Billionaire's Choice

Aria’s POV

Four hours and twenty minutes of this shift and it feels like I’m stuck in this endless cycle of forced smiles and awkward small talk with people who didn’t even bother to look me in the eye.

My legs ached, my shoes pinched, and this uniform felt like it was designed to punish me for existing.

"Aria! Are you blind or just lazy?"

I winced. Here we go again.

Mr. Blaine stood near the bar, glaring at me like I had just committed a crime.

“Customers are waiting, and you’re standing there like a statue!” he barked.

I tightened my grip on the tray, biting down the urge to say what I really thought. Yeah, I’m standing here because I enjoy this torture. Totally not because you overwork us and refuse to hire more staff.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll get right to it,” I muttered, forcing my voice to sound calm even though I wanted to throw the tray at him.

He scoffed and stalked off, probably to find someone else to yell at.

I hate this job. With every ounce of energy I had left after these shifts. But hate doesn’t pay bills, and neither does pride.

A year ago, I wasn’t here, wearing this ugly uniform and dealing with people like Blaine. I was an event planner. A pretty good one, too. I’d built something I was proud of. A small business with big dreams. Weddings, corporate events, charity galas. I handled it all. And then, in one swift, gut-wrenching blow, it all fell apart.

It started with a high-profile event. A chance to prove I could play in the big leagues. Everything was perfect until it wasn’t.

Vendors didn’t show up on time. The venue was double-booked. Claire, my longtime best friend, someone I thought I could trust went radio silent when things hit the fan. I later found out she was addicted to gambling, taking all of my money and leaving me to clean up the mess.

The client’s threats of lawsuits were bad enough. But the worst part? Watching my reputation crumble. Word spreads fast in the industry, and before I knew it, bookings dried up. My savings vanished in a desperate attempt to salvage what I could.

Now, here I am, as a server, hoping I can make enough to survive another month.

I walked over to the table of suited men, trying to stay calm. They looked important, and I didn’t want to mess up. I placed the tray down and started pouring the wine, trying to keep my hands steady.

Just as I reached for the last glass, I moved too quickly and elbowed the table next to theirs.

The wine splashed across the shirt of a stranger seated just beside them.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” I blurted, my face going red. I grabbed a napkin and started dabbing at the stain, but it was no use.

“I’ll pay for dry cleaning, or I can buy you a new shirt,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

But the stranger remained silent.

Before I could say anything else, Blaine stormed over, his face redder than usual.

"Are you completely useless?" he shouted, eyes burning into me. "You spill wine on a customer, and you stand there like it’s nothing?"

I winced, barely holding it together. "I said I’m sorry," I muttered.

"You don’t just spill wine on any customer!" Blaine snapped, throwing his arms up. "You’ve made a fool of yourself in front of someone important. Do you have any idea who that is?"

He was about to go on, probably ready to throw me out on the street, when the stranger, the one I spilled on, raised his hand.

"Enough, it is just a shirt," he said calmly, his voice carrying over Blaine’s rants.

Blaine paused instantly, but before walking away, he apologized sincerely.

The man turned to me. "It’s okay," he said, his tone surprisingly warm.

I gave a small nod and before I could walk away, he added, "Don’t thank me."

"I wasn’t going to," I shot back. I had had enough of the day and just didn’t care about what happened.

For a moment, the man seemed taken aback. Then, something flickered in his eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or respect. But he didn’t say anything more.

Then he called my attention.

"Excuse me," he said, glancing up. "A bottle of Château Margaux, 2015, and… let’s add a plate of your truffle risotto to that."

I nodded quickly. "Right away, sir."

As I moved toward the bar to relay the order, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out and glanced at the screen—Jared.

My brother never called unless it was urgent.

I hesitated but answered quietly, stepping aside. "What’s wrong, Jared?"

"Aria," he said, his voice low but tense, "I’m behind on my tuition again. They’re threatening to kick me out if I don’t pay by the end of the week."

I rubbed my temple, the stress building. "Jared, I told you to keep track of these things. How much do you need?"

"Two grand," he said, guilt lacing his words. "I tried, Aria, but I’m tapped out. I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice."

"Two thousand? Jared, I’m barely scraping by as it is. I’ve got debts piling up too, you know." I didn’t know when my voice went up.

The words slipped out before I could stop myself.

I returned to the table with the wine in hand, carefully pouring it into his glass. "Here you go, sir. Your food will take about fifteen minutes to arrive."

"Thank you, Aria," he said smoothly.

I stood straight and blinked, confused. "How do you know my name?"

"I’m not deaf," he replied with a faint smile. "I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

I didn’t say a word.

“Gabriel would like to see you,” he said.

I froze, tray still in hand. He didn’t glance up immediately, instead swirling the wine in his glass with a practiced elegance, watching the deep red liquid catch the light.

“Spend six months as his fiancée,” he continued, taking a slow sip, “and you’ll earn enough to erase your debts.”

I tilted a side of my face, half expecting a smirk or some sign that he was joking.

“What?” I managed, my voice dripping with disbelief.

He finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “You heard me,” he said, setting the glass back down with a soft clink.

I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or retract the outrageous statement. When he didn’t, I snorted softly. “Right. Well, thanks for the entertainment.”

I spun on my heel, ready to leave this conversation, and this table behind. But his voice stopped me again.

“I wouldn’t dismiss it so quickly.”

I turned back, and there it was. A cheque in his hand. He placed it delicately on the table, sliding it just enough for me to see the number written across it.

Ten thousand dollars.

“This is just a bit of what you’d earn as his fake fiancee,” he said casually, meeting my eyes.

My heart raced as I stared at the cheque, the bold figures seeming to mock me. It would cover rent, my brother’s tuition, utilities, food, and everything I’d been struggling to keep afloat.

“This has to be a joke,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

He didn’t smile or argue. He simply leaned back, letting the cheque sit there as if daring me to pick it up.

“This isn’t charity,” he paused. “This is Gabriel’s proposition. You can think about it. Gabriel doesn’t like to wait, though.”

He stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his plain white shirt. He didn’t seem to care that his food hadn’t arrived yet. He pushed a black business card to the edge of the table, turned, and walked away.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching. My heart raced as I quickly picked them up and into my pocket.

As I walked back toward the kitchen, I couldn’t stop thinking. Is this how rich people act? Dropping money and walking off like it’s nothing?