Bought By The Man Who Hates Me

Under the table, she felt a sudden, hard pressure against her shin. Baron had stretched his legs out, his expensive leather shoe resting against the leg of her chair, boxing her in. It was a warning. He might claim not to know her, but he had no intention of letting her go. The subtle aggression sent a tremor through her, a stark contrast to the polite murmur of the dining room just moments before. Bethel Stout adjusted the thin strap of her black dress, her fingers brushing against the rough texture where the fabric had begun to pill. She tucked a loose thread under the hem, hoping the dim lighting of the restaurant would forgive the garment's age. It was a dress from another life, one of the few things she had kept from before the fall. Beside her, Chynna Kerr was a whirlwind of expensive perfume and nervous energy. Chynna gripped Bethel's arm, her manicured nails digging slightly into Bethel's skin. "Preston says this guy is a big deal," Chynna whispered, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Like, D.C. royalty big deal. He flew in just for the project launch." Bethel forced a smile, though her stomach felt like it was filled with stones. She didn't belong here. River Oaks was a world of old money and silent judgments, a world she had been exiled from five years ago. "I'm sure he's charming," Bethel said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. The heavy mahogany doors to the private dining room swung open. A waiter in a crisp white jacket held the door, ushering them into the cool, conditioned air. The sound of clinking crystal and low, confident laughter washed over them. Bethel followed Chynna inside. Her heels sank into the thick Persian rug, muffling her steps. The light from the crystal chandelier overhead was aggressive, reflecting off the silverware and the polished wine glasses. Bethel lowered her chin, an instinctual habit she had developed over the last few years to avoid drawing attention. Preston Yates stood up from the head of the long table. He was beaming, his face flushed with wine and success. He opened his arms to Chynna. "There she is," Preston announced. "The future Mrs. Yates." He hugged Chynna, then nodded politely at Bethel. Bethel returned the nod, her eyes scanning the room, seeking the safest corner to retreat to. Her gaze drifted down the length of the table, past the floral centerpieces, toward the shadows at the far end. A man was sitting there. He was swirling a glass of amber liquid, his attention seemingly focused on the way the light caught the whiskey. Bethel's heart seized. It was a physical blow, a sudden, violent contraction that stopped her breath in her throat. The blood in her veins turned to ice. He turned his head. Baron Lowery looked exactly the same, and yet entirely different. The soft edges of his youth were gone, replaced by a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite. His dark hair was shorter, sharper. But it was his eyes-gray like a storm front-that pinned her to the spot. Five years. It had been five years since she had destroyed him to save him. He didn't blink. He didn't gasp. He just stared, his gaze tracking her with a predatory stillness. Bethel took a step back, her instinct to flee overriding every social protocol she knew. She turned slightly, but the waiter had already closed the heavy doors behind her. The latch clicked shut with a sound that echoed like a prison lock in her mind. She was trapped. Baron's expression shifted. The initial flicker of recognition vanished, replaced by a coldness so profound it made her shiver. He looked at her not with anger, but with a terrifying void of emotion. Bethel pressed her fingernails into her palms. The sharp bite of pain was the only thing keeping her grounded. Breathe, she commanded herself. Do not let him see you bleed. "Everyone, listen up," Preston's voice boomed, oblivious to the tension that had just sucked the oxygen out of the room. "I want to introduce our guest of honor. Fresh from D.C., the man making sure our thrusters don't blow up on the pad, Baron Lowery." A ripple of polite applause and murmurs of admiration went around the table. The air smelled of roasted meat and power. Baron didn't stand. He didn't smile. He simply raised his glass in a lazy, mocking salute. His posture was arrogant, taking up space with the ease of a man who owned every room he walked into. "Come on, sit," Chynna urged, pulling Bethel toward two empty chairs. Bethel's legs felt like rubber. Fate, in its cruelty, had placed their seats directly across from him. Every step toward the table felt like walking on the edge of a blade. As she approached, a woman sitting next to Baron leaned into him. She was stunning, with sleek dark hair and diamonds that caught the light. Clarissa Melendez. Bethel recognized the name from the society pages. Clarissa placed a possessive hand on Baron's forearm, whispering something in his ear. Baron didn't pull away. A sour taste rose in Bethel's throat. Jealousy, sharp and pathetic, twisted in her gut. She had no right to it, but it was there, burning her. Bethel sat down. She kept her eyes on the white tablecloth, refusing to look up. She reached for her water glass, her hand trembling just enough to spill a few drops onto the pristine linen. Across the table, Baron made a sound. It was a soft, short scoff. Bethel froze. She watched the water stain spread on the cloth, dark and ugly. "So," Preston said, sitting back down. "Do you two know each other? Houston is a small town, after all." Bethel's mouth opened. Her throat was so dry the sides stuck together. She had to say something. She had to navigate this minefield without detonating the secret she had guarded for half a decade. "I-" "No," a deep voice cut through the air. Baron spoke the word with a gravelly finality. He wasn't looking at Preston. He was looking directly at Bethel. "I don't know her," Baron said. The lie hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't just a denial; it was an erasure. He was looking at the woman he had once planned to marry, the woman he had lived with, and he was deleting her from his existence. Bethel lowered her head, accepting the blow. Her heart felt like it was cracking open, ribs splitting apart under the pressure. "Nice to meet you," she whispered to the tablecloth.