Mistake With The Wrong Billionaire

Ramona’s POV

“I'll pay you a million dollars if you can wreck my wedding.” The words shot out of my mouth faster than I expected.

“Excuse me?” He turns sharply, his nose scrunched in confusion.

My heart bangs against my chest like a drum, and my stomach burns. I don’t know what could be the result of what I’m doing, but I’m definitely getting it done.

For a second, he just stares. His eyes drop to the hem of my yellow bodycon gown and drags back up, slowly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m drunk, crazy, or both.

Rain slams against the windows of the club and thunder follows. The whole city feels like it’s shaking apart, or maybe that’s just me.

I’ve never done anything like this before.

But tonight? Tonight I’m done being the good girl.

Everything boiled over yesterday night. The pre-wedding photoshoot, the fake smiles, the stupid, heavy wedding dress I didn’t even pick for myself. My dad stood off to the side, nodding like he owned me, looking proud.

My life was never mine. Since I was a kid, my father controlled everything about me. Where I went, who I spoke to, what I studied, which hobbies were acceptable for me.

He lost my mum and my siblings before I was even old enough to know them, and I became his project. His obsession. His reminder that he could still be a great dad.

I wasn’t even allowed sleepovers. No friends unless they were daughters of his business partners. No parties or dates unless he chose one for me.

I thought I could take it. I thought maybe he did it out of love. But last year, it all broke me.

On my twentieth birthday, the one boy who dared to fall for me, he wasn’t rich, just sweet and kind. But my dad chased him away with threats. I never saw him again.

As if that wasn’t enough, he brought Malik Harvey, my supposed fiancé and my dad’s business partner’s son. All suited up and polished, charming in public but in private, he saw me like a project too.

Six months of dating him felt like six years of pretending. And yesterday, after our pre-wedding photoshoot, he thought it was the perfect time to have sex. Our “special night.” My first time too.

God, it was the most awful thing I’d ever experienced. It went from painful to numb and empty.

And then he had the nerve, the unbelievable nerve, to ask me if I’d ever consider getting a boob job. "Ramona, if you make them a little more massive, it would make me happy. I love massive tits!"

He said it like my body wasn’t good enough. Like I wasn’t good enough.

I told my dad, and what did he say?

"He's your husband-to-be. You should make him happy."

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I smiled and nodded at everyone, a fierce storm building inside me.

But tonight, it all exploded.

I ran through the storm, to this fancy club to meet someone, Jonathan.

Gigi, my one real friend, had referred me to him.

She said he's a fixer, smuggler, and loanshark. He could handle literally any dirty job, as long as the pay was good.

I'm standing in front of a man that looks like ladies go on their knees to beg, just to have a taste of him.

He looks like real danger, well packaged, exactly the kind of man my dad would faint if he realized I interacted with.

I step closer to him, to make sure he grabs every detail of the instruction I'm about to give.

“I said I'll pay you a million dollars just for you to ruin my wedding,” I yell into his ears. The music in the club blasts so loud I can barely hear myself.

He looks me over again, from the tip of my wet curls down to my toes, then back to my face. His gaze lingers on my lips for a few seconds.

“Sorry, Sugarlips,” he replies, his voice dropping in a deep baritone that could undo a woman.

“I've done a lot of crazy shit, but ruining a wedding? That's foreign.” He sharply turns to his glass of unfinished whiskey, like our conversation just ended.

“I'm Ramona, not Sugarlips,” I stretch out my trembling hand. “Ramona Martins. You must be Jonathan?”

He looks down at my hand for a moment before taking it. His broad palm cups mine, giving me some warmth.

“A friend of mine recommended you. She said you'd be perfect for this.”

“And who could that be?” he asks, setting his nearly finished glass of whiskey on the marble table.

“Look, my wedding is coming up in the next 48 hours, and I'm being forced to marry someone I don't accept. If I don't do something, I might be stuck with a man I don't love for the rest of my life.”

He leans closer, his olive gray eyes studying my face, like he's trying to confirm just how crazy my words sound.

“So why don't you just end it? Like a normal person would do?” he asks.

“You won't understand. I have a really, really crazy dad!” I yell.

“So… you're offering me a million dollars to ruin your wedding?” he asks, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. A little arm tattoo and toned muscles show through his sleeves.

“Yes! That's what I want!” 

Then he stares at me for a few more seconds.

“A million dollars won't cut it.”

“I'll make it one point five.”

He turns sharply and glares at me, brows raised high in amusement.

“You serious?” 

“Yes! I am,” I respond, stepping closer. “More serious than ever. I'm ready to drop an advance right here and right now.”

He points his empty glass toward the barman at the table, and the man pours him another whiskey from a golden bottle. Jonathan’s eyes never leave me.

“You're going to start a fire you can't put out,” he says, turning to his drink. “I suggest you go home and properly think about—”

“I'm serious!” I growl, lunging toward him. Does he not understand the part where I said I'll pay him handsomely?

“How do I make payment?” My eyes fix on him, making sure my face looks roughed up enough for him to take me seriously.

A little smile curves his cheeks and my breath flips.

“Okay. Let's do this,” he says, raising his right hand to the barman.

“Max?” he calls out. The bar man, who looks around thirty, responds instantly.

“Yes!”

“I need a pen and paper,” Jonathan says, hand still raised like he’s some king giving orders.

Max hands him a pen and paper.

Then he slides it across the marble table toward me.

“Your address.”

“The exact day and time of the wedding.”

“The exact venue.”

I scribble everything down quickly, my cold hands shaking. Then I hand it to him.

God. I hope I won’t regret this in the next 48 hours. My breath is heaving like I just ran a marathon.

He picks up the paper, eyes glancing through my messy script. 

"The Marina Palm Beach, huh?" a knowing smile curves his lips

"Yeah, is there a problem?" I ask, stomach clenching.

He looks up, the smirk still playing on his mouth.

"No problem at all."

He slides the paper back to me, revealing his account number scribbled on the back.

As I type the number into my phone, I still feel his gaze from the corner of my eye. I know this is crazy. This is all crazy! But I'm going to do it.

“Done.” I show him my screen.

“Okay,” he says, a cool and unbothered smile still resting on his lips.

“You won't confirm that?” I ask, slipping my phone back into my purse.

“Don't worry. I got it.”

I take a deep breath, but my stomach keeps churning with anxiety.

In the next 48 hours, I don’t even know what kind of chaos will be unleashed.

But the thoughts keep haunting me. What if Dad disowns me? What if Jonathan ruins more than just my wedding? My chest sinks just thinking about it.

“You need a drink?” he asks. “You look cold. Something to keep you warm.”

I’m sure he’s offering alcohol.

“No thanks. I don’t drink,” I say. A part of me wants to grab that glass and push the fluid down my throat.

“You don’t? That’s rare,” he says, drawing closer. His scent trails into my nostrils, a heavy mix of leather and smoke.

Does he flirt with his clients? I wonder. I wouldn’t blame any of them if they tried to seduce him.

His sharp and well-defined jawline frames a face that could destroy a woman’s self-control. The beard is trimmed just right, low enough to tempt.

His black button-down shirt hugs his physique, hinting at chiseled abs beneath. The top buttons are undone, revealing part of a sculpted chest.

My heart skips several beats. I want to look away, but my eyes are too far gone, drinking in every inch of this man.

Then he slowly pushes the wine glass toward me, pouring just a tiny amount, barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass but just enough to introduce me.

I want to say no again. But before my brain can stop me, my hand grabs the glass and tips it to my lips, pushing the liquid down.

The burn hits instantly, and regret follows just as fast.

First, the bitter taste and scorching heat on my tongue. Then my throat scratches and burns, coughing loud and rough.

I push the glass back to him.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice so scratched I barely recognize it.

He laughs a little.

“Welcome.” 

Hearing his voice clenches something in my stomach.

I rub my tongue against my teeth, still feeling that awful bitter taste. My face is still twisted from the alcohol shock.

Then I look around.

God! Where am I?

I didn’t pay enough attention when I walked in. My whole focus was on finding Jonathan.

Smoke curls through the air. Men lounge in booths, throwing cash at half-naked dancers. A blonde clings to a pole, dancing, heart-shaped stickers fighting to properly cover her nipples.

My dad would faint, get rushed to the hospital, then faint again if he knew exactly where I am right now.

I quickly turn and catch him watching me. Again.

“So, I’ll see you in 48 hours? Sugarlips.”