CROOKED VOWS:The billionaire's thirst for revenge

Chapter2

Rachel's pov

“I'm sorry, what?” I spluttered out after looking straight at his face like an i***t for 5 seconds.

He laughed; it was a deep laugh that warmed up my insides.

“Honestly, I just need to discourage some of the women clinging to me. If they assume I'm taken, though, let me breathe.”

I felt a wave of pity for him; it was strange to be pitying someone who had everything.

Well, everything, except peace of mind and his personal space.

“Looks like we're in the same boat,” I said without elaborating.

A curious look swept through his eyes, but he didn't press for answers and just offered his hand to me.

I took it, of course.

I think I'm dreaming; if not, how else is my hand entangled with that of one of the most desirable men in the city?

The person I had been making eyes at all night but never even thought about approaching because I had already written myself off as a faceless admirer.

But the soft pressure of his hand around mine and his cologne tingling my senses told me otherwise.

A few women still tried their luck with him even as I was attached to Mr. Maxwell at the hip.

But whenever they did, he would turn to me, pulling me closer to himself and smiling like the stars were littered in my eyes.

They'd end up stomping away with i***t tears in their eyes or flushed cheeks, sometimes both.

As for me, I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he had approached me out of all of the other women in the banquet hall; nevertheless, as the night progressed, I was downing one glass after the other.

I hadn't forgotten what had happened earlier.

My parents had all but sold me off already.

After tonight, no matter how magical it is, I'll go back home to my parents; they'll bully me until I'm forced to marry whoever they pick.

The thought of waking up every morning to a creep made my skin crawl.

I was about to bring down another glass, sending its contents rushing to the bottom of my throat, when Mr. Maxwell gently held my wrist and put it back down, balancing the drink in my hold.

“Easy there,” He said with playful caution, “I think you've had enough for tonight.”

“No, let me drink… I…I just have to forget,”

“Forget what?” He probed.

Normally I wouldn't tell him.

What could I possibly benefit from by hanging out my family's dirty linen anyway?

But things weren't normal, and the alcohol had loosened my lips.

I told him about how my parents wanted to pawn me off, how I was nothing to them and had been nothing to them ever since I was little.

What started as a trickle became as intense as a burst through a dam.

By the time I was done, tears were running down my eyes, and I was being carried out princess-style by a multibillionaire.

The alcohol knocked me out completely, so I slumped into his arms, not fighting and not wanting to either.

I think he was trying to say something to me, but his words could not reach me through the haze of lost sobriety.

By the time I woke up, I found myself in a queen-size bed that was just as soft as a cloud and the rays of the sun escaping through the large windows. The room itself was bigger than three rooms in my home combined, and every inch of it reeked of luxury.

Where was I?

This was what I asked myself.

But no response.

There was no one to give me an explanation until I heard the door c***k open and a familiar smile strode into the room holding a tray with a glass and hangover pills.

“Finally you're awake, though no surprise you slept in after last night.”

My face instantly lost all of its color when my mind shot over to the first implication of his words.

I threw up the duvet just in time for a splitting headache to hit my head. The duvet was off, and I was in a large shirt that definitely wasn't mine.

I brought the neckline up to my nose and inhaled.

The scent that hit me was earthy and rich.

It was Mr. Maxwell's.

My accusatory eyes were already stabbing at him, and he finally cleared the air.

“We didn't sleep together; if I wanted a woman in my bed, the last thing I'd need is alcohol to do it.”

I blushed, my embarrassment catching up with me.

Of course a man like Mr. Maxwell, who had more admirers than he cared for, would be despicable if he took advantage of me while I was drunk.

“I completely blacked out. Did I do anything weird last night?”

His eyes deviously moved away from mine and over to a corner in the room, his lips twitching.

My face went from blushing to bleached.

“Oh my g—what did I do?”

“Nothing much,”

He said, handing over the pill and water, then he went ahead to explain how his description of ‘nothing much’ was me jumping on the boot of his car like a feral raccoon and attempting—then failing—to twerk.

“Maybe you should have just left me at the banquet,” I said after swallowing the pill and hoping that the earth would do me a favor and do the same to me.

“Now why would I leave my girlfriend at a party?” he said, and I felt like he was just teasing me.

I was back to blushing again.

“I was just your fake girlfriend for the night; that didn't mean anything.”

He was silent for the longest time, and then he said.

“Then do you want to?”

“Do I want what?” I asked, confused, where this conversation was going exactly but intrigued nevertheless.

His handsome features broadened with a smile.

“Rachel Clair, I'm asking if you'll be my girlfriend?”