The Billionaire's Convenient Fiancee

1. Vivienne

Vivienne

"Holy shit!" The words escape my lips as champagne splashes across an impossibly white shirt, the amber liquid creating a constellation of my clumsiness across the expensive fabric.

I look up, apology ready, only to freeze when my eyes meet his. Dark, intense, annoyed.

"I'm so—" The words die in my throat as recognition hits. Jaxon Hart. Billionaire rockstar. My ex's estranged brother.

Of all the charity galas in all of Manhattan, I had to spill my drink on him.

"Sorry doesn't quite cover it," he says, voice a low rumble that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

"Then bill me for dry cleaning." I straighten my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated despite the whispers already circling around us like vultures. "Or better yet, consider it a donation to tonight's cause."

His eyebrow arches, surprise flickering across his face before settling back into that practiced scowl. I've seen his face on enough magazine covers to know this is his signature expression. Brooding rockstar turned business mogul—America's favorite bad boy.

"You're not easily impressed," he says, taking the empty glass from my hand and setting it on a passing server's tray.

"Not by celebrity, money, or attitude. Impressive things, on the other hand..." I let the sentence hang between us, challenging him.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something shifts in his expression. "And what would impress Vivienne Clarke?"

My heart stutters. He knows my name. Which means he knows exactly who my ex-boyfriend is. Exactly whose heart his brother broke when he ran off with someone else.

"Authenticity," I answer, the word slipping out before I can filter it. "Rare in these circles."

Around us, Manhattan's elite mingle in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, air kisses, and champagne flutes, all gathered for the Children's Hospital Benefit. My parents' pet project this year. My mandatory appearance.

"Says the woman born into New York aristocracy," he counters, gesturing vaguely at my Givenchy gown, my family's legacy hanging on me like another accessory.

"Right, because you understand my life so well after thirty seconds of conversation."

His eyes narrow, studying me with unexpected intensity. "Twenty-seven. Marketing executive. Columbia grad. Reformed wild child. Daughter of Eleanor and Henry Clarke. Did I miss anything important?"

The fact that he's done his homework unnerves me more than his fame or fortune. "My coffee order. My star sign. My feelings about men who think research equals understanding."

That earns me something dangerously close to a smile. "Touché."

A camera flash momentarily blinds us. Great. Tomorrow's society pages will feature my disaster. I can already hear my mother's lecture about decorum and family reputation.

"You know who I am," he says, not a question.

"Everyone knows who you are. More importantly, I know who your brother is." The words come out sharper than intended.

His expression hardens instantly. "Knew. My brother died three weeks ago."

Guilt sucker punches me. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Don't." He cuts me off. "I don't need platitudes from my brother's ex."

"Platitudes aren't really my style," I say, finding my footing again. "Neither is sympathy for people who speak to me like that, dead brother or not."

Instead of anger, something like respect flickers in his eyes. He opens his mouth to respond when his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening.

"Duty calls?" I ask.

"Always." He pockets the phone without answering it. "You're different than I expected."

"Disappointed?"

"Intrigued."

The word hangs between us, charged with something I refuse to acknowledge.

"Miss Clarke!" A shrill voice slices through our bubble.

My mother approaches, diamond earrings catching the light with each purposeful step.

"The Montgomery’s are asking for you. Richard's son is visiting from London.

" Her eyes slide to Jaxon, recognition and calculation flashing in quick succession.

"Mr. Hart," she says, voice cooling several degrees. "What a surprise to see you in attendance."

"Mrs. Clarke." He nods coolly. "Your daughter was just introducing herself. Rather dramatically."

Mother's eyes dart to his stained shirt, her lips thinning to a tight line. "Vivienne has always had a flair for making an impression. Though usually more... refined."

The familiar sting of her criticism hits its mark. Twenty-seven years old and still desperate for approval, I'll never earn.

"Actually, I knocked into her," Jaxon says, surprising me. "Entirely my fault."

Mother doesn't buy it for a second but is too well-bred to contradict him. "How gallant. Now, Vivienne, Richard's son—"

"Is still Richard's son. Which means he's still as interesting as watching paint dry," I finish for her. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jaxon hiding a smile.

"Your father expects you to make connections," she hisses, smile never faltering for any watching eyes. "Family reputation—"

"Isn't served by me feigning interest in men who couldn't hold a conversation if it came with handles," I interrupt. "I've done my duty by showing up. I've written a check. I've smiled for the cameras."

"You've also created a scene," she says, nodding toward Jaxon's shirt.

"A happy accident," I reply. "Now Mr. Hart doesn't have to suffer through the rubber chicken dinner."

Jaxon clears his throat. "As entertaining as this is, I should clean up." His phone buzzes again, more insistently this time. His expression darkens as he checks it.

"Problem?" I ask, grateful for the interruption.

"Always." He pockets the phone again, jaw tight. "Mrs. Clarke, a pleasure. Vivienne..." He pauses, eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity. "Try not to assault any other guests with beverages."

"No promises," I return, holding his gaze.

With a nod, he turns and weaves through the crowd, people parting around him like he carries his own force field.

"That man is trouble," Mother mutters once he's gone. "His poor brother, leaving that sweet little girl with such a guardian. What was Andrew thinking?"

"That's why he's here?" I ask, curiosity piqued. "He's his niece's guardian now?"

"Stepdaughter, technically. Which makes it all the more inappropriate. A man like that, raising a child? He's barely domesticated himself." She shakes her head, diamonds catching the light. "Now come. The Montgomery’s—"

"Need to expand their social circle beyond your matchmaking," I finish. "I'm getting some air."

I leave before she can protest, weaving through Manhattan's elite toward the terrace doors. I need escape. Space. Air not perfumed with expensive cologne and hypocrisy.

Outside, the spring night wraps around me like a fabulous silk scarf: the city sprawls below, a constellation of lights and possibilities. I breathe deeply, letting the tension drain from my shoulders.

"Escaping too?" The voice startles me. I turn to find an elegant older woman smoking near the balustrade, her silver hair swept into a classic updo.

"Just needed air," I reply.

She smiles knowingly. "These events. All the same faces, same conversations. Year after year."

"You sound as thrilled to be here as I am."

"Oh, I have my reasons." She taps the ash from her cigarette. "Just like that young man you were speaking with. Jaxon Hart, yes? Poor boy. Thrust into guardianship he never wanted."

My curiosity flares. "Did you know his brother?"

"Andrew? Of course. Such a tragedy. Though perhaps more for the little girl he left behind than anyone else." She studies me. "You're Henry Clarke's daughter."

Not a question. In these circles, anonymity is a luxury I'll never have.

"Vivienne," I supply.

"I know who you are, dear. The rebel who came home. How disappointing for you. How comforting for your parents."

Her assessment hits too close to home. "I'm hardly their comfort."

"No? Then why are you here, playing the dutiful daughter, when your eyes scream escape with every blink?"

Before I can answer, the terrace door opens. Jaxon steps out, shirt changed, expression grim. He stops short when he sees me.

"Luke is looking for you," the silver-haired woman tells him.

Jaxon nods. "Lily had a tumble and hit her head. I need to go."

"Lily?" I can't help asking.

"My ward," he answers curtly, eyes flicking to me. "My responsibility now."

Something in his tone—vulnerability beneath the gruffness—catches me off guard. This isn't the rockstar persona or business titan. This is someone navigating unfamiliar terrain without a map.

"I hope it isn’t bad," I offer, surprising myself with my sincerity.

He studies me as if searching for mockery. Finding none, he nods once. "Thank you."

His phone rings. He answers it, turning away. "I'll be right there, Luke... No, tell them no comment. Just have the car ready." He ends the call, shoulders tense.

"Vultures circling?" the silver-haired woman asks.

"When aren't they?" Jaxon replies bitterly. He turns back to me, hesitating. "It was... interesting meeting you, Vivienne Clarke."

"Likewise, Jaxon Hart."

For a moment, something electric hangs between us—recognition of kindred spirits trapped in golden cages of different designs.

Then he's gone, disappearing back into the gala with purposeful strides.

"Well," the silver-haired woman says, dropping her cigarette and crushing it beneath an expensive heel. "That was illuminating."

"What was?"

She smiles, enigmatic and knowing. "The way he looked at you. The way you looked back." She pats my arm as she passes. "Sometimes the universe has a wicked sense of humor, bringing together the most unexpected puzzle pieces."

She leaves me alone on the terrace, confused and unsettled. I turn back to the cityscape, trying to shake off the encounter. Jaxon Hart is nothing to me. My ex's brother. A billionaire with attitude and obligations.

So why does it feel like something significant just happened? Like a first domino toppling, setting in motion a chain reaction I can't yet see?

My phone buzzes with a text from my father: Where are you? The Montgomery’s are waiting.

I close my eyes, feeling the walls of my gilded cage closing in. For one wild moment, I envy Jaxon Hart's escape. His purpose. Even with its complications.

When I return inside, the gossip has already started. I catch snippets as I pass:

"...guardian now, can you imagine?"

"...playboy with a child..."

"...scandal waiting to happen..."

I find myself bristling at their judgment. The hypocrisy of these people, pretending concern while relishing potential downfall.

My father catches my arm as I pass. "Where have you been? Richard's son—"

"Had to leave early," I lie smoothly. "Terrible migraine."

He frowns, disappointed but not surprised. "Your mother says you made a scene with Jaxon Hart."

"Mother exaggerates. I spilled champagne. He was gracious about it."

"Stay away from him," Father says, voice dropping. "That family's nothing but trouble."

"As opposed to the paragons of virtue in this room?" I challenge.

His grip tightens. "Your rebellion phase is over, Vivienne. It's time you remembered your responsibilities to this family."

The familiar refrain. My lifelong soundtrack.

"Speaking of responsibility," I say, extracting my arm from his grip, "I have an early meeting tomorrow. My campaign proposal for Lumina Cosmetics."

"Ah yes, your... job." He says it like it's a hobby I'll soon outgrow. "I was speaking with Gerald Lumina earlier. He mentioned they're considering Fischer & Sons for their rebranding."

My stomach drops. "That's my project. My team."

"And perhaps it should remain that way," he says meaningfully. "With the right demonstration of maturity and responsibility from you."

The threat is clear. Play by their rules or watch my career dreams crumble under their influence.

Across the room, I catch a glimpse of gossip columnist Simone Wells, her predatory gaze fixed on me. No doubt tomorrow's column will feature my champagne incident with Jaxon Hart spun into something scandalous.

For a moment, I imagine what Jaxon would do. Stand his ground, probably. Tell them all to go to hell.

But I'm not there yet. Still trapped between rebellion and resignation.

"I'll consider your advice, Father," I say diplomatically.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "See that you do."

As the gala continues around me, I find my thoughts returning to Jaxon Hart. To the little girl with a fever. To lives upended by circumstance.

To the strange feeling that our collision tonight was just the beginning of something neither of us saw coming.