Billion Dollar Regrets: 21 Nights of Payback

The champagne flute feels like a weapon in my hand.

I'm standing in the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, surrounded by Manhattan's elite, watching a man who destroyed my entire world laugh at some joke I can't hear. He's got his arm around a blonde woman who's wearing a ring that could feed a family for a year. They look perfect together. Golden. Untouchable.

He has no idea I'm here.

I adjust the crisp white shirt of my catering uniform and force myself to breathe. In. Out. You've got this, Aria. The silver tray in my other hand holds twelve glasses of Dom Pérignon, each one worth more than I used to make in a day back when I was... well, back when I was someone else entirely.

"Excuse me, miss?" A woman in a gown that costs more than my rent snaps her fingers at me. Doesn't even look at my face. Just sees the uniform.

That's the thing about being invisible—it gives you power in unexpected ways.

I smile. Hand her a glass. Move through the crowd like a ghost at her own funeral.

Three years. It's been three years since Damien Cross looked at me like I mattered. Three years since he whispered promises against my skin in the dark. Three years since he took everything I loved and burned it to ashes.

And he doesn't even recognize me now.

"You're beautiful," he'd said that first night. We were at a tech conference in Vegas—God, I was so stupid—and he'd bought me a drink at the hotel bar. "I don't usually do this, but I can't stop looking at you."

I'd laughed. Blushed like an idiot. "That's a terrible line."

"I know." His smile was devastating. "But it's true."

The memory hits like a punch to the gut. I shake it off, keep moving, keep my face neutral. Professional. Just another server in a room full of people who don't see me.

But I see him.

Damien Cross. Six-foot-two of tailored perfection in a Tom Ford tuxedo that probably costs more than the car I sold last year just to make rent. Dark hair styled like he just rolled out of bed—except it's deliberate, carefully crafted carelessness. Gray eyes that I used to think could see straight into my soul.

Turns out they were just cataloging my weaknesses.

He's thirty-two now. Still looks like he stepped out of a cologne ad. Still has that way of commanding a room without even trying. The man beside him—some silver-haired executive—is practically bowing while they talk. Damien nods, says something that makes the other man laugh too loud, too eager.

That's his superpower. Making people desperate to please him.

I would know.

"Tell me about your father's company," he'd murmured against my neck three months into our affair. We were tangled in hotel sheets in Singapore, and I was drunk on him. On us. On the fantasy that someone like Damien Cross could actually love someone like me.

"It's boring tech stuff," I'd said, tracing the muscles of his back. "You don't want to hear about encryption software."

"I want to hear everything about you." His hand slid lower, and I gasped. "Every. Single. Thing."

So I told him. God help me, I told him everything.

"More champagne here!" Someone waves at me from across the room. I navigate through the crowd, weaving between conversations about summer homes in the Hamptons and which private jet service is really worth the membership f*e.

This is Damien's engagement party. He's marrying Victoria Sterling—daughter of some media mogul, perfect pedigree, perfect face, perfect everything. They've been engaged for six months. The wedding's in three. I know because I've been watching. Waiting. Planning.

He still hasn't seen me.

I've changed, sure. Lost weight—the kind you lose when you're choosing between food and keeping the electricity on. Cut my hair shorter, though it's grown out some now. Stopped dressing like I belonged in boardrooms and started dressing like I'm grateful for any job I can get.

Because I am.

The catering company I work for thinks my name is Aria Kent, not Aria Kane. Close enough to feel like myself, different enough that a background check won't immediately link me to the daughter of Marcus Kane. The man whose tech company collapsed in spectacular fashion three years ago. The man who couldn't live with the shame of bankruptcy and betrayal.

The man who put a gun to his head in his study while I was at the grocery store buying the cheapest pasta I could find.

My hand trembles. Just for a second. I steady it.

Damien laughs at something Victoria says. She's gorgeous, I'll give her that. The kind of gorgeous that comes from good genes and better plastic surgeons. Her dress is ice blue, matching her eyes, and she looks at Damien like he's her prize.

She has no idea what she's won.

"I have to go to London for a week," Damien had said. We were in my apartment—my old apartment, the nice one I could afford back when my father's company was thriving. "Come with me."

"I can't just leave work—"

"So quit." He'd pulled me into his lap, kissed my neck in that way that made my brain short-circuit. "I'll take care of you. I want to take care of you."

I should've known then. Should've seen the trap. But I was twenty-five and in love and so goddamn naive it hurts to remember.

I'm closer now. Maybe fifteen feet away. Close enough to hear fragments of their conversation.

"—wedding planner is driving me insane," Victoria's saying. "She wants to do roses, but I told her peonies or I'm firing her."

"Whatever you want, darling." Damien's voice. Deep, smooth, like expensive whiskey. It used to make me melt. Now it makes my stomach turn.

"You're not even listening to me." She swats his arm playfully.

"Of course I am. Peonies. Got it." He kisses her temple, and something in my chest cracks. Not because I still love him—God, no. But because she's standing where I stood. Believing what I believed.

Thinking she's special.

A waiter approaches me. "Hey, new girl. They need more passed appetizers in the back. Can you grab a tray?"

I nod. Start to turn. Then Victoria's voice cuts through the noise.

"Oh, Damien, look! It's Richard Hastings. We should go say hello—he's the one managing my father's merger."

They move. Heading my direction. I should walk away. Stick to the plan. Stay invisible until the moment's right.

But my feet won't move.

Damien's getting closer. Ten feet. Eight. His cologne reaches me first—cedar and something darker, something that used to be intoxicating and now just smells like lies.

Six feet.

He's looking at Victoria, laughing at something she said. Not paying attention to the servers, the help, the invisible people who make his perfect life run smoothly.

Four feet.

"I love you," he'd said the last time I saw him. The morning before my father's company collapsed. The morning before I learned that every secret I'd shared, every piece of proprietary information I'd mentioned in pillow talk, had been carefully extracted and sold to competitors. "You know that, right? I love you, Aria."

I'd believed him.

Three hours later, my father's CFO called me. The company was finished. Bankrupt. Someone had leaked everything—security protocols, client lists, upcoming product launches. Everything.

Two hours after that, I tried to call Damien. His number was disconnected.

He was gone. Just gone. Like we'd never existed.

Two feet.

My hand tightens on the champagne tray. The glasses tilt dangerously.

One foot.

And then—

His eyes meet mine.

For a second, there's nothing. No recognition. I'm just another server, another invisible woman in a white shirt and black pants.

But then something flickers in those gray eyes. A question. Confusion. His step falters.

"Damien?" Victoria touches his arm. "What's wrong?"

He's staring at me now. Really looking. I watch the moment it clicks. Watch his face go through a series of micro-expressions—surprise, disbelief, shock, something that might be guilt if he were capable of feeling it.

His lips form my name. "Aria?"

The champagne flutes start to slide. I'm not even doing it on purpose—my hands just... stop working. Physics takes over.

Time slows down.

I see Victoria turn, see her mouth open in surprise, see the moment she realizes something is very wrong with the way her fiancé is looking at the catering staff.

The glasses tip. All twelve of them. Dom Pérignon—at three hundred dollars a bottle—cascades through the air in a glittering arc.

And lands all over Victoria Sterling's ice blue designer gown.

She shrieks. The entire ballroom goes silent. Every head turns.

I stand there, empty tray in hand, looking at the man who destroyed my life.

He's pale now. Actually pale.

"I'm so sorry," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. My voice is steady. Calm. "How clumsy of me."

But I'm looking at Damien when I say it. And we both know I'm not talking about the champagne.

His fiancée is sputtering, dripping, furious. People are rushing over with napkins. Someone's yelling for a manager.

I should run. Disappear into the crowd. Stick to the plan.

Instead, I lean in close—close enough that only Damien can hear me over the chaos. Close enough to smell his cologne and remember everything I've lost.

"Hello, Damien," I whisper. "Did you miss me?"

Then I drop the tray.

The crash of metal hitting marble echoes through the ballroom like a gunshot.

And I walk away, leaving him standing there with his mouth open and his perfect engagement party in ruins.

Just like he left me three years ago.

Except this time?

This is just the beginning.