Page 8 of Forking the Billionaire

Jules squeezed my arm and looked at me with pure, unfettered glee. Gabriel looked at me with his version of the same, which was reserved in typical Gabriel fashion, more hopeful expectation than anything else.

This was Gabriel’s wedding. It wasn’t about me.

The knot in my chest tightened as my conviction wavered.

It was only a few extra nights. Jules was only interested in casual sex. She hadn’t even bothered to learn my name. Was the risk truly that high?

When I looked Jules in the eyes, I saw not even a glimpse of adoration, only the promise of a good time.

When I looked at Gabriel, I saw openness, and goodwill. He wanted to do a kind thing for me.

I couldn’t disappoint him.

I nodded. “It will be great.”

She didn’t have feelings for me. She was fun. Better yet, she’d give me a good excuse to keep my distance from Esme. Yeah, this was sounding like a better and better idea the more I thought about it. What was the worst thing that could happen?

THREE

ESME

With adrenaline causing me to rev like a turbo-injected engine, I scanned the swanky ballroom filled with Epiphany’s elite. Graceful women glided across the marble floor in gorgeous gowns that probably cost more than the farmhouse I grew up in. An entire mine’s worth of diamonds sparkled on their necks and ears. Less decorated, but carrying an equal air of wealth and superiority, were men in crisp tuxes and fancy suits.

A distant voice in the recesses of my brain reminded me that this was a dream and a memory. My body was unconscious in the present, a billion miles away, and probably open-mouthed snoring.

Everyone but the waiters weaving through the room wore a small, feathery animal-esque mask.

It was a costume party. I knew that going in. Unfortunately, the invitation hadn’t specifiedwhat kindof costume to wear. More unfortunately, I’d dressed in shimmery body paint, a headpiece I’d hot glued together, and a patchwork dress decorated with bubble wrap and streamers. Compared to the picturesque Victorian perfection around me, I looked like a dumpster alien, instead of the Ridley Scott-esque alien vibe I was going for.

Then again, anonymity was a shield. Confidence was power.

I sauntered by faux-confidently owning my look and drawing stares. No one knew who I was, and not only because three quarters of my face was hidden behind a pair of reflective goggles.

No one knew me because I wasn’t one of them. I was an intruder, a fraud, an infiltrator, buzzing with the thrill of my ruse.

The invitation stashed in my pocket was addressed to my brother. I hadn’t stolen it. He’d crumpled it and left it in the trash, which meant it was fair game.

This was my moment, the one where I threw caution to the wind and became the wild and free Esme I’d always wanted to be.

I strode straight through the crowd like I owned this mansion. I didn’t pause until I stood in the center of the massive room, beneath the shimmery crystal chandelier. People danced to the live orchestra playing in the corner. People chatted.

I had no idea what I’d say if someone tried to talk to me. Tea? Crumpets? Were those fancy things or just British things?

What even was a crumpet?

This scenario was so foreign to me, I might as well have stepped through a magical portal into another world. My nerves twisted and my lungs felt light in a biting combination of nervous excitement.

A server lowered her tray toward me as she passed.

“Alcohol?” I asked, unsure if that was another line I was going to cross tonight.

“No, ma’am.”

I plucked a flute of what looked like champagne from the tray and said my thanks.

I lifted the glass to my nose. It smelled like autumn, like freedom.

Screw worries about not belonging here. I belonged anywhere I wanted to be. No one could stop me from doing whatever I pleased.

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