THE BILLIONAIRE BRIDE

Chapter 1

Aliyah

“Every Princess needs a Prince”

Cyndara and the Glass Slipper

This is not in the slightest way silly, right? I am not crazy.

I take a deep breath as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, the soft golden light above me doing absolutely nothing to calm the chaos brewing inside my chest. I let a small puff of air escape my lips, my fingers loosening from the death grip I had on the edge of the sink.

“Yes, Aliyah, you are not crazy,” I mutter to myself, nodding like I actually believe it. “You are just a loving and caring roommate, who won’t let some filthy, spoiled rich man step all over her friend just because he has the money to make her disappear.” I pause, staring at myself a second longer. “…Okay, maybe semi-crazy. And slightly out of her mind.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open and step out of the restroom and straight into the ballroom. The first thing that hits me is the light – bright and golden, almost blinding. Instantly, I regretted leaving my glasses in my car outside the venue. I can barely see a thing and the lights have never worked well with my eyes.

The second thing that hits me is the people. The room was filled with women in floor-length gowns like they were born into silk and diamonds, their hips swaying in effortless elegance, while men in perfectly tailored tuxedos stood beside them like they walked straight out of a Katie Hepburn black-and-white classic. The entire place looks like something out of a vintage Hollywood film… the kind my mum, my sister and I would watch on random Tuesday nights after school. A wave of nostalgia hits me, and suddenly it feels like a punch to the chest.

Focus. This is not a movie. This is real life. And in real life, I do not belong here.

Still, I square my shoulders and start toward the main ballroom, which is packed with nothing less than thirty, no, probably more celebrities—the kind of people who could pay my rent for the next five years just by blinking twice. But in true Aliyah Cathcart fashion, I step on my gown, and considering I am still not used to these ridiculous ten-inch heels, I wobble, my balance tipping as I accidentally step on an older woman’s foot.

“Sorry,” I mumble quickly, trying to move away before I make things worse.

I fail spectacularly.

In my desperate attempt to escape, my hip collides with a table at the edge of the ballroom. It tilts slowly at first, like it’s deciding whether to ruin my life or not and then crashes to the ground. The entire room goes silent as their heads turn directly at me.

Wow. Great job, Aliyah. Truly! What a way to keep a low profile.

Yikes. This feels like the beginning of a fairy tale gone horribly wrong. The part where the audience pauses the movie just to scream at the female lead for being so unbelievably embarrassing. Oh Geez! What was I thinking? Right i wasn’t. I left my sanity back home at Queens, together with any form of decency I had left the moment Maggie came home crying that the blockbuster movie everyone is obsessing over, the one that just got nominated for an Oscar, is her script that she spent years writing.

And then yesterday, my Editor, Dalia Fredrick sat across from me with that look. The one that already tells you your life is about to fall apart before the words even leave her mouth. She informed me that the News Station that I work as a journalist is planning on laying off some workers and somehow my name is sitting comfortably at the top of the list. I have worked under Stella News Station for almost four years now interviewing people, chasing stories, staying up for forty-eight hours straight just to verify facts, writing until my fingers ached and my eyes burned, helping push out stories for thirty-eight other journalists, and yet…not a single cover story.

Not one.

I am the only journalist in that entire building who has never made the front page. So when Maggie told me that her work was stolen by one of the most powerful companies in the world, you best believe I didn’t think twice. It’s like killing two birds with one stone. But this is totally for Maggie more than me, if Maggie tells me not to publish it, I won’t.

This is hers first. Always.

The sound of hurried footsteps snaps me back to reality. The security from outside immediately rushes into the ballroom their presence cutting through the tension like a blade. And then a woman, probably around my age, walks toward me with slow, measured steps. Her satin long gown clings to her body like it was made for her, accentuating every curve, every movement. Her nails are painted a bold red, matching the intricate mask covering her face.

“Whose guest are you?” she asks, her lips stretched into a smile that could easily pass for polite… if it didn’t feel so sharp. “Because I’m quite sure I’ve never seen you before.”

My throat goes dry.

Sweat beads at my temple, and I quickly wipe them away, forcing a smile that feels just as fake as hers.

“I......”

“She’s mine.”