The Billionaire’s Borrowed Bride-to-Be (Vows and Veils #4)

Prologue

FREYA

Grabbing hold of the vine-covered trellis, I haul myself up the side of Ben’s two-story house, feeling every bit like the stealthy burglar I’m not. His bedroom window glows yellow in the dusk. I guarantee that if I weren’t here to do something about it, he would be up until past midnight.

And not for any reason that’s fun.

Reaching the second floor, I spot him sitting at his desk, head bent over his textbook, a lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. I risk letting go of the trellis with one hand and knock on the window. He jumps in his chair, eyes going wide as he spins around.

“Freya!” I hear him through the glass.

Pushing out of his chair, he comes and opens the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Saving you from a life of drudgery.” I grin. “It’s the Fourth of July, Ben, and you’re studying? Come on. The fireworks are starting soon.”

He frowns. “It’s not drudgery. This exam is important.” Arms folded. “By the way, can you explain to me why you didn’t just use the front door?”

“I saw your dad’s car. No thanks.”

His lips twist. “Okay. Fair enough.”

Not that his dad is mean or anything. He’s just… intimidating, with his fancy suits and a gaze that always seems to be analyzing my every move.

In fact, everything about Ben’s house is intimidating. Six-car garage. Housekeeper. Personal chef. We might attend the same high school, but compare his home life to mine, and you’d think we’re living in different worlds.

“Besides,” I continue, swinging my leg over the windowsill, “this is way more dramatic. Very Romeo and Juliet, don’t you think?”

“Except you’re not here for romance,” Ben says dryly, stepping back to give me room to climb through. “You’re here to drag me away from my responsibilities.”

“Exactly!” I brush dirt off my jeans and grin at him. “Someone has to keep you from becoming a complete hermit for the rest of your life. Thank God I’m here to step in.”

He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Freya, this calculus exam is worth thirty percent of my grade. If I don’t ace it—”

“You’ll still be graduate valedictorian,” I interrupt, flopping down on his perfectly made bed. The pristine navy comforter is pulled so tight I have to wonder how he even untucks it at night. “Come on. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”

Ben runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “Fun doesn’t get you into Harvard.”

“And Harvard won’t matter if you burn out before you even get there.

” I roll onto my side to face him properly.

“Look, I get it. Your parents expect perfection. But it’s senior year, Ben.

Our last Fourth of July before we all scatter to different colleges.

Don’t you want at least one memory that isn’t about textbooks? ”

I watch as he glances toward his closed bedroom door, probably listening for footsteps in the hallway. His parents have this way of making their presence known without actually appearing. Like they’re monitoring his every move from their home offices downstairs.

It’s creepy, actually.

Though not creepy enough to scare me away.

“You know what your problem is?” I continue, propping my head up on my elbow. “You’re seventeen years old and you act like you’re forty. When did you last do something spontaneous?”

“Spontaneous decisions lead to mistakes.”

“Sometimes they lead to the best experiences of your life.” I waggle my eyebrows, sure that he’ll break.

For a moment, I see him waver. I see the seventeen-year-old boy beneath all that pressure.

The one who used to build blanket forts with me when we were kids, before his parents decided childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Before they enrolled him in every AP class possible and made sure his summer vacations were filled with internships instead of fun.

“The exam is Monday,” he says weakly.

“Which gives you all weekend to review. One night won’t kill you.” I hop off the bed and grab his hand, tugging him toward the window. His skin is warm and familiar, and I try to ignore the little flutter in my stomach that happens whenever we touch. “Come on, scaredy-cat. Live a little.”

“I am not a scaredy-cat,” he protests, already reaching for his sneakers.

“Prove it.” I grin, convinced that I’ve already won him over but still enjoying the sparring.

He hesitates and glances back at his textbook with genuine longing. “My parents will kill me if they find out I left.”

“Then we’ll make sure they don’t find out.” I lower my voice, thrilled by the danger of it all. “Besides, when has sneaking out ever been about getting caught? We’ll be careful. Promise.”

“I don’t sneak out.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

Finally, something in his expression shifts. Maybe it’s how confident and excited I am about the whole thing, or maybe he’s tired of being perfect all the time. Whatever it is, he sighs and pulls on his shoes.

“If I fail this exam because of you…”

“You won’t fail. Trust me. You don’t know how to fail.”

He gives me a look that’s part exasperation, part fondness. “You have way too much faith in me.”

“Someone has to.”

With that, we climb out through the window.

Ben moves surprisingly gracefully for someone who spends most of his time hunched over books, and we make our way down the trellis.

His backyard is freshly cut, the smell of watered grass clippings lingering in the air and making it feel like quintessential summer.

“You’re gonna have the best time,” I promise.

“Shh.” He puts his finger to his lips. “They’re downstairs,” he hisses.

I quietly zip my lips and pretend to throw away the key. He smiles in that way that always makes my stomach flop. Always. Every single time.

Not that I would ever tell him.

We grab a blanket from his car, jog down the driveway, and twenty minutes later, we’re entering the park where the annual fireworks display takes place.

The evening is warm and humid, carrying the scent of barbecue smoke.

Ben walks beside me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he’s being led to his execution.

“You know,” I say, nudging his shoulder, “normal people look forward to fireworks.”

“My GPA…”

This again? I roll my eyes dramatically.

“Your GPA will survive one night off, I promise.” I spin around, walking backward so I can face him. “Remember when we were kids and we used to make up stories about what the fireworks were? You said they were messages from aliens trying to communicate with Earth.”

A genuine smile crosses his face, transforming his entire expression. “You said they were fairies having a dance party in the sky.”

“See? You do remember how to have an imagination.”

“That was before I learned that imagination doesn’t impress college admissions boards.”

I stop walking so abruptly that he nearly bumps into me. “Ben, do you hear yourself? You’re talking like you’re already dead inside.”

“I’m talking like someone who has goals.”

“And I’m talking like someone who wants to make sure you’re still human when you achieve them.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and I see something flicker in his hazel eyes. Vulnerability, maybe, or longing. But then he looks away, breaking the tension.

“What?” I ask, suddenly finding it hard to remember how to breathe.

“We should keep walking or we’ll miss the start,” he says.

The park’s lawn is already crowded when we arrive. Families spread out on blankets with coolers and lawn chairs. Kids run around with glow sticks while parents chat and laugh. There’s something magical about the Fourth of July—the way it brings the whole community together under the same sky.

We find a spot on the grass near the back of the crowd, far enough from families with screaming toddlers but close enough to have a good view. I spread out the blanket I grabbed from Ben’s car, and we settle down to wait.

Except Ben sits stiffly beside me, checking his phone every few minutes. You’d think he’s waiting for a business call.

“Put that away,” I command, snatching it from his hands.

“Hey!”

“You can have it back after the show.” I tuck it into my back pocket. “This is why you need me. Left to your own devices, you’d probably bring flashcards to watch fireworks.”

“I might have,” he admits sheepishly.

I laugh, the sound carrying across the grass. “You’re hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious! When did you become so… so…” I gesture vaguely at him.

“So what?”

“So afraid of actually living your life.”

The question hangs between us like a challenge. He’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the families around us. A little girl nearby chases fireflies with a mason jar, her delighted giggles floating through the air.

“I’m not afraid,” he says finally. “I’m focused.”

“There’s a difference?”

“A big one.”

I study his profile in the dim light. Even relaxed, there’s tension in the set of his shoulders. Like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

It makes me feel terrible for him. Sorry.

“You know what I think?” I ask.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I think you’re scared that if you stop pushing yourself for even a second, you’ll lose everything you’ve worked for.”

He turns to look at me, and I’m surprised by the raw honesty in his expression. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“No,” I say softly. “Because the best things in life aren’t things you can lose by taking a night off.”

Before he can respond, I fall back onto the blanket to stare up at the darkening sky. After a moment, he lies down beside me, and the tension in his shoulders finally starts to ease as we wait in comfortable silence.

I can’t stay quiet for long, though. I never could.

“Tell me something,” I say, turning my head to look at him.

“Like what?”

“Something real. Something that isn’t about school or college or impressing your parents.”