My Sister Forced Me To Wear Her Torn Gown — Then The Billionaire Host Walked Over To Me

Part 1

I was eighteen, and I had already perfected the art of being entirely invisible.

My older sister Megan was twenty, and she knew exactly how to make the world revolve around her.

Our mother, Brenda, had been preparing for this single evening for six agonizing months.

Thomas, a billionaire who had been living abroad, was finally returning to his massive local estate.

Every mother in our zip code had been plotting since his private jet was spotted.

I spent my morning carefully stitching tiny pink silk roses onto the hem of Megan’s cream gown.

My fingers throbbed from the tight, precise needlework.

I didn’t mind the pain because keeping my hands busy meant no one would ask me to speak.

My own dress was a faded blue thing from three years ago.

“Fetch the pearl box, Heather,” my mother ordered without turning her head.

I slipped out of the room, my soft shoes making no sound on the hardwood.

Megan fastened the pearls around her neck and twirled in front of the mirror.

The silk shimmered under the warm glow of the lights.

“You are going to outshine every girl at that party,” my mother breathed.

I stepped backward, pressing my spine against the cool wallpaper.

I did not believe in fairy tales or billionaires who fell in love at first sight.

I believed in mending torn seams and staying out of the way.

The evening of the gala arrived with a frantic energy.

I stayed in the kitchen, helping the caterers count silver spoons.

Then, a sharp scream echoed down the staircase.

I dropped a spoon and ran up to Megan’s room.

She stood pointing a trembling finger at the cream silk gown.

A jagged tear ran right along the side seam near the waist.

She had pulled the lacing too tight.

“It is completely ruined!”

Megan shrieked, real tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I can mend this in an hour,” I said softly.

“Are you insane?”

Megan snapped.

“He will see the stitches, and everyone will whisper about me.”

Our mother rushed in and her face went completely white.

“Bring the green silk dress immediately,” she ordered the housekeeper.

Megan slipped into the heavy winter dress with a resigned sigh.

Then, her eyes landed on me holding the torn gown.

“Take it,” Megan said dismissively.

“Take it where?”

I asked.

“Wear it tonight, if you can actually fix it,” she sneered.

“It is bad luck for me now anyway.”

My mother frowned, but Megan cut her off.

“Let her come and stand in the back.”

“She will be completely invisible.”

I didn’t say thank you.

I took the torn dress to my room and went to work.

I stitched the torn edges together with the smallest, tightest loops I could manage.

I pinned one of the pink roses directly over the seam to hide the tiny ridge.

When I pulled it over my head, it was loose, but the roses caught the light beautifully.

I pinned my brown hair up, took a deep breath, and walked down to the car.

The massive house was illuminated by hundreds of glowing lanterns.

Music spilled out of the open doors.

Megan swept inside with our mother, leaving me trailing behind.

The ballroom was dizzying, filled with spinning couples and the scent of expensive cologne.

I found a quiet spot near a tall window.

I started counting the panes of glass to calm my heart.

Twenty-four.

I counted the candles in the nearest chandelier.

Forty.

A sudden, heavy hush rolled through the room.

He walked through the doors, tall and broad-shouldered.

He didn’t smile, and his eyes swept over the room without lingering.

I immediately looked down at my hands.

I watched my sister dance twice while I stayed perfectly still.

Then, I felt a heavy prickle on the back of my neck.

I slowly turned my head.

Thomas was standing across the long room, staring directly at me.

He didn’t look away when our eyes met.

My face grew instantly hot.

I looked down, absolutely certain he was looking at someone behind me.

When I finally looked back up, he was walking.

He ignored a woman dripping in diamonds who called his name.

He kept walking until he stopped exactly two paces in front of me.

He bowed slightly.

“Miss Ashworth,” he said quietly.

“I am,” I stammered, gripping the windowsill to steady my shaking legs.

“But I think you must mean my sister, Megan, over there.”

He didn’t even glance toward the other side of the room.

“I do not,” he said simply.

The music was still playing, but half the ballroom was now openly staring at us.

“You don’t know me,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“I know exactly who you are,” he replied softly, extending his hand.

“And I know precisely what your sister did to your gown.”