THE PRICE OF BEING HIS

Andrea's POV 

“My house in Santorini is becoming a headache,” the silver-head man in front of me says, swirling his drink like he owns the ocean itself. “Every summer there is some renovation issue. The staff says salt air destroys everything.”

I tilt my head slightly and laugh, not too loud, not too soft. “That must be exhausting. Owning too many homes sounds like such a burden.”

He grins, pleased that I understand the tragedy of his life.

His name is Richard something. I stopped listening after he mentioned the third property.

We are standing under a chandelier large enough to fund my brother’s surgery twice over. Crystal light shines over marble floors and silk gowns and tailored suits. Everything shines here, including the lies.

“I do not believe we have met,” another man says, stepping closer. “And I make it a point to remember faces.”

“Oh?” I lift my glass slightly. “Then I should feel honored.”

His smile widens. “You should. Who are you hiding from?”

I almost laugh at that. If only he knew.

“Andrea Vale,” I say smoothly. “My father runs Vale Logistics. It keeps him busy enough that he avoids social events like this.”

Richard chuckles. “Logistics? That explains the confidence. Shipping families always have sharp daughters.”

“If you grow up around negotiations,” I reply lightly, “you either learn to speak well or you get ignored.”

They laugh again, and I let them.

Inside, I am counting chandeliers.

There are four in the main hall alone, each dripping crystal like frozen rain. Everything smells expensive here. Polished wood, floral arrangements flown in from somewhere with better sunlight, perfume that costs more than a month of rent in my neighborhood.

I do not belong here.

But neither do most of them.

Across the room, a woman in emerald silk complains that the champagne is not as chilled as she prefers. I watch her lips move and wonder if she has ever waited outside a cardiologist’s office for four hours only to be told to come back next week with another payment.

Probably not.

I nod at something else Richard says and sip my drink carefully. I practiced this too, holding the stem just so, never gripping the bowl like someone who grew up drinking juice from plastic cups. I learned the names of wines from online articles. I memorized which fork to use first. I even practiced laughing in front of our cracked bathroom mirror so my smile would not look strained.

Preparation is the difference between an imposter and a scandal.

“Ah,” the younger man says, taking interest now. “Where did you study, milady?”

“Kingston University,” I reply without blinking. “International business. I spent a semester in Milan.”

I have never left the country.

But I watched enough campus tour videos to describe Kingston’s stone buildings if necessary. I memorized the name of a café near the business faculty. I know which professor supposedly writes the most boring research papers.

Lies are easier when you respect them.

“And your family estate?” Richard asks, interested now. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Vales before.”

“We prefer discretion,” I say with a small smile. “Old property near the coast. Nothing dramatic. My mother enjoys her privacy.”

Privacy. That word always works on people who have too much to protect.

They nod, satisfied. In their world, wealth that does not shout is considered refined. No one asks for proof because everyone assumes no one would dare lie in a room like this.

That assumption is my greatest weapon.

I excuse myself politely when the conversation shifts to golf and step aside, pretending to admire a painting. My reflection stares back at me from the glass covering the canvas. The gown hugs my waist perfectly. The diamonds at my ears shimmer as if they belong there. My makeup hides the sleepless nights. If I stand like this, chin lifted slightly, shoulders relaxed, I look like a woman who has never worried about the price of medication.

If I stand like this long enough, I almost believe it.

A waiter passes with a tray of tiny desserts that look like art projects. I take one and let the sweetness melt on my tongue. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine bringing Ethan here. He would stare at the ceiling and whisper that it looks like a palace. He would cough, then apologize for coughing too loud. He always apologizes for things he cannot control.

The last time we were at the hospital, the nurse handed my mother a stack of invoices thick enough to be a short novel. My father sat beside us, silent, his hands folded as if he were attending his own funeral. Once, he owned a mid-level logistics company. Once, he wore suits like the men in this room and spoke about expansion and risk. But the risk became gambling which left us with nothing but loans piled over more loans. 

I remember the day the final notice of our bankruptcy arrived. My mother did not cry in front of us. She waited until midnight, when she thought we were asleep. I heard her anyway.

Poverty is not just lack of money. It is becoming a laughingstock in the neighborhood. It is loan sharks knocking on your door with cold smiles. It is humiliating bills delivered in envelopes.

But I refuse to beg.

That is why I am here.

I want stability. I want hospital bills paid without calculating which meal to skip. I want my brother’s treatment scheduled without my mother checking her bank balance first.

If a wealthy man can fall in love with me, if he can see beyond numbers and notice that I am intelligent and capable, then financial security can come with affection. That has always been my plan. Not seduction for money. Not selling my body. Just positioning myself where opportunity exists.

Love and money do not have to be enemies.

At least, that is what I tell myself.

A sudden burst of laughter near the bar draws my attention. A man is clearly too drunk for someone attending a charity gala. His tie hangs loose, his words slightly slurred. I step back instinctively to avoid being pulled into whatever dramatic story he is telling, but my elbow hits something solid behind me.

There’s a soft scrape.

Then the delicate sound of porcelain wobbling.

No.

No no no.

I turn just in time to see the vase tilt twice. Then it crashes against the marble floor and shatters in a way that feels too loud for such an elegant room.

Conversations die mid-sentence.

The men I was speaking with step back instinctively, like poverty might be contagious.

“Oh my God,” a woman whispers.

“That’s one of a kind,” someone mutters.

“I heard it’s worth six figures.”

Six figures.

My stomach drops so fast it almost hurts.

Six figures is more than my father lost in his final month before bankruptcy. More than my mother will earn in years. More than the total balance of every desperate calculation scribbled in the margins of hospital bills at home.

Security starts moving toward me.

I open my mouth. “I am so sorry. It was an accident. I will—”

You will what, Andrea?

Sell your kidney?

The host pushes through the small crowd forming around the disaster, his expression strained but controlled. “This piece was specially acquired from a private European collection,” he says tightly. “It is not replaceable.”

“I will pay for it,” I hear myself say.

The lie leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

How?

With what?

My counterfeit clutch?

The host looks at me the way people look at stray dogs who wandered into private property.

“Miss,” he says carefully, “do you have any idea what this costs?”

Heat crawls up my neck. I don't know art, but I recognize expensive when I see it.

I bend instinctively, wanting to help gather the shattered pieces like that might undo the damage. 

Security is closer now. One of them speaks quietly into an earpiece. I imagine being escorted out under crystal light, my rented gown exposed as fraud, my name questioned, my lies unraveling in front of everyone.

This is how it ends, I think. Not with romance. With embarrassment.

When I felt all hope was lost, a calm male voice overshadows every noise.

“Add it to my account.”