Mr Billionaires Dangerous Love

3

Dante’s POV

Five minutes.

That’s how long I’ve been sitting in this ridiculously quiet restaurant, staring at the entrance as if willing her to appear will make her punctual. It hasn’t worked.

I loathe tardiness. Always have, always will. It screams laziness, entitlement, and disrespect. My jaw tightens with every second that ticks by. Five more minutes, and I’m leaving. I could be at the office, drowning in spreadsheets or handling board meetings, instead of sitting here like a fool.

My phone buzzes on the table, but I ignore it. It’s probably my assistant texting to remind me about tomorrow’s schedule, not that I need reminding. Work is my sanctuary—the one place I don’t have to deal with this kind of nonsense.

This whole betrothal is absurd.

It’s not enough that my grandfather, from beyond the grave, has managed to dangle his company over my head like a carrot on a stick. No, he had to go and dictate the terms of my inheritance. Get married, he said. Find stability. As if tying myself to some stranger is the key to running a multimillion-dollar empire.

I glance at the door again. Empty.

For a brief second, I wonder what she’s like. The girl I’m being forced to meet. My mother’s praises ring in my ears: She’s perfect, Dante. Smart, kind, sophisticated—exactly the type of woman who’ll make you happy.

Right.

I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. If she’s so perfect, why is she late?

The thought irritates me further. It’s not like I wanted to be here. I’m doing this for my family, for the company. For the empire my grandfather built from the ground up. If I had it my way, I’d be anywhere but here, meeting some girl who’s probably just as unhappy about this arrangement as I am.

The minutes crawl by, and my patience wears thinner than a threadbare rug.

I push back my chair, about to leave, when the glass doors swing open, and there she is.

I freeze.

What. The. Hell.

She’s wearing a tracksuit. Not just any tracksuit—a bright pink, matching tracksuit that screams casual gym day, not “meeting-your-future-husband” day. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, and the makeup on her face looks like it was applied by someone with a vendetta against symmetry.

This is the woman my mother was raving about?

My jaw tightens as she saunters toward me, her steps slow and deliberate. I don’t even bother hiding the incredulity on my face. Her outfit is so absurd it borders on insulting. She’s not here to impress me; she’s here to make a point.

She waves, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft.

I say nothing. I can’t. My mouth is too busy hanging open in disbelief.

As she gets closer, I notice more details—her sneakers are scuffed, her nails are unpolished, and her tiny purse looks like it belongs to a teenager.

This has to be a joke.

“Are you going to say something, or are you just going to keep glaring at me?” she asks, her tone sweet but her eyes daring me to respond.

I blink, finally snapping out of my stupor. “What the hell is this?”

She raises an eyebrow, her smile fading. “What’s what?”

I gesture vaguely at her outfit, my frustration bubbling over. “This. The… whatever you’re wearing. Is this your idea of a joke?”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code for forced engagements.”

Touché.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to unleash the full extent of my irritation. She’s doing this on purpose—that much is obvious. But why? To rebel against her parents? To piss me off?

“Well, you succeeded,” I mutter under my breath, sinking back into my chair.

“What was that?” she asks, sitting down across from me with an infuriatingly casual air.

“Nothing,” I snap.

She shrugs, setting her purse on the table and extending her hand. “Sophia Adams,” she introduces herself, as if we’re meeting at a networking event and not being railroaded into matrimony.

I don’t take her hand.

Her smile falters, but only for a moment. She drops her hand and leans back, matching my defensive posture. “You’re not much for manners, are you?”

“And you’re not much for first impressions,” I counter, gesturing at her outfit again.

She smirks. “Well, I guess we’re even.”

The audacity of this woman is astounding. My mother painted her as the epitome of class and grace, but here she is—messy, defiant, and unapologetically herself.

And somehow, that makes her even more irritating.

“What are you trying to prove?” I ask, my voice low and sharp.

“Prove?” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just being me.”

“This is you?” I gesture wildly at her tracksuit. “This is who you are?”

“Yup.” She pops the ‘p’ like it’s a challenge.

I stare at her, my mind racing. This can’t be real. This can’t be the woman I’m supposed to marry. But as I look into her defiant eyes, I realize something.

She’s not intimidated by me. Not by my name, my wealth, or my temper. She’s here on her terms, and she’s not going to make this easy for me.

For some inexplicable reason, that thought sends a thrill down my spine.

“Well,” I say finally, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is going to be fun.”

Sophia grins, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, you have no idea.”