Chapter 2 Crashing Billionaires and Burnt Egos

Two weeks.

That's how long I had been stalking a billionaire.

Emails. Ignored.

Calls. Blocked.

Appointments. Cancelled.

Showing up at his glass fortress of a tech company? Laughed at by a secretary in Valentino heels who had more sass than patience.

"Mr. Barth is in meetings all day," she said, smiling with the kind of politeness that meant, go away, peasant. "For the next three months."

"Three months?" I blinked.

"Yes. We call it productivity."

I swear, if I hadn't just broken a heel in the elevator, I might've hurled it at her.

His name sat like a glowing curse on the tallest skyscraper in downtown Chicago Barth Innovations. Sleek, cold, intimidating. Much like the man himself, if his Instagram was anything to go by.

Which I now stalked like a teenager with no shame.

Shirtless on a yacht.

Giving a TED Talk with a Rolex flashing from under his sleeve.

Kissing some European supermodel with cheekbones that looked Photoshopped in real life.

What made it worse? He posted daily. Daily.

Clearly, he wasn't too busy for the 'Gram. Just too busy for me.

I was curled up on the couch one afternoon, eating dry cereal out of a mug and aggressively refreshing his feed when I saw it-an Insta Story, geo tagged:

"Barth Annual Gala. Tomorrow. Invite-only. No press. No plus-ones."

The caption under the story read: See you there, legends.

I nearly dropped my mug.

That was it.

He was going to be there.

And I was going to crash that party.

Except... apparently, you can't just show up to a billionaire gala in your Target sandals and ask for a plus-one like it's karaoke night at Applebee's.

Every attempt to get on the list failed.

Every event planner I called either laughed or hung up.

Adrian was no help-he was too busy trying to sell NFTs of himself shirtless. And my father, well, he was drunk by brunch.

I was ready to give up. Again.

Until a plain, white envelope slid under my apartment door that evening.

No name. No message. Just one embossed gold invitation.

I blinked at it.

Was this a prank? Mafia bait? Illuminati?

But when I opened it, my heart stopped.

"You are invited to the Barth Annual Gala."

Location: The Orchid Room, Gold Coast

Time: 8 PM

Dress Code: "Wealthy."

That's literally what it said. "Wealthy."

I stared at the invitation, then down at my bunny pajamas.

Houston, we had a wardrobe problem.

Sindy, my brother's girlfriend, was exactly the kind of woman who owned clothes labeled "wealthy." Her closet had more shimmer than the Vegas Strip and more designer tags than a Rodeo Drive catalog.

"Oh my God, YES," she squealed when I asked for help. "You're finally taking revenge on that jerk who ghosted you?"

"I dumped him."

She shrugged. "Still. He's rich now. That makes it worse."

She picked a midnight blue gown that looked like it belonged to a Bond girl-low cut, high slit, tight in all the wrong places. The kind of dress that said: I don't have a savings account, but I have fabulous legs.

We spent two hours getting ready. Hair curled, makeup like war paint, stilettos that could double as weapons.

"Do I look like I belong?" I asked, staring at the mirror.

"You look like you married rich and divorced richer."

Close enough.

--

The Orchid Room was madness.

Gold chandeliers, string quartets, waiters with cheekbones. The room glittered with gowns, tuxedos, diamonds, and egos. I'd never seen so many designer names in one place. Or so many people who looked like they'd sold their souls for real estate in Monaco.

I walked in like I belonged-shoulders back, eyes forward. Just like Sindy taught me.

And then I saw her.

Mandy Carlson.

My old college rival.

She was the gala's host.

Of course.

Because God wasn't just punishing me. He was entertaining himself.

Mandy spotted me before I could turn.

"Well, well, well," she purred, sauntering over with a glass of champagne in one hand and a fake smile in the other. "If it isn't Erica White."

"Mandy," I said, matching her tone.

"Didn't expect to see you here. Dress code said 'wealthy,' not 'borrowed.'"

I forced a laugh. "Still got that mean girl energy, huh?"

She smirked. "Some of us don't peak in college, sweetie."

Then she leaned in, voice dropping.

"You here for Nathan?"

My heart thudded.

She grinned. "He's on the balcony. But good luck. You're about number twenty-seven on tonight's 'say hi' list."

With that, she floated off like a smug cloud in Louboutins.

I took a deep breath, eyes scanning the sea of millionaires. I tried to find him, to blend in, to look casual and expensive. But the stares came anyway-judgmental, amused, suspicious.

I didn't belong here. Not really.

Halfway through the night, I almost left.

I made it to the coat check, heels in hand, when I heard the voice.

"Erica?"

I turned.

And there he was.

Nathan Barth.

Ten years older, a thousand times hotter.

Tall, broad-shouldered, clean-cut with just enough stubble to ruin lives. He wore his suit like it was custom-made by gods. His dark eyes locked onto mine, unreadable.

I swallowed.

"Nathan," I said, unsure whether to hug him, slap him, or faint.

He smirked, head tilting. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Well," I said, raising my chin, "I go where the good champagne is."

"Is that what this is?" He held up his glass. "Tastes like sparkling regret."

Ouch.

"Still a poet," I muttered.

"Only when provoked," he replied.

We stared at each other for a beat.

I was the first to look away.

He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Why are you here, Erica?"

I met his gaze. "You know why."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Let me guess. Your family company's in trouble. Daddy's drinking. Stepbrother's a walking disaster. And now, after ten years of radio silence, you remembered your ex-boyfriend turned billionaire."

"Nathan-"

"I read your breakup note every year on my birthday," he said softly. "It's my favorite joke."

I flinched.

"You don't have to help me," I said quietly. "Just... hear me out."

He sipped his drink. "Maybe I will."

Hope sparked in my chest.

"But I don't do favors, Erica. Not anymore."

He leaned in close, his breath brushing my cheek.

"If you want my help, you'll play by my rules."

And just like that, the game began.