Mistake With The Wrong Billionaire

Ramona’s POV

“I'll pay you a million dollars if you can wreck my wedding.”

The words shoot out of my mouth faster than I expect.

“Excuse me?” He turns sharply, nose scrunched, confusion spells all over his perfectly carved face.

My heart bangs like a drum and my stomach burns with deep anxiety.

Hiring a dangerous stranger to ruin my wedding isn't exactly how I planned my life, but I’m definitely getting it done.

For a second, he just stares at me, his eyes drop to the hem of my soaked black bodycon gown, dragging slowly back up 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? I’m done being the good girl.

I ran through the storm tonight to get here. To find Jonathan.

I didn't care about my soaked hair or my already ruined makeup that was meant for my pre-wedding photoshoot.

I just needed to escape before I walked down that aisle and became someone’s silent punch bag for the rest of my life.

Gigi, my best friend, recommended him. She said he's a fixer. Smuggler. Loanshark.

He could handle literally any dirty job, as long as the pay is good.

And now, I’m standing in front of a man that looks like women fall on their knees to beg, just to have a taste of him.

I step closer to make sure he hears me clearly.

“I said I'll pay you a million dollars! I need my wedding ruined.” I yell over the blasting music in the club.

He looks at me again. From the tip of my wet curls to my toes, then back to my lips, where his gaze stays a second too long.

“Sorry, Sugarlips,” he says, his voice like dark velvet.

 “I’ve done a lot of crazy shit, but ruining a wedding? That’s foreign.”

He turns to his glass of whiskey like we’re done talking.

“I’m Ramona, not Sugarlips,” I say, reaching out my trembling hand.

 “Ramona Martins. You must be Jonathan?”

He glances down at my hand before taking it. His broad palm cups mine with slow confidence, giving me some warmth.

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

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

I swallow hard.

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

He leans closer. His olive gray eyes scan my face like he's trying to understand why I sound so unhinged.

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

I laugh. But my heart is shredding in different pieces.

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

“So… you're offering me a million dollars to ruin your wedding?” His tone now mixed with amusement and curiosity.

“Yes! That's what I want!”

He stares at me a few seconds longer. “You don't know what the fuck you're doing, Go home!.”

“I'm serious!” I lunge forward, my pulse slamming against my ears, my hands shaky, but I persist regardless.

“I'll pay you handsomely, please?” 

He takes a deep breath, his eyes boring deep holes into my face.

“Well, a million dollars won’t cut it.” He says, sitting up.

“I’ll make it one point five.”

That gets a reaction. He turns to face me, his brows raised and his mouth tilting in amusement.

“You serious?” he asks.

“Yes. I am,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m ready to drop an advance right here and right now.”

He motions to the barman with a flick of his fingers. Like a king commanding orders. “Max?”

“Yes!” the man answers from behind the counter.

“Pen and paper.”

Max brings it. Jonathan slides it across to me.

“The exact day and time of the wedding. The venue.” he says, tapping on the paper.

I scribble it all down quickly, my hands shaking. Then I pass it back to him.

He reads over my messy writing. “The Marina Palm Beach, huh?” A smirk dances on his lips.

“Yeah. Is there a problem?” I ask.

“No problem at all.”

He flips the paper, jots something down, then pushes it back to me.

 His account digits is scribbled on the back.

I type it into my phone, feeling his gaze still fixed on me, maybe trying to see if I'll have a change of mind.

But I'm never going back on my decision. That will be a life sentence and no matter how scared I am, I'm not letting fear get the best of me.

For 21 good years of my life, my father controlled everything about me. Where I went to, 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. 

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.

Then 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, because it has always been easier that way, but a fierce storm of anger kept building inside me.

And tonight, it all exploded.

This is insane. Completely insane. But I'm not going to have that wedding and I don't care how it will be destroyed.

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 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. 

I don't even have a job or anywhere to go after all these. Panic begins to set in. What if I'm making a huge mistake?

“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 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, sleeves folded, tattoos peeking through his left arm.

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.

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 deep baritone 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.

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. With a wicked smirk that spells danger.

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