Service Was Mediocre: Reviewing My Billionaire Lover

Inside the penthouse, Cullen Hunter walked over to the nightstand. He picked up the three hundred dollars. He crushed the bills in his fist, his knuckles turning white. He looked at the empty space where she had stood.

He didn't feel the satisfaction he usually felt when he discarded a nuisance. He felt a burning, unfamiliar irritation.

"You're awake. Finally."

The voice was low, vibrating with a morning rasp that usually sent shivers down a woman's spine. But for Avery Hall, it triggered a sharp, blinding headache that started behind her eyes and drilled into her skull.

She didn't open her eyes immediately. Her body felt heavy, like she had been dragged over gravel. The scent of sandalwood and expensive, chemically crisp laundry detergent filled her nose. It wasn't the smell of her mildewy apartment in West Hollywood.

It was the smell of money. Cold, hard money.

Avery opened her eyes. The ceiling was too high. The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass was too bright. She turned her head, ignoring the stiffness in her neck, and looked out at the Los Angeles skyline. It sprawled below her like a circuit board of grey and smog.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her brain. She knew this room. She knew the minimalist grey furniture that looked uncomfortable to sit on. She knew the man who was currently running the shower in the adjacent bathroom.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing an oversized white dress shirt that wasn't hers. Her legs were bare. There were faint, purple bruises blossoming on her thighs.

The memories hit her then. Not her memories. The memories of the woman she used to be-or the woman she was supposed to be in this script. The desperate, clawing need for validation. The drugs slipped into a drink at a party she wasn't invited to. The stumbling into Cullen Hunter's car. The begging.

She sat up, the movement making the room spin. She wasn't that woman anymore. The realization settled in her chest, heavy as a stone. She had woken up in the "Death Flag" scene. This was the morning Avery Hall got kicked out, humiliated, and started her downward spiral into oblivion.

The shower turned off. The silence that followed was louder than the water had been.

She had maybe two minutes.

Avery swung her legs off the bed. Her feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and the shock helped ground her. She spotted her dress-a torn, sequined disaster-crumpled in the corner. She cursed under her breath.

She moved to the nightstand. There it was. A single sheet of heavy, cream-colored personal stationery lay next to a signed, blank check drawn from a private bank. The payoff. The silence fee.

A surge of anger flared in her gut, hot and acidic. It burned away the last of the fear. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to beg him to love her. She was going to rewrite this scene.

She grabbed her clutch from the floor. She found her own clothes in the bathroom doorway, draped over a sleek, black valet stand that had steamed them perfectly dry and wrinkle-free during the night. She dressed with military precision, ignoring the soreness in her muscles.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Cullen Hunter stepped out. A towel hung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, trailing down his abdomen. He was beautiful in the way a switchblade was beautiful-sharp, dangerous, and likely to cut you if you held him wrong.

He stopped when he saw her standing there, fully dressed. His dark eyes narrowed. He braced himself, his jaw tightening. He was waiting for the tears. He was waiting for her to throw herself at his feet.

Avery didn't look at his chest. She met his eyes. Her face was a mask of terrifying boredom.

Cullen opened his mouth. "Avery, don't make this difficult. You know you're-"

"Cheap?" she finished for him. Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

She walked back to the nightstand. She opened her clutch and pulled out her wallet. It was thin. She took out everything she had. Three hundred dollars in crumpled twenties and tens.

She slapped the bills onto the nightstand, right on top of his pristine, signed check.

Cullen stared at the money. His brow furrowed. It was a genuine crack in his armor. He looked from the cash to her face, confusion warring with his usual disdain.

"Service was mediocre," Avery lied. She kept her face completely neutral.

She turned on her heel. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her steps were steady.

"Avery," Cullen's voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a question anymore. It was a warning. "If you think this game will work..."

She paused at the heavy oak door. She didn't turn her body, just her head. She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes flat.

"It's not a game, Mr. Hunter. It's a review."

She opened the door and slammed it shut behind her.

The sound echoed in the hallway. Avery leaned against the wood for a second, squeezing her eyes shut, exhaling the breath she had been holding since she woke up. Her hands were trembling.

She pushed off the door and walked to the elevator. She pressed the button with a shaking finger. She had just insulted the most dangerous predator in Los Angeles.

The heat outside the Hunter Tower was oppressive. It was the kind of dry, smoggy heat that made your skin feel tight. Avery stepped out of the revolving doors, shielding her eyes with her hand.

The doorman, a man named Henry who had once called her a cab when she was drunk and crying, looked at her now with a mixture of pity and judgment. He didn't move to open a car door. He didn't whistle for a taxi.

Avery didn't care. She walked past him to the curb and raised her hand. A yellow cab, battered and smelling of old pine air freshener, screeched to a halt.

She slid into the backseat. "West Hollywood. The Sierra Towers."

She pulled her phone out of her clutch. The screen was cracked-another souvenir from last night. It was blowing up. Thirty missed calls from "Brother Ernest." Fifty text messages from numbers she didn't recognize.

She opened the news app. The headline was right there at the top, bold and condemning: Hall Family Disgrace: Did Avery Leak Cheslie's Private Photos?

Avery let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. The timeline was moving faster than she remembered. Cheslie Griffin, the family's perfect adopted angel, had leaked her own photos to garner sympathy and had framed Avery to cover her tracks. It was efficient. It was brutal.

The cab driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes widened as he recognized her.

Avery pulled the hood of her jacket up. She shrank into the seat, watching the palm trees blur past.

The cab pulled up to the Sierra Towers. It was a fortress of glass and steel, a place where people paid a premium to never have to interact with the outside world.

"That'll be forty-five," the driver said.

Avery pulled out her black American Express card. It was the card tied to her trust fund. She swiped it through the reader mounted on the partition.

Beep.

"Declined," the machine read in red letters.

Avery felt a cold drop in her stomach. She swiped it again.

Beep. Declined.

"Miss, I don't have all day," the driver said, his patience thinning.

"One second," Avery said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was racing. Ernest hadn't just cut her off. He had frozen her.

She dug into her wallet. She had given Cullen three hundred dollars. She had exactly fifty dollars left in her wallet. She handed the cash to the driver.

"Keep the change," she said, though there wasn't much change to keep.

She walked into the lobby. The air conditioning hit her sweat-dampened skin, making her shiver. The concierge, a man who usually greeted her with a smile and a complimentary water, stood behind the marble desk with his arms crossed.

"Ms. Hall," he said. His tone was stiff. "Your key fob has been deactivated. Per the owner's request."

"The owner is my brother," Avery said. "I live here."

"Not anymore," the concierge said. He slid a paper across the desk. It was a legal notice. Eviction. Effective immediately. "Mr. Hall has arranged for movers. They are almost done."

Avery stared at the paper. The letters swam before her eyes. "I need to get my things."

"You have thirty minutes," the concierge said. He signaled to a security guard. "Escort her."

The elevator ride up was silent. The guard stood too close, his presence a physical reminder of her new status. Threat. Trespasser.

Her apartment door was open. Inside, boxes were stacked high. Strangers were touching her things. A man was wrapping her crystal vase in bubble wrap.

Avery ignored them. She walked straight to the bedroom. She ignored the closet full of couture gowns she would never wear again. She went to the wall safe behind the painting.

She punched in the code. 1-9-9-8. Her birth year.

The light turned green. She pulled the handle. Inside was her passport, a stack of cash-emergency money the original Avery had hidden for drugs-and a small, leather-bound journal.

She shoved it all into her oversized tote bag.

Her phone rang again. Brother Ernest.

She stared at the screen for a second, then answered.

"You cut my cards, Ernest? Really?"

"You tried to ruin Cheslie," Ernest's voice was ice. It wasn't the voice of a brother. It was the voice of a judge delivering a death sentence. "You are no sister of mine until you apologize publicly. On your knees."

"Ask Cheslie who actually took those photos," Avery said. She didn't shout. She just stated it.

"Don't you dare," Ernest hissed. "Don't you dare drag her down with you. You're sick, Avery."

The line went dead.

"Time's up, Ms. Hall," the security guard said from the doorway. He tapped his watch.

Avery looked around the room. This had been her home. Now it was just a collection of boxes. She grabbed a single suitcase from the bed, stuffing it with jeans, t-shirts, and comfortable shoes.

She walked out. She didn't look back.

Standing on the curb outside, with one suitcase and a deactivated credit card, Avery felt the weight of the city pressing down on her. She was homeless. She was bankrupt.

She dialed the one number Ernest wouldn't think to block.

"Zoe," she said when the line connected. "I'm at the curb. I need you."

The waiter at Le Petit looked at Avery's suitcase with open disdain. This was a place for ladies who lunched, not for women who looked like they were fleeing the country.

"I'm meeting Preston Vance," Avery said, ignoring his sneer.

She spotted him in the corner. Preston Vance. Her fiancé. He was checking his Rolex, tapping his foot. He looked annoyed. He looked like a man who was inconvenienced by the tragedy of her life.

Avery dragged her suitcase over. She didn't wait for him to stand. She sat down, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"You're late," Preston said. He took a sip of his espresso. "And you look like a mess."

"Good morning to you too, Preston," Avery said.

"Look, Avery," Preston started. He had a speech prepared. She could see it in the way he rehearsed his hand gestures. "With the scandal... and Ernest cutting you off... The Vance family can't be associated with this kind of drama."

He was breaking up with her. Just like in the book. He was going to dump her, and then two weeks later, he would be seen dining with Cheslie.

"I agree," Avery interrupted.

Preston blinked. "What?"

"I said, I agree. The script is tired, Preston."

She reached into her purse. She pulled out the ring. Five carats. Cushion cut. It caught the light, throwing rainbows across the white tablecloth.

She slid it across the marble. It made a sharp click as it hit his saucer.

"I'm dissolving the engagement," Avery said. Her voice was clear. It carried to the next table. "You're free."

Preston stared at the ring. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. He had expected begging. He had expected her to make a scene so he could look like the victim.

"You... you're breaking up with me?" His face flushed a patchy red. His ego was bruising right before her eyes.

"You were going to cheat on me with Cheslie anyway," Avery said, leaning back in her chair. "Let's save everyone the time."

"How dare you," Preston hissed. He leaned forward. "How dare you drag her into your filth."

"Keep the ring," Avery said, standing up. "Pawn it. You might need the money for your gambling debts."

The silence that fell over the nearby tables was absolute. Forks froze mid-air.

Preston shot up from his chair. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, painful.

"You crazy bitch," he whispered. "Keep your voice down."

Avery looked at his hand on her wrist. A cold calm washed over her.

She didn't pull away. She stepped in. She rotated her wrist against his thumb-a simple leverage point she knew from a life Preston couldn't imagine.

Preston yelped. His grip broke instantly. He stumbled back, knocking into a waiter carrying a tray of water.

"Don't touch me," Avery said. Her eyes were dead. "Ever again."

The manager was rushing over. "Is there a problem here?"

Avery smoothed her shirt. She picked up the handle of her suitcase.

"No problem," she said, smiling politely at the manager. "Mr. Vance is just leaving."

She walked out of the cafe. The sun was brighter now. The air tasted sweeter. The "fiancé" plot armor was gone. She was exposed, but she was free.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Zoe.

I'm at the Motel 6 on Sunset. Room 204. Get here.

Avery hailed an Uber. She selected "UberX." Economy.

Inside the cafe, Preston Vance stared at the ring sitting in the spilled espresso. He was shaking with rage. He grabbed his phone and dialed Cheslie.

"You won't believe what your crazy sister just did," he spat into the phone.