Bought By The Man Who Hates Me

Under the table, she felt a sudden, hard pressure against her shin. Baron had stretched his legs out, his expensive leather shoe resting against the leg of her chair, boxing her in. It was a warning. He might claim not to know her, but he had no intention of letting her go. The subtle aggression sent a tremor through her, a stark contrast to the polite murmur of the dining room just moments before.

Bethel Stout adjusted the thin strap of her black dress, her fingers brushing against the rough texture where the fabric had begun to pill. She tucked a loose thread under the hem, hoping the dim lighting of the restaurant would forgive the garment's age. It was a dress from another life, one of the few things she had kept from before the fall.

Beside her, Chynna Kerr was a whirlwind of expensive perfume and nervous energy. Chynna gripped Bethel's arm, her manicured nails digging slightly into Bethel's skin.

"Preston says this guy is a big deal," Chynna whispered, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Like, D.C. royalty big deal. He flew in just for the project launch."

Bethel forced a smile, though her stomach felt like it was filled with stones. She didn't belong here. River Oaks was a world of old money and silent judgments, a world she had been exiled from five years ago.

"I'm sure he's charming," Bethel said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears.

The heavy mahogany doors to the private dining room swung open. A waiter in a crisp white jacket held the door, ushering them into the cool, conditioned air. The sound of clinking crystal and low, confident laughter washed over them.

Bethel followed Chynna inside. Her heels sank into the thick Persian rug, muffling her steps. The light from the crystal chandelier overhead was aggressive, reflecting off the silverware and the polished wine glasses. Bethel lowered her chin, an instinctual habit she had developed over the last few years to avoid drawing attention.

Preston Yates stood up from the head of the long table. He was beaming, his face flushed with wine and success. He opened his arms to Chynna.

"There she is," Preston announced. "The future Mrs. Yates."

He hugged Chynna, then nodded politely at Bethel. Bethel returned the nod, her eyes scanning the room, seeking the safest corner to retreat to. Her gaze drifted down the length of the table, past the floral centerpieces, toward the shadows at the far end.

A man was sitting there. He was swirling a glass of amber liquid, his attention seemingly focused on the way the light caught the whiskey.

Bethel's heart seized. It was a physical blow, a sudden, violent contraction that stopped her breath in her throat. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

He turned his head.

Baron Lowery looked exactly the same, and yet entirely different. The soft edges of his youth were gone, replaced by a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite. His dark hair was shorter, sharper. But it was his eyes-gray like a storm front-that pinned her to the spot.

Five years. It had been five years since she had destroyed him to save him.

He didn't blink. He didn't gasp. He just stared, his gaze tracking her with a predatory stillness.

Bethel took a step back, her instinct to flee overriding every social protocol she knew. She turned slightly, but the waiter had already closed the heavy doors behind her. The latch clicked shut with a sound that echoed like a prison lock in her mind.

She was trapped.

Baron's expression shifted. The initial flicker of recognition vanished, replaced by a coldness so profound it made her shiver. He looked at her not with anger, but with a terrifying void of emotion.

Bethel pressed her fingernails into her palms. The sharp bite of pain was the only thing keeping her grounded. Breathe, she commanded herself. Do not let him see you bleed.

"Everyone, listen up," Preston's voice boomed, oblivious to the tension that had just sucked the oxygen out of the room. "I want to introduce our guest of honor. Fresh from D.C., the man making sure our thrusters don't blow up on the pad, Baron Lowery."

A ripple of polite applause and murmurs of admiration went around the table. The air smelled of roasted meat and power.

Baron didn't stand. He didn't smile. He simply raised his glass in a lazy, mocking salute. His posture was arrogant, taking up space with the ease of a man who owned every room he walked into.

"Come on, sit," Chynna urged, pulling Bethel toward two empty chairs.

Bethel's legs felt like rubber. Fate, in its cruelty, had placed their seats directly across from him. Every step toward the table felt like walking on the edge of a blade.

As she approached, a woman sitting next to Baron leaned into him. She was stunning, with sleek dark hair and diamonds that caught the light. Clarissa Melendez. Bethel recognized the name from the society pages. Clarissa placed a possessive hand on Baron's forearm, whispering something in his ear.

Baron didn't pull away.

A sour taste rose in Bethel's throat. Jealousy, sharp and pathetic, twisted in her gut. She had no right to it, but it was there, burning her.

Bethel sat down. She kept her eyes on the white tablecloth, refusing to look up. She reached for her water glass, her hand trembling just enough to spill a few drops onto the pristine linen.

Across the table, Baron made a sound. It was a soft, short scoff.

Bethel froze. She watched the water stain spread on the cloth, dark and ugly.

"So," Preston said, sitting back down. "Do you two know each other? Houston is a small town, after all."

Bethel's mouth opened. Her throat was so dry the sides stuck together. She had to say something. She had to navigate this minefield without detonating the secret she had guarded for half a decade.

"I-"

"No," a deep voice cut through the air.

Baron spoke the word with a gravelly finality. He wasn't looking at Preston. He was looking directly at Bethel.

"I don't know her," Baron said.

The lie hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't just a denial; it was an erasure. He was looking at the woman he had once planned to marry, the woman he had lived with, and he was deleting her from his existence.

Bethel lowered her head, accepting the blow. Her heart felt like it was cracking open, ribs splitting apart under the pressure.

"Nice to meet you," she whispered to the tablecloth.

The waiter placed a plate of sea scallops in front of Bethel. The aroma of butter and garlic wafted up, but her stomach churned violently. She picked up her fork, her movements mechanical, like a robot programmed to mimic human dining.

Across the table, Baron was cutting into a steak. His knife scraped against the porcelain plate with a screeching sound that made Bethel wince. He was doing it on purpose. Every slice was deliberate, aggressive.

"So, Bethel," Clarissa Melendez said. Her voice was light, sugary, but her eyes were sharp. She had noticed the tension. She had noticed the way Baron was ignoring everything else in the room to stare at his steak. "Chynna tells me you're a lawyer."

Bethel looked up, startled. "Yes."

"Still doing that... what do you call it? Aid work?" Clarissa asked, tilting her head.

"Legal aid," Bethel corrected softly. "I work for a non-profit center downtown. We help people who can't afford representation."

Clarissa let out a small, tinkling laugh. She covered her mouth with a hand that sported a diamond ring the size of a grape. "Oh, that's so noble. And so... quaint. I suppose it doesn't pay very well, though, does it?"

Bethel tightened her grip on her fork. "It pays enough."

Baron took a sip of his red wine. He didn't look at Bethel, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of amusement.

"Some people just love to play the saint," Clarissa said, turning her body toward Baron, effectively cutting Bethel out of the visual circle. "But deep down, everyone loves a checkbook."

The table went quiet. The insult was thinly veiled, a jagged rock wrapped in silk.

Bethel bit her lower lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She looked at Baron. He was the only one who could stop this. He was the host's guest of honor. One word from him would shut Clarissa up.

Baron finally looked up. His gray eyes swept over Bethel's pale face, taking in her distress.

He didn't speak. He didn't defend her. He just picked up his wine glass again and took a slow, deliberate swallow, watching her over the rim.

He was enjoying it. He wanted to see her squirm. He wanted to see her humiliated.

"Anyway," Chynna interjected, sensing the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure. "The wedding colors are going to be blush and gold. Bethel is going to be my maid of honor."

"Hopefully she can afford the dress," Clarissa muttered, loud enough for half the table to hear. "Though I suppose that one is a classic. Isn't that from Balenciaga's collection five years ago? It's brave to wear vintage to a place like this." The insult was sharper now, a perfectly aimed dart recognizing the dress's former glory to highlight its current owner's fall from grace.

Clarissa leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly in the quiet room. "A real gold digger, from what people say."

Bethel dropped her fork. It clattered against the china, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

She looked at Clarissa. For a second, a spark of defiance flared in her chest. She wanted to scream that she was the opposite of a gold digger, that she was drowning in debt because she refused to take anyone's money.

She looked at Baron again. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting. He was waiting for her to fight back. He was waiting for the girl who used to debate him for hours to show up.

But she couldn't. If she defended herself, she risked unraveling the lie she had told him five years ago. She had to be the villain. She had to be the gold digger.

Bethel swallowed the bile in her throat. She lowered her eyes and said nothing.

Baron's expression shifted. The anticipation in his eyes died, replaced by a profound, withering disappointment. He looked at her with pure disgust.

He turned his shoulder to her, engaging the man on his right in a conversation about propulsion systems. The dismissal was absolute. It hurt more than Clarissa's words ever could.

The main course arrived, but Bethel couldn't breathe. The air in the room was too thick, too hot.

"Excuse me," she murmured, pushing her chair back.

She stood up on shaky legs and walked toward the door. She could feel Baron's gaze burning into her back, a physical weight dragging her down.

She pushed through the doors and practically ran to the restrooms. She burst into the ladies' room, gripping the edge of the marble sink. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her skin was gray, her eyes rimmed with red. She dry-heaved over the basin, nothing coming up but acid and misery.

The door opened behind her.

Bethel straightened up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Clarissa walked in. She didn't look at Bethel. She walked to the mirror and began reapplying her lipstick.

"Stay away from him," Clarissa said to the mirror.

Bethel watched her reflection. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Clarissa snapped her clutch shut. She turned, her eyes cold. "I saw the way he looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at him. He's mine, Bethel. And a washed-up little charity lawyer like you doesn't stand a chance against me."

Clarissa smiled, checking her teeth in the mirror one last time. "Don't make this ugly. You can't afford ugly."

She turned and walked out, leaving the scent of expensive roses and threat in the air.

When Bethel returned to the table, the dinner plates had been cleared. In their place sat a bottle of tequila and a shot glass. A spinning bottle lay in the center of the table.

"Truth or Dare!" someone shouted. "To liven up this wake!"

Bethel tried to sit, intending to grab her purse and leave, but Preston caught her hand. "Come on, Bethel! Don't be a spoil-sport. Just one round."

She was trapped again.

Baron sat across from her. He had undone the top button of his shirt, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked relaxed, but his fingers were drumming a rhythmic, agitated beat on the tablecloth.

The bottle spun. It whirred against the wood, blurring.

It slowed down. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It stopped. The neck of the bottle pointed directly at Bethel.

A cheer went up around the table.

"I'll ask," Clarissa said immediately. Her eyes gleamed with malice. "Truth or Dare, Bethel?"

"Truth," Bethel said. She wasn't going to perform like a circus animal for these people.

Clarissa leaned her chin on her hand. "Okay. Truth. Chynna mentioned you have a bit of a history. Is the rumor true? Did you really dump some poor guy five years ago because a better offer came along?"

The room went silent. The air was sucked out of the space.

Bethel's heart hammered against her ribs. Clarissa didn't know the ex was Baron. She thought Baron was just a spectator. But the question was a direct arrow aimed at him.

Baron stopped drumming his fingers. He slowly lifted his eyes. The storm in them was raging now. He was staring at her with an intensity that made her skin burn.

He was waiting. He was waiting for her to say she made a mistake. He was waiting for a crack in the armor.

If she said she regretted it, Baron would ask why. He would dig. And if he dug, he would find the federal indictment against her father. He would find the blackmail. He would find out she did it for him.

And then he would lose his security clearance. He would lose his career. He would lose his family's respect.

Bethel dug her fingernails into her thigh until she felt the skin break through the fabric of her dress. She had to kill the hope in his eyes. She had to finish what she started five years ago.

She lifted her chin and looked Baron dead in the eye.

"No," she said, her voice steady and cold. "No regrets."

Baron flinched. It was small, a micro-spasm in his jaw, but she saw it. It was the look of a man who had just been stabbed in the chest by someone he trusted.

The people around the table murmured, scandalized by her callousness.

Baron let out a short, terrifying laugh. It sounded like glass breaking.

He reached out and grabbed the shot glass of tequila that was meant for the loser of the game. It wasn't his turn. It wasn't his penalty.

He threw his head back and downed the burning liquid in one swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed.

He slammed the heavy glass down on the table. The sound was violent, cracking the delicate stem of a nearby wine glass.

Baron stood up so abruptly his chair screeched backward, toppling over onto the carpet. He didn't pick it up. He didn't look at Clarissa. He didn't look at Preston.

He looked at the wall, his chest heaving.

"I'm done," he growled.

He turned and stormed toward the door. He shoved the heavy mahogany panels open with such force they banged against the wall.

He was gone.

The room was left in a stunned silence. Bethel sat frozen, her heart bleeding out in her chest. She had done it. She had protected him.

And it felt like dying.