Bought The Billionaire For One Night

The cold air of the JFK parking garage bit into Chloe Carr's skin, but she didn't care. She clutched the small velvet box in her coat pocket, her fingers tracing the familiar shape of the watch inside. It was the week before their wedding. Brennen had been working so hard lately, and she wanted to surprise him.

She spotted his car parked in the far corner. The windows were tinted dark, almost black against the harsh fluorescent lights. A smile pulled at her lips. She quickened her pace, her rolling bag bumping over the uneven concrete. She wanted to see his face when she knocked on the window.

As she got closer, the car was rocking. A subtle, rhythmic motion. A sound drifted through the cracked window. A breathless gasp. A low moan.

Chloe stopped dead in her tracks. Her stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that made her taste the cheap airline coffee she had drank hours ago. Her fingers tightened around the velvet box until the hinges dug painfully into her palm.

She didn't want to look. Her feet were glued to the oil-stained concrete, but her hand reached out. She grabbed the door handle and yanked it open.

The overhead light clicked on, illuminating the interior like a stage. Brennen's pants were around his ankles. Kate Norton, her best friend, her maid of honor, was straddling him, her skirt hiked up to her waist. Kate's head snapped around, her eyes wide. She screamed, a high-pitched shriek that echoed in the concrete cavern. She scrambled, pulling her shirt down, her face a mask of panic.

Brennen looked up, his lips smeared with Kate's signature red lipstick. "Chloe!" He gasped, pushing Kate off him. "It's not what it looks like!"

The words hung in the cold air. Chloe's blood turned to ice water in her veins. She stared at them, at the tangled limbs, at the guilty shock on their faces. The world narrowed down to the red smear on his mouth.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She pulled the velvet box from her pocket and hurled it at his face. It hit him square on the nose with a satisfying crack. The watch spilled out, falling into the footwell next to Kate's discarded shoe.

Chloe turned and ran. She didn't look back, even when she heard Brennen shouting her name, even when she heard Kate crying. She threw her bags into the back of her own car and peeled out of the garage, the tires squealing against the concrete.

She drove blind, tears blurring the lights of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. She didn't go to her apartment. She couldn't stand the thought of her own bed. She found herself in Manhattan, pulling up to a velvet rope outside a building with no sign. Elysium.

Aisling had joked about this place once. "If you ever want to forget, go there. The men are like works of art. And they come with a price tag."

Chloe needed to forget. She needed to scrub the image of Brennen and Kate out of her head. She parked haphazardly and walked straight past the bouncer, who took one look at her tear-streaked face and let her through.

The club was a wall of sound and heat. Heavy bass thumped in her chest, and the air smelled of expensive cologne, vodka, and sweat. She marched to the bar. "Whiskey. Neat. The strongest you have."

The bartender slid the glass over. She threw it back. The liquid burned a trail down her throat, setting her stomach on fire. It wasn't enough. She ordered another. And another. The edges of the room began to soften. The pain in her chest dulled into a numb ache.

She spun around on her stool, scanning the crowd. She was looking for something. Someone. A distraction. A weapon.

Her gaze landed on the corner booth. A man sat alone. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than her yearly salary. The fabric was dark, the cut impeccable. He looked bored, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He was gorgeous, in a dangerous, untouchable way. He looked expensive.

Perfect.

Chloe grabbed her purse and stumbled over, the alcohol making her bold. She slid into the booth across from him and slapped her platinum credit card down on the polished table.

The man looked up. His eyes were a deep, unsettling brown, framed by thick lashes. He didn't look surprised. He looked amused.

"You," Chloe said, her words slurring slightly. "Tonight. I'm buying."

He raised an eyebrow. A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh? And what's your offer?"

Chloe fumbled in her bag, pulling out her checkbook. It was the trust fund money, the cushion she never touched. She scrawled a number on the crisp paper, her hand shaking. Fifty thousand dollars. She ripped it out and pushed it across the table, right next to her credit card.

"Is that enough?" she challenged, her chin lifted in defiance.

He picked up the check. He looked at the number, then back at her. His eyes lingered on her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. He didn't look offended. He looked intrigued.

"It's a start," he murmured. He folded the check and slipped it into his breast pocket, right next to a silk handkerchief. He stood up, towering over her. The smile was gone, replaced by something darker. Something commanding.

"Come with me," he said.

It wasn't a request. Chloe stood on unsteady legs. He placed a hand on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through her thin jacket. He guided her through the throng of people, past the VIP area, to a private elevator.

The elevator shot up to the top floor. The doors opened into a penthouse suite that was bigger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park. But Chloe barely saw it.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned and grabbed his tie, pulling him down. She kissed him, hard. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue and the mint on his breath. She kissed him with all the anger, the hurt, the desperation that had been building inside her since she opened that car door.

He responded instantly. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer comfort. He just took.

And for one night, Chloe let him.

The first ray of sunlight hit Chloe directly in the eye, slicing through the haze of sleep like a laser. She groaned, rolling over, and her hand hit warm skin.

Her eyes flew open. She was staring at a broad, muscular back. The sheets were tangled around his waist. The events of the previous night crashed over her like a bucket of ice water. The parking garage. Kate. Brennen. The whiskey. The check.

Oh God. The check.

She had paid a man for sex. A stranger. A hooker.

Panic, sharp and acidic, rose in her throat. She had to get out of here. Now. She slipped out of bed, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold marble floor. She scavenged the room for her clothes, finding her skirt draped over a chair and her blouse crumpled near the door. She dressed with trembling hands, not even bothering to button her blouse properly.

She glanced at the bed. He was still asleep, one arm flung over his face. He looked even better in the daylight. It wasn't fair.

She needed to leave a note. Something. She couldn't just ghost him after paying him fifty grand. That was weird, even for her. She dug into her purse, looking for a pen. She found her wallet. No cash. Of course not.

Her fingers brushed against the plastic edge of her airline ID. She pulled it out. It had her photo, her name, the Aura Airlines logo. It was the only thing she had that felt remotely real. She placed it on the nightstand, right next to the empty space where the check had been. It felt like a joke. A business card from a one-night stand.

She grabbed her purse and fled, pulling the door shut with a soft click. She didn't breathe until she was in the elevator, and even then, the air felt too thick.

An hour later, she was standing in the employee line at JFK, her head pounding, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She clutched her boarding pass, desperate to get on the plane and hide in the galley for eight hours.

"ID, please," the security guard said.

Chloe reached for her lanyard. Her hand patted her chest. Nothing. She opened her purse and dug through it. Lipstick, wallet, phone, aspirin. No ID.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She checked again, pulling the bag open wider, her fingers scraping the bottom. It was gone.

She remembered; she had put it on her bedside table, right next to the male prostitute.

"Ma'am?" the guard prompted. "I need your airline ID to clear you through this checkpoint."

"I... I lost it," Chloe stammered, her face flushing hot. "I must have left it at home."

"I can't let you through without it," the guard said, his face impassive. "You'll have to go to the admin office and get a temporary badge. It's going to take a while."

Chloe's stomach sank. This was a nightmare. She was going to miss her flight. She was going to get a mark on her record. She pulled out her phone, ready to call her supervisor and beg for mercy, when a young man in an airport uniform jogged up to the checkpoint.

"Excuse me," he panted, holding out a small plastic card. "Are you Chloe Carr?"

Chloe stared at him, then at the card. It was her ID. "Yes. I mean, yes, that's me."

"A gentleman found this," the young man said, handing it over. "He saw the Aura Airlines logo and asked me to bring it to the staff check-in for the next Paris flight, guessing you might be on it. He said you'd be looking for it."

Chloe took the ID, her fingers closing around the familiar plastic. It was warm, like it had been held in a hand. "Which gentleman? Where is he?"

The kid shrugged. "He just said he was a concerned citizen. Have a good flight." He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Chloe stood there, the ID clutched in her hand. She looked down at her own face staring back at her from the plastic. The male prostitute got it.. He knew who she was. Where she worked. And instead of blackmailing her, or ignoring it, he had gone out of his way to return it.

It made no sense. A man who sold his body for fifty thousand dollars a night didn't do favors. He did transactions. She slid the ID around her neck and walked through the checkpoint, her mind racing. Who was he, really?

Chloe had just cleared the metal detector, the relief of having her ID back washing over her like a weak painkiller. It took the edge off, but the ache was still there. She was walking toward the terminal, her rolling bag clicking on the terrazzo floor, when she heard it.

"Chloe! Wait!"

Her spine stiffened. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was. She could smell his cologne-that cheap, musky spray he liked to drown himself in. She kept walking, faster.

A hand grabbed her arm, spinning her around. Brennen stood there, his hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes. He was holding a manila envelope.

"Chloe, please," he said, his voice ragged. "Just listen to me. What you saw yesterday... it was a mistake. I was drunk. Kate came on to me, and I just... I wasn't thinking."

Chloe looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. "Take your hand off me."

He let go, but stepped closer, blocking her path. "I love you, Chloe. Not her. It was a one-time thing. I swear."

"You have a funny way of showing love," Chloe said, her voice flat. "Screwing my best friend in your car."

Brennen's face twisted, trying to look earnest. "I know you're mad. I know I messed up. But I still care about you." He held up the manila envelope. "I was waiting for you near check-in and saw you arguing with security. I figured you were in trouble, so I pulled some strings with the union rep. Got you a temp pass so you can make your flight."

He held it out to her like a peace offering. He expected her to be grateful. He expected her to melt, to see him as the knight in shining armor who was always looking out for her, even when she was being "hysterical."

Chloe stared at the temporary badge. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her real ID, the plastic one the mysterious stranger had returned. She held it up, letting the light catch the Aura Airlines logo.

"I don't need your pity pass, Brennen," she said, her voice cold. "I found my own way home."

Brennen's smile froze. He stared at the ID, his jaw slack. "How did you... who gave you that?"

"That's none of your business," Chloe said. She stepped around him, her shoulder brushing his. "Nothing is your business anymore."

She walked away, her head high. She didn't look back. She could feel his eyes burning into her back, but she didn't care. The satisfaction was brief, a tiny spark in the dark. It didn't fix the hole in her chest, but it was a start.

She found a quiet corner near her gate and slumped into a plastic chair. The adrenaline faded, leaving her exhausted and hollow. She pulled out her phone and dialed Aisling. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

She hung up without leaving a message. She was alone. The only person who had helped her in the last twelve hours was a stranger she had paid for sex. It was pathetic.

"Attention, Aura Airlines staff," the intercom crackled. "Flight 104 to Paris, please report to gate B4."

Chloe took a deep breath. She stood up, smoothed her uniform, and pasted on her professional smile. The show had to go on.

Across the terminal, Brennen watched her walk away. His face was red, his pride stinging. He pulled out his phone and hit the first contact.

"She got her ID back," he snapped the moment the call connected. "Someone gave it to her. She blew me off."

There was a pause on the other end, then Kate's voice, smooth and calculating. "Don't worry about it, Bren. If she wants to play hard to get, fine. We'll just have to find another way to make her life difficult."