Buying My Freedom From The Cheating CEO

"Have you seen Mr. Lancaster?"

The question was smooth, practiced, slipping from Giovanna Brooks's lips with the same effortless grace as the champagne flute balanced in her hand.

The server, a young man with a nervous energy, shook his head. "I believe he went toward the East Wing lounges, Miss Leonard."

"Thank you."

She offered him a polite nod and moved through the glittering crowd of the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of powerful people making deals disguised as conversation. Each smile she returned felt like a mask she was holding in place. Her fingers, cool against the crystal of her glass, traced the rim. An unfamiliar tightness was coiling in her stomach.

Johnathan—her boyfriend of ten years—was never late, and he never disappeared without a word.

Her thumb brushed against the cool metal of the promise ring on her left hand, a subconscious gesture she'd had for years. It was a flawless cushion-cut diamond, a symbol of a future that had been planned since they were teenagers. Tonight, it felt heavier than usual.

The hallway leading to the VIP lounges was hushed, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her heels. It was a stark contrast to the orchestrated chaos of the gala. Here, the air was still and close.

She saw it at the end of the corridor—a private room, the heavy oak door left slightly ajar. And from within, she heard his voice. Johnathan's. Laughter, thick with alcohol.

A knot of relief loosened in her chest. She quickened her pace, a soft reprimand ready on her lips for ditching her.

Then she heard another voice, a woman's voice, laced with a cloying sweetness that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

"Johnny, when are you going to tell her?"

It was Danielle.Brooks' real daughter. And Giovanna, it turned out, was just a fake who wasn't the biological child after being raised for many years.

Giovanna froze, her hand hovering inches from the door. The blood in her veins seemed to slow, turning to ice. Her heart, which had been beating a steady, society-trained rhythm, gave a hard, painful thud against her ribs.

She didn't push the door. She stood perfectly still, a statue in silk, and listened.

"Baby, relax," Johnathan slurred. His voice was the one she knew, the one that whispered promises in the dark, but the words were alien, monstrous. "As soon as the deal with Lindsey Group is finalized, I'll break it to her. The next Mrs. Lancaster will be you, Danielle Brooks. Only you."

A wave of nausea washed over Giovanna. Her throat closed up. She couldn't breathe.

Danielle's triumphant giggle was the sound of a nail being hammered into a coffin. "I don't care about that. I want you to promise me now. Promise you'll marry me."

There was a rustle of fabric, a soft, wet sound of a kiss. Giovanna squeezed her eyes shut, but the image bloomed in her mind anyway, vivid and grotesque.

"I promise," Johnathan's voice was a low murmur, thick and absolute. "I'll marry you."

Each word was a physical blow. Her stomach clenched violently. The champagne she'd sipped threatened to come back up. The air in the hallway felt thin, suffocating. She took a step back, her heel sinking into the plush carpet without a sound.

Years. Ten years of her life, of shared holidays and whispered secrets, of a future she had built her entire world around. It all collapsed in that single, slurred promise. A joke. Her life was a joke, and she was the last one to get it.

Her limbs felt heavy, disconnected. She turned, a slow, mechanical movement, her body acting without her mind's permission. She had to get out. Away from that door, away from their voices.

She walked, her gaze unfocused, the ornate patterns on the wallpaper blurring into a meaningless smear.

She didn't see the figure in front of her until she collided with a chest as solid as a wall.

Strong hands gripped her arms, steadying her. "Miss Leonard? Are you alright?"

She blinked, forcing her eyes to focus. Preston Vance. He was part of Johnathan's circle, a man with a reputation for observing more than he said. His handsome face was etched with a polite concern, but his eyes-his eyes held something else.

His gaze flickered over her shoulder, toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall, and a flicker of understanding crossed his features. He knew. Of course, he knew. Maybe everyone knew. The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation through her.

Giovanna pulled her arms from his grasp, her posture straightening by sheer force of will. "I'm fine, Mr. Vance. Thank you." Her voice was a strained whisper. She cleared her throat. "It's just a bit stuffy in here."

He didn't press. He simply nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. He flagged down a passing waiter and took a glass of ice water from the tray, offering it to her.

"Here."

The cold, heavy glass was an anchor in the spinning chaos of her mind. Her fingers, which felt numb and useless, wrapped around it. The chill seeped into her skin, a sharp, grounding sensation. She couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not in front of him.

She took a long sip, the icy water sliding down her raw throat, dousing the fire in her gut.

When she looked up again, her expression was a carefully constructed mask of calm neutrality. The storm was still raging inside, but on the surface, the waters were still.

She gave Preston Vance a curt, dismissive nod.

Then she turned her back on him, on the hallway, on the wreckage of her life behind that door, and walked with steady, measured steps back toward the light and noise of the ballroom.