My College Bully Set Me Up On A Cruel Blind Date With A Billionaire—Then His Mother Showed Up
Part 1
My phone rattled against the chipped laminate counter of the diner, vibrating hard enough to spill a few drops from the coffee pot I was holding.
I dragged a damp rag across the mess, ignoring the cracked screen at first.
Nancy bumped her hip against mine as she slid a stack of clean plates onto the shelf.
Your pocket is buzzing, kid.
I dried my hands on my faded apron and fished the ancient device out.
The glowing text message was from a number I hadn’t seen in three long years.
Blind date tomorrow, 8:00 p.m. at The Vanguard.
Wear something nice.
Someone wants to meet you.
My thumb hovered over the delete button as a frown creased my forehead.
The Vanguard was the kind of upscale restaurant where a single appetizer cost more than my weekly rent.
I typed back a quick, dismissive reply.
Wrong number.
The response was instantaneous.
No mistake, this is Heather from college.
Trust me, you’ll want to be there.
A cold, heavy knot formed at the bottom of my stomach.
Heather had made my two years at the university absolutely unbearable before my mother’s illness forced me to drop out.
She was the girl who spilled iced lattes on my only presentation outfit right before midterms.
She was the one who broadcasted my charity scholarship status to the entire business department.
You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Nancy poured a fresh pot of decaf, eyeing me with maternal concern.
Just someone from my past trying to play games.
I shoved the phone deep into my pocket.
But later that night, sitting in my cramped studio apartment, curiosity clawed at my resolve.
My mother’s medical bills were piled high on my chipped IKEA desk, a constant reminder of how tight things were.
A free meal at a place like The Vanguard meant I could put my grocery money toward the electric bill instead.
Why me, and why now?
I sent the message before I could talk myself out of it.
Three dots pulsed on the screen.
Because you deserve a break, and he’s rich, handsome, and looking for someone different.
I snorted at the obvious lie.
Still, the stack of past-due notices practically glared at me from the desk.
Fine.
The next evening, I stood before the cracked mirror in my tiny bathroom.
The thrift-store black dress I wore to my mother’s remission celebration was my only armor against a world I didn’t belong in.
It didn’t scream wealth, but it fit perfectly, and the simple silver chain around my neck added a touch of dignity.
The maître d’ at The Vanguard gave me a sweeping, dismissive glance the moment I stepped through the ornate glass doors.
I have a reservation under Heather’s name.
He sighed through his nose, his disdain barely concealed.
Right this way.
He led me past tables draped in crisp white linen and patrons wearing jewelry that could probably pay off my mother’s debt twice over.
We stopped at a secluded corner booth illuminated by flickering candlelight.
A man sat there, entirely focused on a sleek tablet.
He had dark, perfectly styled hair and wore a tailored charcoal suit that commanded the space around him.
He glanced up.
Piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and the air suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
You must be Brenda.
He stood up, his tall frame dwarfing the table as he extended a hand that swallowed mine completely.
I’m Tyler.
Tyler.
Even someone like me, drowning in double diner shifts and transcription gigs, recognized the tech billionaire who frequently graced the covers of business magazines.
I sank into the plush leather seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
You’re not what I expected.
Tyler tilted his head, studying my face with an intensity that made my skin heat up.
I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure.
Heather set this up.
She’s married to my CFO.
He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the mahogany table.
I was skeptical about her matchmaking, but now I’m intrigued.
My phone vibrated violently inside my cheap clutch.
I pulled it out under the protective cover of the table.
A new message from Heather illuminated the dark space.
Surprise.
Hope you don’t mind being tonight’s entertainment.
The girls and I have a bet on how long before he makes an excuse to leave.
Attached was a photograph of Heather and three other women, raising champagne flutes at a bar across the room.
The air vanished from my lungs in a sharp rush.
This wasn’t a blind date.
It was a public execution.
I was the poor girl brought in to fumble and fail while they watched from the front row.
Hot humiliation crawled up my neck, burning my cheeks.
I grabbed my purse, my chair scraping harshly against the hardwood floor.
I need to go.
Tyler reached across the table, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist.
What happened?
I hesitated, my chest tight with unshed tears and mounting anger.
I shoved the phone across the table.
His eyes scanned the mocking text and the cruel photograph.
His eyes lifted from the screen, landing on my flushed face, and the expression there wasn’t pity—it was something far more dangerous.
