PRICED BY MY BILLIONAIRE NEMESIS

I should have said no. I should have blocked Mia's number, thrown my phone into the ocean, and moved into a monastery where the only men I would ever see again were carved out of stone.

Instead, I am standing in the marble lobby of the Corinthian Hotel wearing a dress I definitely cannot afford while waiting to escort a seventy-eight year old millionaire to dinner because my best friend's mother slipped in the bathtub and fractured her hip.

Reality has a cruel sense of humor, and my bank account is its favorite punchline.

Three hours ago, Mia sounded like she was trying to talk down a bomb. Her voice carried that frantic brightness she uses when she is terrified but refuses to admit it.

"Please, Lena," she begged. "He is harmless. He just wants company. He will be asleep by ten. And he tips like he is allergic to money."

Harmless is a word people use when they want you to stop asking questions and simply say yes. It is also the word you whisper to yourself when rent is due, debt collectors are pounding on your door, and the fridge is empty while pride becomes a luxury you cannot afford.

So I said yes because I am too broke, and too tired of pretending my life is not quietly collapsing around me.

I painted my face carefully, hoping makeup might seal the cracks in a sinking ship. I curled my hair and stepped into a dress Mia lent me that probably costs more than two years of my rent. The fabric is soft and expensive and completely unforgiving, and it barely covers my body.

I stood in front of the mirror for a full minute studying my reflection the way you study a stranger whose intentions you do not trust. Then I grabbed my purse and left before I could change my mind.

The Corinthian is the kind of hotel where the air itself feels filtered for people who have never heard the word no. Everything gleams. Everything whispers. Even the lobby plants look better fed than I am.

I hover near a column and rehearse my friendly face because if my real expression slips through the cracks someone might notice.

Mr. Harold Sutton is exactly what Mia promised. Bald and cheerful, wearing suspenders with orthopedic shoes that squeak faintly against the marble floor. He looks like a retired professor who wandered into a luxury hotel by accident and decided to stay.

He beams at me as if I am the highlight of his evening, and for a moment my shoulders loosen because this feels manageable.

At least it does for a moment.

The second his hand rests on my arm something cold and instinctive slides down my spine. My body reacts first while every nerve sharpens as if it has sensed danger before I have.

It is not a sound or a smell. It is simply a presence that feels heavy and cold and unmistakable.

My stomach tightens so sharply it feels bruised.

I turn slowly and see Adrian Vale standing in the lobby.

He is eight years older now and infinitely richer, and unfairly more attractive in that irritating way men become when life rewards them for being ruthless. His dark suit is perfectly tailored. His posture carries the relaxed confidence of a man who has never once been told to wait.

He looks at me like I crawled out of a sewer and tracked filth across his Italian leather shoes.

My heart jumps into my throat so violently that I almost choke on it, and for one humiliating moment my knees feel weak.

It cannot be him. Not here. Not tonight while I am doing this.

I try to pretend I have not noticed him, but that has never worked with Adrian. Even in college he moved through the world like a man under a private spotlight. Brilliant and infuriating, the kind of student who made professors uncomfortable because he asked questions they could not dodge.

Now he stands in the center of the lobby like he owns the oxygen in the room.

His eyes lock onto me and then shift directly to Mr. Sutton's hand resting on my arm.

"Lena?" Mr. Sutton says brightly. "You look lovely tonight."

I paste a smile onto my face and keep my posture straight.

"Thank you, sir."

Adrian's expression turns completely flat.

Mr. Sutton gently lifts my hand and presses a polite kiss against my knuckles. The gesture is old fashioned and almost sweet.

Across the room Adrian's face darkens instantly and the disgust in his eyes becomes sharp enough to cut.

I open my mouth to explain or perhaps lie, because at this point I would settle for anything that sounds dignified.

Adrian's voice slices through the lobby before I can say a single word.

"I did not know you were still working your way through wealthy men."