Accidental Jackpot: I Scored A Billionaire

Chapter 1

Dolly's POV

Today was not just any night. Not just his birthday. It was going to be the night. The night I finally gave myself to the boy I’d loved since high school. Seven years of holding hands, movie dates, forehead kisses and promises. Seven years of soft-spoken "I’ll wait for you" and me believing every single one.

I stared at my reflection, running my fingers nervously over the neckline of the red satin dress I’d almost put back on the hanger three different times in the store. It hugged my body in all the right places, made me look like I knew what I was doing when in reality, my hands had been shaking since morning.

Behind me, Amira let out a low whistle, arms crossed and leaning against the wall like she was about to start rating me out of ten.

“Damn, Dolly,” she grinned, popping her gum. “You sure you’re just giving him cake tonight? Or are we finally popping that cherry?”

I blushed, turning away and pretending to fix my earrings, even though they were fine. “I don’t know…”

“You’ve been dating him for seven years, babe,” she said, coming closer and adjusting my hair slightly. “If he hasn’t already lost it to someone else, which, let’s be real, pfft, no way, then he’s either a saint or he’s got crazy discipline.”

I laughed weakly, but the words caught in my chest. He’d always told me he was waiting for me. That I was worth the wait. That he wanted our first time to be special. Intimate. He’d even said he didn’t want to rush me. Ever.

I held onto that. Like it was a badge of honor. Like I wasn’t just being scared and naïve.

Amira must’ve seen the hesitation in my eyes because she grabbed my wrist and gave it a small squeeze.

“Look, don’t overthink it. Just go with the flow. But if you are planning to let him climb the mountain tonight, here’s what you need to know—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” I laughed, smacking her arm.

She didn’t. She gave me three very detailed, slightly horrifying tips that made me laugh till my stomach hurt and my nerves didn’t feel so sharp anymore.

“One,” she held up a finger like she was giving TED Talk advice. “Don’t just lie there like a log. You gotta move. Give him something to work with. Even if you’re nervous, fake it till you make it, babe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I literally am nervous.”

She shrugged. “Then fake it harder.”

“Two,” she continued, grinning devilishly, “moan. Loudly. I don’t care if it feels like nothing. Men are stupid. You could be thinking about laundry and if you moan, they’ll think they’re the best you ever had.”

I let out a half-laugh, half-gasp. “Amira!”

She just winked. “I’m telling you, it works.”

“And number three,” she leaned in like she was about to reveal the secret to the universe. “After it’s over, don’t cry. Even if it sucks. Even if it hurts like hell. Just get up, walk to the bathroom like you’ve done it before, and pee. Trust me. It’s the pee that makes you a woman.”

I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the bed, holding my stomach.

“Where do you get this stuff?” I asked between wheezes.

She just flipped her hair like a diva. “Life experience, baby. Life experience.”

With the gifts wrapped in shiny silver paper tucked under my arm, the small cake box resting gently on my lap, and my heart doing the most chaotic tap dance in my chest, we got into the cab.

“Drive to 34 Maple Crescent, please,” I said softly, smoothing my dress as we pulled off.

He never liked surprises, but he hadn’t responded to my happy birthday text either, so I figured this would at least be cute. A little sweet. And maybe tonight, just maybe, he’d finally look at me the way Amira said he should’ve been looking all these years.

When we got to the street, the house looked quiet. His car was parked outside. There were no party decorations, no balloons. That was fine. He hated attention.

I checked the time. 8:02 p.m.

I wanted to be perfect tonight. The kind of perfect that made up for all the times I told him I wasn’t ready. The kind that made him feel loved. Desired. Wanted. I reached for the cake box and Amira’s hand at the same time, grounding myself.

We walked up the steps, and I smiled at the thought of the look on his face when he saw me.

Amira rang the bell once, then again.

The door was unlocked. That should’ve been the first red flag.

The second was the moaning. Loud. Unashamed. Familiar.

Amira and I exchanged a look, and something cold unspooled in my stomach.

I walked in. And then I froze.

There, on the living room couch, his couch, was my boyfriend of seven years. The boy who told me he was saving himself for me. The one who said he didn’t even like p**n because he wanted to wait till it was me.

He wasn’t waiting. He wasn’t innocent.

He was deep inside her, the girl he’d always said was “just a friend.” The one I’d asked about once or twice, and he’d laughed. “You’re being silly, babe. She’s like a sister to me.”

Her name was Bianca.

I remembered now. Perfect teeth. Perfect laugh. Perfect everything.

She wasn’t laughing now. She was moaning like she’d waited her whole life for this moment.

I must’ve made a sound because he looked up. And when his eyes met mine, he didn’t even flinch.

He pulled out of her slowly, not bothering to cover himself, and grabbed the throw blanket casually from the side like this was normal.

Like I was the one being dramatic.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

The cake box dropped from my hands. The gifts followed. Something in my chest cracked.

“I—I came to surprise you,” I managed.

Bianca scrambled for her dress, but he just rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, great. Another surprise.”

“You told me you were a virgin…”

He stood up, wrapping the blanket around his waist, looking more irritated than ashamed. “Because you made me wait for seven f*cking years. What was I supposed to do, Dolly? Just keep jerking off every damn night?”

Amira stepped forward. “Hey. Don’t talk to her like—”

“No. Let him,” I whispered, voice trembling.

“Dolly, seriously,” he went on, pointing a finger at me like I was the problem. “You’ve been stringing me along. Playing the pure saint. Acting like sex is some dirty thing you can’t give. You’re a frigid bitch, that’s what you are.”

My ears rang. I couldn’t hear anything else. Just that.

Frigid bitch.

Seven years. Of holding back. Of keeping him close. Of saving everything for him.

My knees buckled.

Amira caught me just before I collapsed.

I don’t remember much after that, only that she dragged me back outside. The wind was colder than I remembered. My teeth were chattering and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

We got into another cab, and I buried my face into my palms, trying not to throw up.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until the cab’s window blurred up. Not from the mist outside, but from the mess I was becoming.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, smeared makeup dragging across my cheek. I didn’t care. What was the point? I had dressed like I was about to change my life tonight. Turns out it did change, just not in the way I imagined.

My heart still thudded painfully from the things he’d shouted. From the way his body had twisted over hers. From how casual he had looked inside another girl. Inside Bianca.

We were supposed to be heading home. But the direction and turns didn't seem right.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of traffic and my own heartbeat.

Amira didn’t look at me right away. She was staring out her window, lips pressed into a thin line, fingers tapping against her knee.

“To the club,” she said simply, like we’d planned it days ago. “You need some drinks. You need to clear your head.”

I blinked. “What? Amira, I’m not—”

“No.” Her voice was sharp. Final. “You’re not going to cry in your room and eat birthday cake alone like some side character in a sad indie film. We’re not doing that.”

I stared at her, stunned.

She turned to me finally, her eyes all fiery and fierce. “He humiliated you. Let’s at least give you a night where you can forget the piece of shit ever existed.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue. Every breath I took felt like it scraped through broken glass. My hands shook. My mouth was dry. My heart kept replaying the way he had looked at me—like I disgusted him.

Frigid bitch.

Selfish.

Stingy.

I’d saved myself for him. For seven years, I thought we were special. I believed him when he said he wanted it to be perfect. That he didn’t mind waiting. That he was waiting for me.

He lied.

He lied about everything.

And now I was in a cab heading to God-knows-what club in the middle of the night, wearing a tight red dress and heels I could barely walk in, with my heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, and a cake in my lap that no one was ever going to eat.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve told Amira to take me home.

But I didn’t.