Chapter 5

What the actual fuck have I done?

I stared at the vomit-covered blazer in pure horror. My stomach twisted in disgust. Eww. 

I clamped a hand over my mouth and took a few cautious steps backward, as if I could somehow rewind time and undo this catastrophic fuck-up.

“Oops,” I whispered, because what else could you possibly say.

His face twisted in disgust as he ripped off his blazer and—oh, for fuck’s sake—chucked it at my face like yesterday’s garbage.

"Uh, I-I’m s-so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

He cut me off, his voice dangerously calm. "You’re sorry?"

Okay, I know I should be focused on the impending wrath of a very expensive man, but holy mother of sex, his voice is magnificent. 

Deep, smooth, the kind that could turn an entire feminist convention into submissive puddles.

I wonder what it would sound like if he whispered dirty things in my ear—

Focus, Aria! You just violated this man with your stomach acid. Now is not the time to be fantasizing about his dick.

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?"

I blinked up at him. "Uh... Too much?"

"What kind of lousy freak are you?" He asks in disbelief, studying my face.

Lousy freak?

Fuck! This is so embarrassing. Sky and Katie will probably die of laughter if they find out about this. 

I hope they aren't watching right now. Even if they are, it's kinda dark here, so they won't see much.

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “Okay, Mr, I already apologized. You don’t have to start hurling insults like you’re getting paid per word.”

He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Oh, so because you apologized, you think that magically erases the disgusting mess you made? If ‘sorry’ could fix everything, the world would be a utopia, don’t you think?”

I huffed. “I know an apology doesn’t fix everything, but it at least shows remorse. You know, that thing called basic human decency? Saying sorry helps avoid conflict.”

“Right. Because this”—he gestured at his very expensive, very ruined suit—"just screams avoidable conflict." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Then, with a cold glare that could freeze hell, he scoffed, “I pity all you cheap sluts who throw yourselves at me. Don’t you have better things to do with your pathetic little lives?”

Oh, hell no.

My vision turned red. If I had any vomit left in my system, I would have gladly projectile-launched it straight into his arrogant, condescending face.

“How dare you?” I snapped, practically vibrating with rage. “You’re insulting me over this stupid suit?! Fine! How much is it? I’ll send you the money right now.”

I whipped out my phone and logged into my bank app, exuding the confidence of a woman who definitely had millions in her account.

But hey, fake it till you make it, right?

"Sixty-eight thousand dollars," he said, his voice eerily calm.

I choked on my own spit. "S-Sixty-eight what now?"

I did not have $68,000 in my account.

His cold stare bore into me, hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for my inevitable collapse. 

He tilted his head slightly, clearly enjoying my mental breakdown.

My mouth fell open. “H-how c-can a suit cost that much?” I stammered, feeling like I just got personally attacked by capitalism.

He arched a brow. “Why? You can’t afford it?” His tone was too serious, like he knew he had me cornered.

Shit. What do I do? I can’t just admit I’m broke after puffing my chest like a rich bitch. 

Why did I even open my big mouth in the first place? I swear, the next time I see Sky, I’m going to strangle her.

“Well?” he pressed, clearly enjoying my internal breakdown.

I straightened my shoulders, flipping my hair with all the confidence of someone who definitely had $68,000 casually lying around. 

“Of course, I can afford it,” I said, my voice dripping with fake nonchalance.

The reality? Every paycheck I’ve earned since dropping out of college combined wouldn’t even cover the pocket square of this stupid suit. I could feel my soul leaving my body.

“Very well then. Send the money. Right now.” He folded his arms, waiting.

My confidence wavered. My left eye twitched.

I let out a totally not awkward laugh and, with the grace of a seasoned scammer.

I opened my banking app, scrolled through my pathetic balance (less than eight hundred dollars, by the way), then quickly exited before it could publicly shame me.

"Oops!" I gasped dramatically. 

"Silly me! My bank app is, uh… experiencing technical difficulties! It’s been acting up lately, you know, because of, uh… fraud protection! Yeah! Crazy stuff. Can’t transfer anything right now."

“Is that so?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “When will it be sorted out?”

“Uh… probably in a few days.” I flashed a nervous smile, praying he’d drop it.

“Great. Then give me your contact info—your card will do.”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

“So I can contact you and get my money.”

“I-I don’t have one.”

His jaw ticked. “Then how exactly am I supposed to get my money back?”

I scrambled for a solution. “Well, instead of waiting for my bank, I can, um… quickly dry clean the suit and bring it back to you. Case closed.” I nodded like I’d just solved world hunger.

He scoffed. “You think I’m going to wear that again?”

Before I could insist that vomit-stained couture was totally fixable, one of his bodyguards whispered something in his ear. 

He checked his watch, exhaled sharply, then gave me a slow, unimpressed once-over.

“Hopeless soul,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Get a life and stop throwing yourself at rich men like a desperate gold-digging groupie.”

My mouth fell open, but before I could verbally annihilate him, he turned on his heel.

“Oh, and sorry,” he added over his shoulder, “for saying the mean, awful, yet painfully accurate things I said.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

I stood there, stunned into silence.

Did I just get humiliated out of existence? Did I just get poverty-shamed by an actual Greek God?

If embarrassment was a sport, I just took home the gold.

"What’s taking so long, Aria?" Katie’s voice yanked me back to reality. "Wait… where’s Mr. Tall, mysterious, and Rich?"

Skylar squinted at me, eyes full of suspicion. "Why do you look like you've just seen a ghost? Don’t tell me that’s the aftereffect of the kiss?"

I exhaled, dragging a hand down my face. "No. I threw up on him instead."

Silence. A single heartbeat of stunned disbelief.

"WHAT?!"

Then absolute chaos.

Skylar collapsed to the floor, rolling like a maniac, while Katie doubled over, clutching her stomach like she had a personal vendetta against her abs.

"Oh my God!" Skylar gasped, tears streaming down her face. "You—you puked on him?!" She cackled louder, slapping the ground like a malfunctioning seal. 

"I swear, if you had vomited in his mouth, you’d be in a maximum-security prison right now!"

Katie wiped at her tears, struggling to breathe. "I—just—imagine the trauma! That man will need therapy for years!"

I glared at them, crossing my arms. "Are you two done?"

"Absolutely not!" Sky wheezed.

They cackled the entire way out of the club, gasping out dramatic reenactments like they were auditioning for Broadway.

Even in the taxi, they wouldn’t let it go.

"I can’t—" Katie hiccupped. "I just keep picturing his face—all serious and broody—and then BAM!"

Skylar howled. "Splash zone!"

I groaned, this was going to haunt me forever.

After an entire weekend of Sky and Katie drilling me like I was training for the corporate Olympics (bless their evil little hearts), I was finally dressed and on my way to the most important job interview of my life.

The moment I stepped into the sleek, glass skyscraper labeled Dynamic Innovations, I knew I didn’t belong here. It was giving rich, powerful, and borderline villainous. Like, if billionaires had a lair, this would be it.

But whatever. I straightened my posture, channeled my inner competent adult, and strutted in like I totally wasn’t a financial disaster wearing borrowed heels.

The receptionist directed me to the boss’s office. I took a deep breath.

You got this, Aria. Be professional. Be poised. Do NOT humiliate yourself.

Then I walked in.

And immediately stopped breathing.

The man behind the massive mahogany desk slowly lifted his gaze from his paperwork.

Our eyes met.

And in that instant, my soul packed its bags and left my body.

It was him.

The Greek God. The walking thirst trap. The same rich asshole that I owe $68,000 for ruining his expensive suit.

Oh, sweet mother of unemployment.

I watched as a flicker of confusion crossed his ridiculously perfect face. 

Great! He doesn’t remember me. Thank God.

Oh wait—what if he does remember me? I mean, who could possibly forget a woman who turned a $68,000 suit into a biohazard zone? 

I definitely left an impression… just not the kind I was hoping for.

He tilted his head. "Vomit Girl?"

I could have lived my entire life without hearing that. 

I mean vomit girl? Seriously? Who the fuck remembers someone like that?