The Plus-Size Girl Who Married a Billionaire

I shouldn't have come.

I had already repeated that to myself at least twenty times before the attendant pushed open the banquet hall's heavy oak doors.

My stepsister — the one who would happily grind every last shred of my dignity into the pavement — had "generously" invited me to a dinner party at the top of New York's investment circle. It was like a cat inviting a mouse to share a meal. Nobody with half a brain would believe there wasn't an angle to it.

And yet here I was.

The account balance for my startup, Aurora, was currently cleaner than my refrigerator. I needed investors. I needed opportunities. I needed even a sliver of luck that might change my circumstances. Samantha had her finger right on my pulse, and she knew I couldn't turn down the bait — even knowing full well she'd yank the hook at the cruelest possible moment.

The door swung shut behind me with a muffled click, sealing off the noise of the corridor.

I stepped into a world that had nothing to do with me. The air carried the mingled scent of truffle and expensive champagne, a jazz melody draped itself over everything like velvet, and the crystal chandeliers were bright enough to make my eyes ache. Every person in the room wore clothes I couldn't name the brand of but could immediately tell cost more than my monthly rent. Their conversation flowed with an ease that only comes from never having worried about anything from the day you were born.

And there I was — in a women's blazer I'd forced myself to buy on clearance last month — standing at the entrance like an insurance salesman who'd wandered into the wrong masquerade party.

I drew a slow breath, told myself it was fine. Find the target investors, hand over a business card, pitch the project clearly. Mission complete. Twenty minutes — no, fifteen at most — and I could make a graceful exit from this place that was making my skin crawl.

I lifted my eyes, arranged my face into a perfect smile, turned my head — and looked straight into a pair of eyes I knew.

Ethan. My ex-boyfriend.

He was seated in a prominent spot near the head table, one arm draped around a woman who was mid-conversation with someone else. He was tilting his head at me with an expression that said he couldn't quite figure out what I was doing here with an invitation.

Two weeks out of a breakup, and he already had someone new.

He let his brow crease slightly, and one corner of his mouth lifted into something mocking. I knew that expression by heart — it was the same one he'd worn the day he ended things, that particular brand of condescension he'd never bothered to hide.

He'd clearly gotten the wrong idea. He thought I'd come chasing after him.

So this was Samantha's little surprise. How utterly unoriginal. Drop me into Ethan's line of sight and let him and his crowd enjoy watching me squirm.

A few people nearby had already recognized me. It had apparently caused something of a stir in their circle when Ethan dated a plus-size girl, and now some of his friends were leaning together, murmuring, their eyes sweeping over me the way you'd assess something at auction.

I forced my gaze away and pretended not to notice, accepting a champagne flute from a passing server and drifting toward the corner of the room.

I hadn't even taken a step before Smith's voice came at me like a needle, pitched at exactly the volume needed to carry to the two nearest tables.

"Lila? It really is you. You look like you've put on a little weight — almost didn't recognize you."

Smith had always loved playing lapdog.

He swirled his whiskey with a leisurely air and added, "Heard you're seeing someone new? Congratulations."

What new relationship? I had no idea what he was talking about.

They didn't give me time to respond. A round of knowing laughter rippled from the table, and then the woman at Ethan's side turned around — and I recognized her immediately as the investor who had agreed to a partnership with me before pulling out without warning.

She pressed one hand — scarlet nails and all — dramatically to her mouth. "Oh my God, really? And who's the lucky man this time? Lila always did have such impeccable taste."

The word "taste" was perfectly innocent on its own. Every syllable she delivered it in was not.

My fingernails pressed into my palm, the pain just barely enough to hold the smile on my face. In their eyes I was nothing but a pretty-faced nobody trying to marry up, and the fact that I'd once dated Ethan was a stain they'd never let me wash off.

My blood was rushing to my head. The rational part of me said to smile, say "you've got the wrong idea," and walk away. That was the safe play. The dignified play.

But then I saw the look on Smith's face — that smug, insufferable expression — and saw the way every single one of them was waiting for me to tuck my tail and flee. Something competitive and reckless surged straight to the top of my skull.

Fine. You want a show? I'll give you one.

"Actually, yes." I heard my own voice, and it was a hundred times steadier than I had any right to expect. "Since you asked—"

I needed a name. A name with enough weight to shut every one of them up on the spot.

Faces from television flashed through my mind in rapid succession, until the reel stopped on a memory: Ethan sitting across from me at a restaurant, practically glowing with reverence as he spent a full hour detailing his uncle's accomplishments.

Ethan's uncle was only three years older than him, yet had already taken the reins of the Lowell family's commercial empire. Since assuming control, he had led the family on an unbroken winning streak, absorbing company after company, cementing the Lowells at the very top of the social hierarchy. And — I found myself silently thanking Ethan for having mentioned this detail repeatedly — he was still unmarried.

Adrian Cyrus Lowell. Widely considered the youngest, most enigmatic, and most unapproachable figure in New York's financial world.

My mouth moved faster than my brain. "I'm seeing Adrian."

The smile on Ethan's face went rigid. He frowned and asked again: "Excuse me?"

My heart was slamming against my ribs, but the smile spreading across my face only grew — warm, unhurried, touched with just a hint of pity, as though I were looking at someone who simply didn't know any better.

"How many Adrians are there in the upper circles of the East Coast?" I let a trace of bored disdain color my voice. "Adrian Cyrus Lowell. Obviously."

The ambient hum of conversation died as though someone had hit pause. The expressions around me shifted in unison from mockery to shock — the kind of stunned silence that comes from being unable to believe that Adrian Cyrus Lowell would look twice at someone like me.

And then, as if pulled by the same invisible string, every head in the vicinity turned toward the same point in the room.

The head of the table.

A cold, wrong feeling shot up from the soles of my feet straight to the back of my skull. My smile was still frozen on my face, but my neck had already turned, stiff and involuntary, following the rest of them.

There was a man seated at the head of the table.

He was leaning back in a wide, black leather chair, one hand idly turning a crystal glass between his fingers. A dark gray suit, cut with the kind of precision that announced its price without saying a word. Features that were sharp and deep-set — a high nose, a jawline that could have been carved from stone, a face so defined it looked like a sculptor had taken their time with it.

And now those pale gray eyes — darker than I'd expected, almost colorless — were traveling the full length of the table, past every stunned face in the room, and settling on me with an expression of absolute, unhurried composure.

He had heard every word.

His entire posture was almost offensively relaxed, like a lion dozing in a patch of afternoon sun — not doing anything at all, and yet the pressure radiating off him had already made the surrounding air feel thick.

Every alarm my brain possessed was going off simultaneously. This was Adrian Cyrus Lowell. In the flesh. And I had just announced to the entire upper crust of New York that he was my boyfriend — to his face — when the closest thing we'd ever had to a connection was the three financial news profiles I'd read about him.

I was going to die. I needed a bolt of lightning to come through the ceiling and strike me down right now, before I had to live through another second of this.