Expensive Mistake

Chapter 3: Expensive Mistake 

Leah 

I laughed right in his face. “You’re not the only one with a dick, you know?”

Bryce’s face went the exact shade of an overripe tomato. He lunged forward like he was about to grab me, but Greta yanked him back so hard his tuxedo nearly came off his shoulder.

“How dare you?” he hissed, trying and failing to look dignified while being restrained by his brand-new bride.

“You don’t even have a ring,” he spat. “You’re lying.”

I glanced down at my bare left hand and shrugged. “Took it off. Didn’t want to outshine Greta’s. Hers looks like it came from a vending machine.”

Greta’s smile cracked. “Yeah, right. Fiancé my ass. For all we know he’s a stripper you picked off the pole and paid him to say these things. No one wants you. You’re desperate enough to pull something this pathetic.”

The man beside me tilted his head, mask still on, voice smooth and almost curious.

“A stripper?” he repeated. “Interesting. Does that mean you picked your groom off the pole as well? Because the resemblance is striking.”

I lost it. A full, unladylike snort of laughter burst out of me before I could stop it.

I stood up slowly, smoothing my dress like I had all the time in the world.

“If I had picked him off the pole,” I said, loud enough for the nearest three tables to hear, “at least he’d be working for a living. Can’t say the same about Bryce. He couldn’t even pay for the toilet paper he used after he finished fucking his stepsister in my bed.”

The hall detonated.

Gasps. Whispers. Someone dropped a champagne flute. A woman two tables over actually clutched her pearls like she’d been personally offended.

I kept going. Bryce wanted a show? Fine. I’d give him one he’d never forget.

“It’s your wedding day, Bryce,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Try not to make me forget that. You’re already doing a fantastic job of looking like the biggest joke in the room.”

“You bitch!” he snarled. “You’ll be begging me on your knees once my uncle arrives. You’ll see!”

I tilted my head. “This uncle of yours. What do you think he’s going to say when he finds out you’ve been throwing his name around like confetti at a cheap bachelorette party?”

Bryce puffed his chest out, voice rising so the whole room could hear the brag. “My uncle is Preston Royce. You know Royce Industries, don’t you? The biggest automobile company in the country. I’m his heir. Everything he built is coming to me.”

The man beside me finally spoke, voice calm, almost bored. “Is that so?” he said. “Then you won’t mind a simple question. What was the Q3 operating margin on the electric vehicle division last year? And which overseas plant is currently underperforming its projected output by more than twelve percent?”

Bryce blinked.

The silence that followed was delicious.

“I—what?” he stammered. “That’s confidential. I don’t have to—”

“An heir would know,” the man continued pleasantly. “Especially one who claims the entire company is his future. The EV division closed Q3 at 18.4 percent. The underperforming plant is the one in Guadalajara. They’ve been struggling with supply-chain delays on the battery modules since February. Any real successor would have already scheduled a site visit.”

Bryce’s mouth opened and closed. Nothing came out. Then he whispered, “how do you know all that?” 

I wondered the same thing too. How did an escort know so much about Preston Royce's company? 

Greta’s grip on his arm tightened. A few guests near the front exchanged looks.

The man in the mask wasn’t finished.

“While we’re on the subject,” he added, still conversational, “the board has been quietly discussing a restructuring of the succession plan for months. Your name has come up. Mostly in the context of why it would be a catastrophic risk. A man who can’t keep his own lies straight, who lives off women he insults, and who doesn’t even know the basic numbers of the company he claims to inherit… doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

Bryce looked like he’d been punched in the throat.

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“You’re not an heir,” the man said quietly, every word precise. “You’re a temporary inconvenience with a last name. And the people who actually run Royce Industries already know it.”

The hall had gone so quiet I could hear the soft clink of ice in someone’s glass.

Greta hissed something vicious into Bryce’s ear, clearly trying to drag him back to the land of public dignity before he dug the hole any deeper. He pointed a shaking finger at me and then at my date.

“This isn’t over,” he spat. “You and your fake fiancé.”

“Oh, it isn’t over,” my escort agreed, still pleasant. “You’re still going to have to prove you’re fit to inherit anything your uncle built. From where I’m standing, the boy in front of me couldn’t manage a lemonade stand without stealing the lemons… or the recipe.”

I turned to him, heart still slamming against my ribs. “Wanna get out of here?”

He stood, straightened his jacket like the entire confrontation had been mildly entertaining background noise, and offered me his arm.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

I took it. Then I looked back at the happy couple one last time. “Happy married life, I guess,” I said. “Fair warning, Greta, this is the biggest mistake of your entire life. Enjoy the free rent while it lasts.”

We walked out.

The murmurs followed us all the way to the doors. I could feel eyes on my back. I could hear my own pulse roaring in my ears. I kept my chin up and my steps steady because if I stopped moving I was going to either cry or scream, and neither would be cute.

The second we were outside and the doors shut behind us, the man removed his mask.

I didn’t miss the guard from earlier bowing again. Or the way two more staff members straightened the moment they saw his face. Or the cluster of women near the fountain who immediately started taking pictures like we were some top celebrities.

I didn’t care. Not about the bows. Not about the whispers. Not about any of it.

Damn you, Bryce Hall.

We reached the parking lot and he led me toward a glossy black Ferrari that looked like it cost more than my entire apartment building. I didn’t even question it. My legs were starting to feel like jelly.

The second we stopped beside the car I crumpled.

I folded against the cool metal, buried my face in my hands, and tried very hard not to make a single sound. 

Three years of believing every soft lie he told me. And he’d just stood there in front of a room full of people and tried to make me the punchline again.

A soft handkerchief appeared in front of my face.

I looked up, startled.

He was crouched in front of me. “You’re too beautiful to be crying over someone that ugly,” he said quietly, and gently wiped under my eyes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

That was when I realized I was crying. Traitorous, silent tears I hadn’t even felt falling.

I jerked back slightly. “Why are you being nice to me? Oh. Right. I hired you for the night.”

He smiled. “I’m your fiancé, aren’t I? Looking after you is part of the job description.”

I scoffed. “I feel so stupid,” I whispered. “They were cheating. Right under my roof. In my bed. And I still let him talk to me like that.”

He touched my cheek. “Hey. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s done. He’s not worth the oxygen you’re wasting on him.”

I shook my head. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” he said. “Trust me. I know.”

Something in his voice made me look at him properly for the first time since we’d left the hall. There was no pity there. No judgment. 

“How about I help you relax?” he offered.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and glared at him through the last of the tears.

“You’re trying to charge me extra for sex, aren’t you?” I pointed a finger at his stupidly perfect face. “I’m practically broke, mister. I spent everything I had left on you. But don’t worry, you were worth every humiliating cent.”

He actually chuckled. 

“Why don’t you come have a drink at my place?” he said. “No extra charges. Just a drink. And maybe a better end to the night than standing in a parking lot crying over a man who still doesn’t know how to pay his own phone bill.”

I stared at him. Then I laughed. “You’re either the best escort in New York,” I said, “or the most expensive mistake I’ve ever made.”

He opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and waited. “Get in, Leah. The night’s not over yet.”

I hesitated for half a second.

Then I slid into the seat, slammed the door harder than necessary, and muttered, “If you try to upsell me on anything involving handcuffs, I’m biting you.”

He got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and glanced at me with something that looked a lot like amusement.

“Noted,” he said. “No handcuffs. Yet.”

The Ferrari pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Bryce Hall’s wedding, Greta’s terrible dress, and three years of my own bad decisions in the rearview mirror.

For the first time all night, I let myself breathe.