Loving The Wrong Billionaire

Clara’s Pov

"Are you seriously wearing that, Clara?"

Nora’s voice cuts through my concentration as I fix the clasp of my necklace in the mirror. I turn to face her, her brows raised in that mix of amusement and judgment only a younger sister can pull off.

“Yes,” I sigh, smoothing down the emerald silk dress I borrowed from a friend. “It’s elegant, simple, not too much.”

“Not too much?” Nora snorts, perching on the bed like a cat. “This is a billionaire’s gala, not a museum tour, and you’re acting like you’re invisible.”

That’s the point. I want to be invisible. Tonight isn’t about me. It’s about securing new donors for the gallery. If I can bring even one sponsor back, my director will stop treating me like I’m only here because of Ethan.

Ethan Ward. I'm just thinking his name is enough to ruin the taste of the champagne I haven’t even had yet.

I swallow down the knot in my throat and pick up my clutch. “I’ll be fine.”

Nora watches me with her soft, too-knowing eyes. “You’re still trying to prove you’ve moved on. But Clara, you don’t have to punish yourself forever for falling for the wrong man.”

Her words dig in, but I force a smile. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck?” She arches her brow. “You’ll need armor.”

**********************

By the time I arrive at the gala, the room is a glittering cage of chandeliers, tuxedos, and laughter that sounds rehearsed. The kind of place Ethan thrives. The kind of place I swore I’d avoid, yet here I am, heels clicking on marble, clutching my courage like a fragile artifact.

A hostess glides up, all practiced smiles. “Miss Hayes, welcome. Can I take your coat?”

I hand it over, murmuring thanks and slipping inside. The space is a battlefield disguised as a ballroom. Wealth drips from every surface, diamonds at throats, champagne flowing like water. Every conversation sounds like a transaction.

My eyes drift to the centerpiece of the night: a rare painting, a landscape by an artist I’ve adored since college. The bidding will start soon. I can’t afford it, but donors could, and if I show genuine passion for it, maybe I can draw their interest.

A man beside me whispers to his companion, “Knight will want this one. He always does.”

The auctioneer begins, his voice rich and commanding. Numbers rise, hands lift, and I’m caught in the pulse of it until I notice another hand raised at the exact same moments as mine.

At first, I brushed it off as a coincidence. But then I glance across the room.

He’s there. His presence is tall and commanding. Every inch of him carved in control. Adrian Knight.

The name rings before it fully registers. The Adrian Knight. The ruthless billionaire. The man whose shadow has haunted Ethan’s stories for years.

Why is he bidding against me?

The bids climb, sharp and relentless. I should stop. I should let it go. But something in his gaze pins me, challenges me, and dares me not to back down. Heat bites at my skin. I raise my hand again.

A smirk tugs at his lips. My heart races, half panic, half defiance.

The woman next to me whispers, “Who is she to him?” Her partner shrugs, eyes narrowing with interest.

“Ten thousand,” the auctioneer calls.

I raise my hand.

“Fifteen,” Knight counters instantly.

“Twenty,” I push, my voice breaking free before I think better of it.

Knight’s eyes lock on mine. “Thirty.” His tone is cool, almost bored, but his gaze burns.

Gasps ripple through the room. My heart hammers. I shouldn’t keep going. This isn’t about winning the painting anymore. It’s about him. About the way he looks at me like he knows something, I don’t.

I open my mouth

"Clara Hayes?"

The voice freezes me. I don’t need to turn to know who it belongs to.

Ethan.

He’s here.

The room tilts, and the chandelier light is suddenly too harsh. He steps closer, smug in his perfect suit, his presence slicing through my resolve.

“Well, well,” he drawls, as if the universe placed me here for his amusement. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

I force a smile, brittle as glass. “Ethan.”

“Ethan,” the auctioneer stumbles briefly, recognizing the name. Whispers break out, Ward, Knight, Hayes. The triangle no one expected to see in the same room again.

Ethan tilts his head toward the man across from me. “But look at this. Clara, meet Adrian Knight, my old friend.”

Old friend. The words tasted foreign. 

Adrian’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking to Ethan with pure disdain. “We were never friends,” he says evenly.

Ethan’s smile sharpens. “Rivals, then. Two sides of the same coin.” His gaze slides back to me, assessing. “And here you are in the middle. How… poetic.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”

“Oh, Clara,” Ethan croons, lowering his voice just enough for only us to hear. “It’s always something with you. Always a spectacle, whether you mean it or not.”

My throat tightens. I hate how easily his words dig in, how they make me feel small, like I’m back in his shadow.

Adrian’s voice cuts through, deep and steady. “Enough.”

The word stills Ethan’s smirk.

“Excuse me?” Ethan says.

Adrian’s eyes never leave his. “You heard me.”

The air between them crackles, sharp and dangerous.

I step back, ready to flee, but Adrian moves first. He extends his arm, deliberate, controls, and says, “She was just leaving with me.”

The words cut the air clean. My heart stumbles. Ethan’s smirk falters.

And suddenly, every eye in the gala is on us.