The Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Runaway Bride and Heir

　　ANDREA'S POV

　　My feet were throbbing inside my cheap black flats. It was a dull, rhythmic ache that traveled all the way up my calves, but I didn't stop moving.

　　I couldn't stop because I knew that If I stopped, I would start thinking about the tuition bill sitting on my kitchen counter or the medication my mother needed to refill by Friday.

　　So I focused on the tray of champagne flutes balanced in my left hand and the sea of expensive tuxedos in front of me.

　　"More champagne, please," a woman in a shimmering silver dress snapped her fingers at me without looking at my face.

　　"Of course, ma'am," I said, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

　　I placed a glass on her table and deftly removed an empty one. She didn't say thank you, none of them did.

　　To the people at the Harrington Gala, I wasn't Andrea Rostova, a twenty-four-year-old art student with a scholarship to maintain.

　　I was just part of the furniture, a pair of hands holding a tray.

　　I wove through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone. The ballroom was suffocatingly hot despite the air conditioning.

　　It smelled of expensive perfume, roast beef, and old money. I made my way back to the service station, pushing through the heavy swinging doors into the kitchen.

　　The noise hit me instantly. Chefs were shouting orders, pans were clattering, and the head of catering, a red-faced man named Marcus, was screaming at a terrified busboy.

　　"I said no ice in the scotch for table five! Are you deaf?" Marcus roared.

　　I slipped past him, dumping the empty glasses into the wash bin. I leaned against the stainless steel counter for a second, closing my eyes.

　　My stomach growled loud enough for me to hear it over the dishwasher. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, a piece of toast and instant coffee and it was now nearly ten at night.

　　"Rostova! Stop lounging around!" Marcus barked, appearing beside me. He smelled like garlic and stale sweat. "The VIP section is dry. Grab two bottles of the vintage Dom Perignon and get out there. The CEO is empty."

　　My stomach tightened at the mention of the CEO lounge. The main host of the gala, Maxwell Harrington.

　　I had seen him on the covers of business magazines at the newsstand. They called him the "Prince of Steel."

　　He was ruthless, cold, and apparently hated public events, which made his presence tonight a rare occurrence. I really didn't want to go near him. My hands were already shaking from low blood sugar, and the last thing I needed was to drop a bottle worth more than my entire semester's rent in front of the most powerful man in the city.

　　"I'm on it, Marcus," I said, grabbing a fresh napkin and draping it over my arm.

　　I picked up the heavy tray with the two bottles and fresh glasses and took a deep breath, fixed my ponytail, and pushed back out into the ballroom.

　　The atmosphere in the VIP section was different. The air felt thinner, sharper. The music was quieter here, allowing the men to discuss mergers and acquisitions without raising their voices. I kept my head down, navigating the space with practiced invisibility.

　　And then, with my eyes not listening to me, they turned to look at the one person I wanted to avoid.

　　Maxwell Harrington was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking bored out of his mind.

　　He was taller than I expected, broad-shouldered in a black tuxedo that fit him perfectly. He had dark hair, slicked back but slightly messy, as if he had run his hand through it in frustration.

　　He wasn't talking to anyone or even acknowledging his business partners presence. He was just watching the room with eyes the color of storm clouds, holding a glass of amber liquid loosely in one hand.

　　He looked dangerous, not in a physical way, but in the way a predator looks when it's deciding what to eat.

　　I swallowed hard and moved toward his circle. A group of older men were laughing loudly near him, blocking my path.

　　"Excuse me, gentlemen," I murmured, trying to squeeze past.

　　"And then I told him, if you want the contract, you beg for it!" one of the men shouted, flinging his arm out wide to emphasize his point.

　　His elbow connected hard with my shoulder.

　　It happened in slow motion. The impact knocked me off balance. My heel caught on the edge of the plush carpet. I tried to correct myself, to pivot my weight, but the heavy tray tipped.

　　"No!" I gasped.

　　I watched in horror as one of the open bottles of vintage champagne launched off the tray. It spun through the air, spraying fizzy, sticky liquid in a wide arc before colliding directly with the chest of the man standing by the window.

　　Smash.

　　The bottle didn't break, but it bounced off Maxwell Harrington's chest, soaking his pristine white dress shirt and black lapels before crashing to the floor and shattering.

　　The sound of breaking glass silenced the entire room. The orchestra seemed to stop playing and the laughter died instantly.

　　I stood there, frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I couldn't breathe and neither could I move. I looked at the mess on the floor, then slowly, terrified, I looked up.

　　Maxwell Harrington wasn't even shouting and wasn't wiping the expensive alcohol off his chest and that terrified me more. He was just standing there, dripping wet, staring at me. His face was unreadable, completely devoid of emotion, which was infinitely scarier than anger.

　　A drop of champagne rolled down his jawline and dripped onto his collar.

　　Marcus appeared out of nowhere, his face purple with rage. He grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise. "You clumsy idiot! Do you have any idea what you've done? Get a towel! Get a mop! You are fired! Get out of here before I call security!"

　　I flinched, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "I... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

　　"Save it!" Marcus hissed, shoving me.

　　I stumbled back, waiting for the humiliation to end, waiting for someone to drag me out. But then, a deep, baritone voice cut through the chaos. It was low, smooth, and commanded absolute authority.

　　"Let her go."

　　Marcus froze, his hand still gripping my arm. He looked at Maxwell, trembling. "Mr. Harrington, I apologize profusely. This girl is incompetent. I will have her removed immediately and we will pay for the suit…"

　　"I said, let her go," Maxwell repeated. He hadn't raised his voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

　　Marcus released me instantly, stepping back as if I were radioactive.

　　Maxwell finally moved. He took a step toward me, his expensive Italian leather shoes crunching on the broken glass. He ignored the mess on his shirt. He ignored the hundreds of people watching us. He focused entirely on me.

　　I looked down at my shoes, unable to meet his gaze. I was practically shaking in my boots because I knew I was going to lose this job. I was going to lose the scholarship. My mother was going to suffer because I couldn't keep my balance.

　　"Look at me," he commanded.

　　I forced my chin up. His eyes were intense, searching my face with a curiosity I didn't understand. He didn't look angry but looked... intrigued.

　　He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. I thought he was going to wipe his own shirt, but he didn't. He reached out and gently dabbed a spot of champagne that had splashed onto my cheek.

　　My breath hitched as his fingers were warm against my cold skin.

　　"What is your name?" he asked softly.

　　"Andrea," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Andrea Rostova."

　　He studied me for a long moment, his gaze dropping to my nametag and then back to my eyes.

　　"Well, Andrea Rostova," he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear him. "You just ruined a five-thousand-dollar custom suit and humiliated me in front of my board of directors. How exactly do you plan to pay for this?"