating something.

The blonde was the first to recover. She leaned in slightly, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “What’s your name?”

I hesitated. Something about this felt…off. Like a trap I couldn’t see yet. But they were customers, and my boss would chew me out if I was rude.

“Chloe,” I said carefully.

The auburn-haired woman exhaled sharply. “Chloe,” she repeated, almost as if testing how it felt on her tongue.

Her friend narrowed her eyes. “And your last name?”

Okay. Now that was weird. Customers didn’t ask for last names.

I forced a polite smile. “Sorry, but I don’t really give out personal information at work.”

The blonde leaned back, but there was something calculating in her gaze now. “Fair enough.”

Her gaze lingered on me for a second too long before she suddenly straightened, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"Manager! I need to see your manager!"

My stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no. I am not getting fired again.

Heads turned. A few customers glanced over in mild curiosity, but I was too busy trying to keep my breath steady. The last time this happened, I lost my highest-paying job, and I wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

Within seconds, Miguel appeared, his practiced, professional smile firmly in place.

“Good evening, ladies. How can I assist you?”

The blonde woman barely spared him a glance before saying, “I need to have a conversation with this young lady but, for some reason, she is not letting on fully.”

Miguel’s brow twitched, his eyes darting between us.

“I see,” he said smoothly. Then, turning to me, his expression hardened slightly. “I’m sorry about that, ma'am. She’ll answer every one of your questions.”

I blinked. What?

I opened my mouth, stunned, but before I could protest, Miguel stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only me to hear.

“Listen, it’s just a conversation. It won’t kill you. They’re our most expensive and highest-paying customers. Treat them well, or else—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. I already knew what he meant.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing down my irritation.

Very well, then.

Plastering on a smile, I pulled out a chair and sat across from the woman. Miguel gave a firm nod before walking away, leaving me alone with them.

I exhaled sharply, folding my hands on the table. “I’m sorry, ma’am. How can I help you?”

The bass thumped like a heartbeat, the neon lights flashing over sweaty bodies grinding against each other. A man at the far end of the bar was yelling at the bartender about his watered-down drink. And yet, at this table, everything felt still, like I had stepped into the eye of a storm.

The blonde-haired woman’s gaze didn’t waver as she leaned in, her voice cool and calm. “Start from the last question I asked,” she instructed. “Your last name.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Parker,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease creeping up my spine.

She nodded, then shot a glance at her auburn-haired companion, who leaned in slightly. “Do you have any connection to anyone named Camille Hart?”

I blinked, confused. “No,” I replied quickly. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

The auburn-haired woman exchanged a look with the blonde before pulling out her phone, tapping it with a quiet focus. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice light but carrying a firm edge. “I’ll have my assistant run a background check on her right now.”

My gut tightened, unease crawling over my skin like cold fingers.

The blonde-haired woman continued to study me intently, her gaze lingering a bit too long, forcing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat. Finally, she allowed a smile to curve her lips…one that didn’t quite reach her eyes before she finally spoke.

“Tell me, Chloe… how does it feel knowing you were meant to be Henry Prescott’s wife?”

The words slammed into me like a punch to the gut. My breath hitched, my fingers curling into my lap as my brain scrambled to process what she had just said. Wife? Henry Prescott?