UPGRADED, From Trash Ex to Billionaire Husband

Chapter 1

​"Lauren, a woman's value plummets after thirty. You're just a commodity waiting for a buyer now. Hurry up and find a wealthy provider while you still have some youth left."

​Clutching two expensive bottles of Louis XIII, Lauren stood in the thumping corridor of the nightclub, her voice laced with irritation. "Mom, I've told you a thousand times, I have a boyfriend. Stop trying to set me up on these blind dates."

​"That boyfriend of yours? That penniless loser?"

​"Lauren, open your eyes! Five years ago, you claimed he was saving for a house. You actually fell for that pathetic lie!"

​"Mom! Enough! We're buying a place and getting married by the end of the year, I promise!"

​Lauren slammed her thumb down to end the call, aggressively brushing away a stray tear.

​The truth was, Tray Sommers had never actually brought up marriage; she knew he felt burdened by their bank accounts. She had spent six grueling years saving every penny, and now she was only 20,000 dollar away from a down payment in the capital's brutal housing market.

​Lauren prided herself on being practical. She believed Tray was the same-a man working three jobs just to build them a foundation.

​The thought warmed her. She gripped the cognac bottles tighter, centering herself.

​I'll drink every executive under the table tonight if it means closing this deal, she vowed.

​But as she passed a heavy, partially open bronze door, a sharp feminine laugh drifted out.

​"I went to scout apartments at Ontario the other day, and you'll never guess who I saw."

​"Ugh, let me guess-Lauren? She was there too, looking like a deer in headlights when she saw the price tags. It was honestly tragic."

​"She's such a fool. She actually thinks Tray hasn't proposed because he's broke."

​Lauren froze, her heart hammering against her ribs as she crept closer to the door.

​"You can't really blame her, can you? Our brother is a world-class actor. Look at those thrift-store rags he wears every day!"

​Lauren tried to breathe. It's a different Lauren, she told herself. It has to be.

​Then, a man in a black alpaca coat moved into her line of sight and took a seat on the velvet sofa.

​Even from behind, she knew him instantly. That coat had cost over five thousand dollar-the very "rags" the girl mentioned-and Lauren had skipped meals for months to buy it for his birthday.

​The color drained from her face. Her knuckles turned a ghostly white against the glass bottles.

​The man leaned back with an air of practiced nobility, his long legs stretched out, his profile sharp and handsome in the dim light. He flicked a gold lighter, a mocking smirk touching his lips.

​"I find the charade entertaining. Why do you care?"

​"Is it still just a game, though?" a friend teased. "Or have you actually caught feelings for your 'Instant Noodle Princess'?"

​"Please," Tray drawled, his eyes cold. "Do you honestly think that's possible?"

​Another guy laughed. "I hope not! Remember when he woke me up at 2 AM to help him with a Pinduoduo link just to stay in character? If I have to click one more discount link for a billionaire, I'm out."

​The girl, Lore Ambers, leaned in. "When are you going to drop the act? You have a real fiancée waiting, you know."

​Tray lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his head. "I'm in no rush to head to the altar."

​"What? You're not bored yet? The 'Instant Noodle Princess' is twenty-six. You're literally burning through her best years."

​"Poor girl. Make sure you write her a massive check when you're done playing house."

​Tray exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, his face a mask of indifference. "Since when did you all become so sentimental?"

​He has a fiancée.

​Lauren wanted to storm in, to shatter the bottles over his head, to scream for an explanation. But her body wouldn't obey. Her throat felt constricted, every breath of conditioned air felt like swallowing shards of glass.

​She desperately wanted him to say it was a lie. To say he loved her. To say he was choosing her.

​He didn't.

​Six years of her life-six years of absolute loyalty-were nothing more than a punchline for his wealthy friends.

​Retreating to a nearby doorway, she felt the chill of the hallway seep into her marrow. Her knees shook so violently she could barely stand. She pulled out her phone and dialed his number.

​Inside the room, Tray checked his screen and held up a hand for silence.

​"Put her on speaker!" someone whispered eagerly. "Let's hear the Princess's latest profession of love."

​Tray obliged, clicking the speaker icon with casual grace.

​Lauren's voice came through, thick and strained. "Are you still out making deliveries?"

​Tray's voice transformed instantly-soft, doting, and warm. "Yeah, Lauren. It's a busy night with lots of orders. Go to sleep, don't wait up for me."

​"God, he's good," someone mouthed silently. Tray shot them a warning look, his eyes turning back to ice, though his voice remained tender.

​"Wait... is your voice okay? Have you been crying? Who upset you?"

​The fake concern was the final blow. Lauren let a tear fall. "Tray... my mom is pushing the blind dates again. She wants me to marry someone else, but I told her I only want you."

​The room went silent. Someone leaned in and whispered, "Careful, Tray. The Princess is hunting for a ring."

​Tray's expression darkened. He began tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest, a sign of his growing boredom.

​Finally, he spoke. "Lauren... I can't give you the kind of life you deserve."

​It was the ultimate double entendre. As a "poor man," he had no money; as a rich heir, he had no intention of making her his wife.

​Lauren gripped the phone, offering him one final exit.

​"I found a deal on an apartment in Yorkville. I put the deposit down. I'm only 50,000 short of the full down payment."

​"Tray, let's just get married."

​The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. Lauren watched his motionless silhouette through the gap in the door and felt her heart finally turn to ash.

​She let out a hollow, bitter laugh.

​"You can't, can you?"

​"You won't marry me."

​In the room, the friends were rolling their eyes.

​"The audacity," one whispered. "A toad dreaming of a swan."

​"Just end it, Lauren."

​Tray finally gritted his teeth, his voice tight. "Lauren, I didn't say... I didn't say never, but can you just give me some-"

​"No," Lauren interrupted, wiping her face clean. She was done being a punchline.

​Even if the love was still there, her dignity had finally returned.

​"Tray, since marriage isn't on the table, we're done. Let's break up."

Chapter 2

​"Damn, playing the 'hard to get' card? Masterful!"

​"She looks like a porcelain doll, but she's clearly got the heart of a strategist."

​Tray's patience snapped like a dry twig. "Lauren, is this really necessary? This little act?"

​Before he could continue, Lauren cut the call.

​The room fell into a temporary, stunned silence.

​"She's not actually breaking up," someone scoffed, breaking the tension. "She's just trying to back you into a corner. It's a marriage trap."

​"Why not take the exit?" another suggested. "Cut ties now and save yourself the headache later."

​Tray leaned back, a mocking, dismissive smirk playing on his lips. "You think it's that easy to get rid of her?"

​The group broke into laughter.

​"Exactly. It's a classic power move. She'll be blowing up your phone, begging for a second chance within three days."

​"Three days? I give her twenty-four hours."

​"Care to make it interesting? Let's start a pool."

​Tray took a slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes hooded and arrogant. "I bet she folds in two hours."

​Outside, Lauren pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, turning away from the door that had just shattered her world.

​In the dim shadows of the rear stairwell, Lauren collapsed, her body racking with silent, violent sobs. Her phone began to vibrate relentlessly, the screen light stinging her tear-filled eyes.

​She answered with a trembling hand. Ethan Jordan's panicked voice exploded from the speaker.

​"Lauren, where the hell are you with that wine?!"

​"If this deal slips through our fingers, we're both toast!"

​"Think about that 100,000 dollar bonus. You really want to throw that away?"

​A year ago, she had clawed her way through a pool of five thousand candidates to join Vantage Lewis Group. She had done it for the 30,000 dollar salary and the prestige.

​In her first four years in the workforce, she had lived like a monk, saving every cent of her 5,000 dollar salary to scrape together 200,000 dollar. But in just one year under Dashiel Lewis, her savings had ballooned by over 500,000.

​But Dashiel Lewis-the CEO of Vantage-was a devil.

​He was cold, fastidious, and an absolute perfectionist. Working for him meant being on call every hour of every day. A single midnight ping meant she'd be glued to her monitor until the sun came up.

​Tray had constantly pressured her to quit, but she had stood her ground. Initially, she stayed for the house and the marriage. Now, she realized she had stayed for herself.

​Love is a lie, but the money in my bank account is real.

​She had to pivot. She couldn't afford to be a discarded woman; she had to be a professional.

​Lauren retreated to the restroom, scrubbed the tear stains from her face, and meticulously reapplied her makeup. Shoulders back, she grabbed the two bottles of Louis XIII and headed for the VIP suite.

​The moment she stepped inside, Ethan rushed toward her, his face pale. "Lauren! Thank God! I was about to drown in this cognac!"

​The hulking, six-foot-tall man looked genuinely traumatized.

​Lauren felt her professional mask click into place. Then, she felt a familiar, icy gaze.

​Dashiel was staring at her, his eyes like daggers. A shiver ran down her spine as she approached him, head bowed. "Mr. Dashiel."

​Dashiel was the picture of elite coldness in his bespoke suit. The stark contrast of the black fabric against his pale skin made him look dangerously unapproachable. His collar was slightly undone, a rare lapse in his usual ascetic armor, yet it only added to his intimidating aura.

​To Lauren, he was the personification of "Keep your distance if you value your life."

​He didn't even look at her.

​His guest was Eric, the CEO of a powerful multinational partner-a boisterous, blue-eyed man in his fifties. Typically, a junior secretary would handle the pouring, but Eric had specifically requested Lauren's presence.

​Dashiel hadn't forced her to come; it was Ethan who had dangled the carrot: "100,000 bonus. You in?"

​She had thought of the house with Tray and answered within three seconds: "I'm in."

​If she bailed now, it wouldn't just be an insult to Eric; it would be a slap in the face to Dashiel's authority. Dashiel didn't do "sympathy." If she failed him, he'd simply tell her to get lost.

​If she lost her career on top of her relationship, she would truly have nothing.

​"Secretary Lauren! We've been waiting," Eric boomed. "Mr. Dashiel was starting to get lonely without you."

​Lauren offered a polished, fawning smile. "My apologies, Mr. Eric. This club is a bit of a maze and I lost my way. I'll take three penalty drinks to make up for it."

​She poured a glass and knocked it back like water, her expression never wavering. The alcohol burned its way down, but the heat in her stomach actually helped dull the ache in her chest.

​Her boldness immediately shifted the energy in the room. The executives began to cheer.

​"Incredible! Secretary Lauren isn't just a beauty; she's a champion!"

​Lauren didn't hesitate, pouring and finishing two more glasses in rapid succession.

​"Mr. Dashiel, you're hiding your best talent. You should bring Secretary Lauren out more often; keeping her in the office is a crime against business!"

​Dashiel finally looked up, his expression unreadable as he glanced at her before looking away without a word.

​Of course, no one expected the CEO to drink. Lauren was the designated shield.

​As the rounds continued, the room grew hazy. Eric, fueled by liquid courage, reached out a hand to rest it on Lauren's shoulder.

​Suddenly, Dashiel's cold voice cut through the air. "Secretary Lauren, if you get Eric too drunk to see, how are we supposed to finalize the deal?"

​Lauren caught the cue instantly. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the folder.

​Eric's hand froze in mid-air before he reluctantly withdrew it.

​"Mr. Eric, regarding the high-end nursing home project-we've addressed all the concerns your board raised."

Chapter 3

​"Why don't we sign the paperwork first? Then, I'm all yours for the rest of the bottle."

​Eric looked her up and down with a predatory grin, then turned to Dashiel, making no effort to hide his desire. "President Dashiel, Secretary Lauren is a rare find. I don't suppose you'd be willing to let her come work for me?"

​He laughed, though his eyes remained sharp. "Or at least, let me borrow her to train my useless staff?"

​Lauren felt her heart plummet into a frozen void.

​She was no wide-eyed novice to the corporate world; she had seen the ugliness behind the curtain before.

​Years ago, she had stared down workplace harassment, gathered her evidence, and swung back with a lawsuit, only to be buried under a mountain of character assassination and smear campaigns. Her own lawyer had nudged her to take the hush money and vanish quietly.

​Then, a miracle happened.

​A wave of other women, emboldened by her stand, came forward. The predator was hauled away in handcuffs, and her name was cleared.

​She realized now, with a bitter pang, that Tray had been the invisible hand orchestrating that rescue.

​But this wasn't a mid-sized firm where a boyfriend's influence could reach. This was the Vantage Group, a behemoth in the global market.

​She had foolishly believed that her role as a high-level receptionist for the Lewis family would shield her from such primal dangers. She had been tragically naive.

​If Dashiel decided to throw her to the wolves now, a girl like her-with no backing and no safety net-would be devoured.

​Dashiel hadn't clawed his way to the top by being a saint.

​The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her fingers, still clutching the folder, began to shake uncontrollably.

​She scanned the room, hoping to catch the eye of Ethan, the assistant, for some kind of help. Instead, she heard Dashiel's voice-a cold, dismissive drawl.

​"Eric, you're asking the wrong person. You should ask Secretary Lauren if she's interested. Vantage doesn't deal in 'services'."

​He shot an impatient look at Lauren, then turned back to the executive. "If you're having second thoughts about the contract, perhaps I should finish this conversation with your father-in-law, Dawson."

​The temperature in the suite seemed to drop ten degrees.

​Eric's smile faltered, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features before he forced his mask back on. He snatched the pen from Lauren and scrawled his signature across the line.

​"Always a pleasure, Mr. Dashiel."

​"Indeed."

​Dashiel signaled for Ethan to secure the document, then stood and headed for the exit without a backward glance.

​Lauren scrambled to follow, but Eric's hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. "Secretary Lauren, don't be in such a rush. Think about my offer."

​"I'm sorry, Mr. Eric, I'm perfectly happy where I am." Lauren tried to twist out of his grip, her face turning a ghostly shade of white as fear surged through her.

​Eric was a massive man; he pinned her hands with effortless, bruising strength.

​The stench of expensive cologne and stale liquor flooded her senses, making her skin crawl. She gritted her teeth, struggling against him. "Let go of me..."

​"Secretary Lauren, with me. Now!"

​Dashiel's voice sliced through the room like a blade.

​The command snapped Eric back to his senses. Meeting Dashiel's warning glare, his fingers loosened.

​Lauren didn't waste a second. She wrenched her arm free and bolted, ducking behind Dashiel's broad shoulders.

​As the door swung shut behind them, the sound of a bottle shattering against the floor echoed from the room, followed by a string of muffled, vulgar curses.

​They hadn't gone more than a few steps before Lauren's stomach lurched. She lunged for a nearby trash bin, retching violently. When she finally looked up, her eyes watery, she saw Dashiel watching her with a deep frown. She offered a weak, apologetic grimace.

​The fact that he hadn't left her back there was already more than she expected.

​"Mr. Dashiel... please, go ahead. Don't let me hold you up," she managed to gasp.

​She ducked into the restroom, but the vomiting brought no relief. Instead, a wave of heat began to roll through her, her vision blurring at the edges. A cold realization hit her: the alcohol she'd downed had been spiked.

​That bastard Eric.

​She stumbled back out into the hall, her legs feeling like lead and her mind beginning to fragment into a hazy, feverish fog.

​By the time she reached the club entrance, her body was vibrating with an unnatural, agitated heat.

​A black Rolls-Royce glided to the curb in front of her.

​The tinted window slid down halfway, revealing Dashiel's sharp profile.

​Panic flared-if Eric found her in this state, she was done for. Without a thought, she lunged for the car door.

​It was unlocked.

​She collapsed onto the leather seat, tugging at the collar of her sweat-dampened shirt, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

​Dashiel took one look at her frantic state and barked an order to the driver. "To the hospital. Fast."

​The Rolls-Royce roared onto the highway.

​Lauren tried to sit up, but as the car accelerated, she lost her balance, her face falling right against Dashiel's chest.

​The scent of cool sandalwood and faint tobacco hit her like a splash of cold water in a desert. To her drug-addled brain, he felt like the only cool thing in a world on fire.

​She pressed a heavy, impulsive kiss against his shirt, a delirious, mischievous smile playing on her lips.

​Dashiel's regal, detached expression cracked.

​"Lauren!" His voice was a warning, sharp and authoritative.

​But she was far past the point of following orders. She reached up, locking her arms around his neck, and pressed her flushed lips firmly against his.

​"This is a work injury, Mr. Dashiel," she whispered against his mouth. "You have to take responsibility."

​"Secretary Lauren, are you even aware of what you're doing?"