Bound By The Wicked Billionaire’s Contract

The champagne tasted like regret. I stood near the ballroom's edge, clutching a flute I hadn't asked for and definitely couldn't afford to replace if I dropped it. The Plaza Hotel glittered around me all crystal chandeliers and marble floors that probably cost more to clean than my entire year's rent. I had borrowed the dress from Diamond, who'd insisted the navy silk made me look "like you belong there, babe." I didn't belong here. I knew it. They knew it. The difference was, up until twenty minutes ago, I had a reason to pretend otherwise. My phone buzzed in my clutch. Another text from Diamond. “How's it going? Did you give your speech yet? Tell me someone important heard you!” My thumb hovered over the screen. How did you explain that your entire future had just been obliterated in front of two hundred people? That the speech I practiced in the mirror for weeks, the one thanking the Stone Foundation for changing my life, would never be delivered because there was no foundation anymore? I turned my phone face-down and took another sip of champagne. It was good champagne. Probably cost more per bottle than my groceries for a month. Wasted on me, really. All I could taste was the sourness climbing up my throat. "Unfortunate business, isn't it?" I turned. An older woman in pearls, the kind that gleamed softly instead of screaming for attention stood beside me. The woman's expression was carefully neutral, but her eyes held something that might've been pity. "I'm sorry?" I managed. "The scholarship program." The woman gestured vaguely toward the stage where a PR representative in a crisp suit had made the announcement. Voice professional. Apologetic in that corporate way that meant absolutely nothing. "Such a shame. I'm sure you young people built your futures around that funding." Young people. Plural. Like I wasn't the only Stone Scholar in the room. Like there were others who'd just watched their dreams evaporate into the recycled air of this overpriced ballroom. But there weren't. The other scholarship recipients graduated last year. Moved on to internships and entry-level positions, their degrees secured. I was the last one. The only current student still depends on the foundation's generosity. Former generosity. "Yes," I said, because what else was there to say? "It's unfortunate." The woman patted my arm a brief, manicured touch and drifted away toward a cluster of people in expensive suits. Probably donors. People who wrote checks to feel good about themselves and never had to worry about what happened when those checks stopped coming. My chest felt tight. The dress, maybe. Diamond was smaller than me, narrower in the ribs, and the zipper had required some aggressive maneuvering. Or maybe it was the panic. It's hard to tell the difference when your body is deciding whether to shut down or scream. I made myself breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way my therapist had taught me back in high school when the anxiety got bad. When the foster homes rotated too fast and nowhere felt safe. I clawed my way out of that. Worked two jobs through community college, aced every exam, earned a scholarship to Yale. “Yale.” The kind of school girls like me didn't get to attend. The kind of opportunity that was supposed to change everything. And it had. For three years, it had. The ballroom hummed with conversation. Polite laughter. The clink of glasses. Nobody else seemed particularly bothered by the announcement. Why would they be? Most of these people were here for the networking, the overpriced chicken, the chance to be seen supporting a good cause. Had been a good cause. Past tense. My eyes tracked across the crowd, looking for something I didn't know what. An exit, maybe. A waiter with more champagne. Someone who looked as devastated as I felt. That's when I saw him. Jace Stone stood near the bar, surrounded by a tight circle of men in suits that probably cost more than my tuition. He was taller than I’d expected from the photos, with broad shoulders and the kind of presence that made people unconsciously step aside when he moved. His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. Gold cufflinks caught the light when he lifted his glass. I had seen pictures, obviously. I did my research when the foundation first contacted me three years ago. Jace Stone, 27, CEO of Stone Media. Youngest person to ever run the company. Ruthless businessman. Controversial figure. The articles had used words like "aggressive" and "uncompromising." The tabloids preferred "heartless" and "worse than his grandfather." Looking at him now, I could believe it. His face was all sharp angles, strong jaw, high cheekbones, a trimmed beard that made him look older than twenty-seven. But it was his eyes that got me. Even from across the room, I could see them. Gold. Not brown, not hazel. Actually gold, like antique coins. Those eyes swept across the ballroom with calculated precision. Assessing. Cataloging. He looked at people the way my statistics professor looked at data sets, something to be analyzed and used. His gaze passed over me Didn't pause. Didn't register. Just moved on to the next face, the next potential asset. I was invisible to him. A casualty he wouldn't remember by morning. That indifference hit harder than I expected. Stupid, really. What had I thought would happen? That he'd see me across the room and feel remorse? That he'd realize his decision to dissolve the foundation had consequences, had “faces”, and suddenly decide to reverse course? I was not a child. I knew how the world worked. Rich men made decisions in boardrooms, and those decisions destroyed lives, and they slept just fine afterward because the destruction happened at a comfortable distance. But knowing it intellectually and feeling it, feeling the weight of his indifference like a physical thing were different. My phone buzzed again. Not Diamond this time. The hospital. My stomach dropped. I stepped away from the crowd, toward the tall windows overlooking Central Park, and answered with shaking hands. "Is this Alyssa Hills?" Professional voice. Tired. A nurse, probably. "Yes. Is my mom…" "Your mother is stable," the nurse said quickly, and my knees nearly gave out with relief. "But we need to discuss her treatment plan. The billing department flagged some issues with her account. Can you come in tomorrow to meet with financial services?" Issues. That was code for "we haven't been paid" or "your insurance rejected something" or any number of catastrophes that meant more money I didn't have. "I'll be there," I said. My voice sounded far away. "First thing tomorrow." I ended the call and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, Central Park spread out in darkness, trees skeletal against the city lights. Normal people were out there. Walking dogs. Hailing cabs. Living lives that didn't hinge on scholarship programs and medical billing departments. Behind me, the ballroom continued its performance. Music played something classical and forgettable. Waiters circulated with hors d'oeuvres. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn't funny. And Jace Stone stood at the bar, holding court like a king, completely unaware that he'd just destroyed me. I straightened. I should leave. There was no point staying. The speech wouldn't happen. The networking opportunities didn't matter if I wasn't going to be a student next semester. The free food tasted like ash anyway. But as I turned toward the exit, I caught sight of a reporter near the entrance. Then another. Cameras. Recording equipment. An idea sparked. Dangerous. Probably stupid. But also maybe the only weapon I had. I thought about my mom in that hospital bed, machines breathing for her. Thought about the medical bills stacking up like a death sentence. Thought about three years of sleepless nights and relentless studying, all about to mean nothing because some billionaire decided a scholarship program wasn't profitable enough. I set down my champagne flute carefully, because even now I couldn't afford to break things and walked toward the reporters with my spine straight and my head high. If Jace Stone wouldn't see me, I would make damn sure he couldn't ignore me. Not anymore.