My Millionaire Fiancé Ruined Our Engagement Over a Parking Spot

July in Dallas. The air was so sweltering it felt like it could ignite gasoline.

Hamilton Energy Group's headquarters towered over downtown Dallas. The sun glared off its glass facade, reflecting a blinding, tacky, new-money kind of flashiness.

After a fourteen-hour drive from D.C. to Dallas, my patience was hanging by a thread.

If it weren't for appeasing my stubborn father and this ridiculous "family-arranged marriage," I would never have wasted two whole days driving down to Texas right in the middle of my prep for a congressional hearing—all to meet a man whose name I could barely remember: Kyle Hamilton.

"The Hamiltons are deeply rooted in Texas. Just meet him, even if it's just going through the motions," my father's instructions on the phone still echoed in my ears.

I sighed, my eyes scanning the plaza until I spotted the pre-booked VIP spot. I slowly eased my black Chevy toward it. Kyle's father, Roger Hamilton, had personally called to reserve it for me yesterday.

I flicked on my turn signal and tapped the gas, getting ready to back in.

Just as my rear bumper was about to clear the lines, a deafening engine roar suddenly blasted from my right blind spot!

Vroooom!

An obnoxiously flashy red Lamborghini Aventador, like a rabid bull, completely ignored my turn signal. In a ruthless maneuver, it aggressively angled in and hijacked my spot!

BANG! A heavy thud.

Even with my SUV weighing literal tons, I still felt a jolt. The Lambo’s front left fender scraped hard against my right rear bumper. Red paint instantly chipped off, leaving a glaring white scratch.

The massive momentum threw me forward. The seatbelt locked instantly, digging painfully into my shoulder.

I furrowed my brows.

I usually hate trouble, especially when I'm supposed to be off the clock.

But clearly, trouble had come looking for me.

Before I could even unbuckle, the Lamborghini's scissor doors popped up like spreading bat wings.

A woman in a skin-tight bodycon dress and five-inch red-bottom heels stormed out of the car, absolutely furious.

Wearing oversized Chanel sunglasses and clutching an iced Americano, she stomped right up to my window, looking me up and down like I was a piece of trash.

I was dressed casually today—a beige cashmere coat with no visible logos over a simple silk blouse. To people who armed themselves with flashy designer brands, my outfit obviously looked like a set of "shabby" flea market trash.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She pounded on my window with her perfectly manicured fingers, hitting it so hard it felt like the glass might shatter.

"Are you freaking blind?! Do you even have eyes?! Learn how to drive!"

Her shrill screaming pierced through the glass, stinging my eardrums.

I took a deep breath, suppressed the flare of anger in my chest, and pushed the door open to step out.

"Ma'am, you clearly cut me off. And this is my reserved VIP spot," I looked at her calmly, my tone even and unyielding.

"Reserved spot? Why don't you take a good look in the mirror! Who the hell do you think you are to have an exclusive spot in front of the Hamilton building?"

The woman sneered, pulling off her sunglasses to reveal heavy eyeliner and eyes full of utter disdain.

"Looking at your broke ass, you must be here to apply for a janitor position at Hamilton Group, right?"

"Driving a beat-up Chevy and you have the nerve to pull an insurance scam here?"

I narrowed my eyes slightly, my gaze landing on the ID badge pinned to her chest—Chief Secretary, Vivian Grayson.

"I'll say it one more time. You hit my car," I looked at her coldly, devoid of any emotion.

"I hit you? Hah! What a freaking joke!"

Vivian laughed exaggeratedly, as if she'd just heard the most absurd thing in the world.

"Do you even know whose car this is? This is our CEO Kyle's personal ride! It’s a limited-edition Lamborghini Aventador SVJ, worth over a million dollars! There are only a handful of these in the entire country!"

"You could work minimum wage for the rest of your pathetic life, sell this piece-of-junk Chevy and yourself with it, and you still wouldn't be able to afford a single chip of paint on this bumper!"

She sneered, taking an arrogant step toward me.

"Now, get on your knees and apologize, and get half a million dollars ready for the repairs. Otherwise, I guarantee you won't make it out of Dallas today!"

I looked at her face, twisted with arrogance, and found it almost laughable.

"Half a million? Are you sure?" I asked back. 

"There are security cameras all over this plaza," I continued, my voice dropping to a dangerous calm. "If you keep twisting the facts, I'll call the cops right now and let them pull the footage."

Instead of backing down at the mention of the police, Vivian’s arrogance only spiked.

"Save your breath, bitch!" she sneered, stepping right into my personal space. "With who I work for, even if the cops show up, they'll just make you pay double!"

As she yelled, a strong, sour stench of alcohol washed over me.

I clenched my fists, my eyes narrowing sharply. The erratic driving, the flushed face, the unhinged aggression... it all made sense now.

"You're not telling me to skip the cops because you're powerful," I said slowly, staring dead into her heavily lined eyes. "You don't want the cops here because you're driving under the influence."

Panic flashed across Vivian's face for a split second, instantly swallowed by violent rage. She lunged forward and shoved me hard by the shoulder.

"Whether I've been drinking or not is none of your fucking business!" she shrieked, stumbling slightly in her heels. "Just pay the damn money!"

"What? Is half a million too much for your broke ass? Listen here, bitch, I'm telling you: in Dallas, if I say it's half a million, it's half a million!"

Just as the words left her mouth, a vicious glint flashed in Vivian's eyes, and she violently flicked her wrist!

Splash!

Without warning, the iced Americano in her hand, ice cubes and all, was thrown directly at my chest!

The freezing coffee instantly soaked through my expensive custom coat, the dark brown stain rapidly spreading across the light fabric.

Ice cubes slid down my collar, sending a biting chill over my skin.

I looked down at my ruined coat, my eyes turning ice-cold.

"Oops, my bad. My hand slipped." The woman covered her mouth with zero sincerity, her eyes full of malicious provocation. "But for a broke hillbilly like you, this coat is probably just some cheap bargain bin garbage, right? What was it, fifty bucks? A hundred? I'll just pay you back."

I didn't lose my temper. Instead, I pulled a silk handkerchief from my pocket and methodically wiped the coffee stains off the back of my hand. I raised my eyes to look at her:

"Are you absolutely sure you want to handle things this way?"