Marrying The Broke Billionaire In Disguise

"Every word."

Josiah's promise hung in the freezing Williamsburg air. Flora looked up at him. The streetlights cast harsh, sharp shadows across his jawline. He didn't look like a bankrupt programmer. He looked like a man who could snap bones with his bare hands and sleep perfectly fine afterward.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She didn't feel afraid. She felt a sudden, terrifying rush of safety.

Two days later, the adrenaline of that night had settled into a quiet, stubborn pride. Flora wanted to celebrate. She had made a reservation at Lumiere a month ago, back when she thought she would be celebrating a promotion. She didn't get the promotion. But she had reclaimed her dignity, and she decided they were going anyway.

Flora linked her arm through Josiah's as they walked through the heavy glass doors of Lumiere in Manhattan.

The light from the massive crystal chandeliers hit her eyes, making her squint. The air smelled of expensive truffles and melting butter.

The hostess, a tall woman in a sleek black dress, looked up from her tablet. Her eyes immediately dropped to Josiah's faded, cheap jacket. A flicker of professional disdain crossed her face.

Underneath the harsh lights, Josiah subtly shifted his shoulders. The jacket looked like a thrift-store castoff, but it was actually spun from ultra-premium organic cotton, meticulously distressed by Milo to avoid triggering Josiah's severe fabric allergies. Still, playing the part of a bankrupt nobody required enduring the hostess's condescending glare.

"Do you have a reservation?" the hostess asked, her tone clipped.

Flora sucked in a breath. She forced her shoulders back. "Flora Sawyer. I booked a standard table for two, a month ago."

The hostess tapped her screen, her manicured nails clicking against the glass.

Before she could speak, the loud, arrogant clack of leather shoes echoed from the entrance. A harsh, oily laugh followed.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged out of the dumpster."

Flora's stomach dropped. The muscles in her neck locked.

Grant Holloway walked into the waiting area, flanked by two men in expensive suits. He smelled like desperation and heavy cologne. He looked at Flora, then shifted his gaze to Josiah. Grant's smile was wide, but it didn't reach his eyes, which were bloodshot and edged with a frantic, twitching energy. He was trying to project power for his investors, but a tremor in his hand gave away his fear.

"Lumiere?" Grant sneered loudly, his voice a half-octave too high. "Trying to impress your new boy toy, Flora? A glass of tap water in this place would bankrupt him twice."

Several wealthy diners in the waiting area turned their heads. Whispers broke out.

Flora's face burned. The heat rushed straight to her cheeks, making her skin prickle with humiliation.

Josiah stood perfectly still. He didn't blink. He looked at Grant with eyes so dead and flat it was like looking at a rotting corpse. He didn't say a single word.

Grant flinched almost imperceptibly at Josiah's gaze, the memory of the man's cold threat in the restaurant hallway-the quiet, chilling mention of hospital server logs and private messages-flashing in his mind. But with his investors watching, he had to double down. He puffed out his chest and turned to the hostess, slapping his hand flat on the wooden podium.

"I need my usual VIP private room," Grant demanded. "Now."

The hostess flinched. She looked at her tablet, her face pale. "Mr. Holloway, I apologize. The penthouse VIP room has been booked for the entire evening by a highly exclusive guest."

Grant's face turned an ugly shade of purple. His bank accounts had been frozen last night. He was bleeding cash, and he desperately needed to impress these two investors standing behind him.

Grant slammed his fist onto the podium. The sound cracked like a whip.

"I am a Black Card member!" Grant roared, spit flying from his lips. "Kick whoever that nobody is out of the room. Give it to me!"

Flora felt a wave of pure nausea hit the back of her throat. She looked at Grant's red, screaming face and felt disgusted that she had ever let this man intimidate her.

Without thinking, Flora took a step sideways, pulling Josiah slightly behind her back. It was a tiny, subconscious movement. A physical shield.

Josiah looked down at her shoulder blocking his chest. The dead, cold ice in his eyes melted by a fraction of a degree. His jaw unclenched.

Grant saw the movement. His upper lip curled into a vicious sneer.

"Look at you," Grant spat, pointing a shaking finger at Josiah. "Hiding behind a woman's skirt. You are a pathetic coward."

Flora's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

"A man in a thousand-dollar suit throwing a tantrum at a hostess," Flora said, her voice ice-cold and steady, "is the definition of trash."

Grant's eyes widened. The humiliation from two nights ago flashed in his mind. He lost his mind.

He raised his right hand, stepping toward Flora, ready to strike her right there in the lobby.

Josiah's right arm twitched. The muscles in his forearm coiled tight as steel cables. He shifted his weight to his back foot, preparing to grab Grant's wrist and snap the bone in half.

Before Josiah could move, three large security guards in black suits swarmed the area. They formed a solid wall between Grant and Flora.

"Sir, step back," the lead guard ordered, his hand resting on his radio.

The hostess glared at Grant. "If you disrupt this restaurant again, Mr. Holloway, I will revoke your membership and call the police."

The two investors behind Grant exchanged nervous glances. They took a slow step backward, distancing themselves from the embarrassment.

Grant was hyperventilating. He pointed at the hostess. "Get me Frank Baxter. Get the manager down here right now!"

"Mr. Baxter is upstairs attending to our VIP," the hostess said coldly. "He has no time for you."

Flora's hands were shaking. She couldn't let Josiah endure this public circus anymore. She grabbed Josiah's hand, her fingers wrapping tight around his knuckles.

"Let's go," Flora whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears of frustration. "I'd rather eat hot dogs on the sidewalk than stay here."

She pulled his arm.

Josiah didn't move. He planted his feet. He flipped his hand over, catching her fingers, and squeezed gently. His grip was an anchor.

"We have a reservation," Josiah said, his voice low and incredibly calm. "We are eating here."

Grant laughed from behind the security guards. "You can't even afford the worst table by the kitchen doors! You're a joke!"

Josiah reached into his cheap jacket pocket with his free hand. He pulled out his battered, scratched cell phone. He didn't even look at the screen. His thumb moved in a blur, blind-typing a heavily encrypted command.

He hit send.

The faint swoosh sound of the message going through was completely drowned out by the noise of the lobby. But the corner of Josiah's mouth ticked up into a dark, lethal curve.

Less than sixty seconds later, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed from the grand spiral staircase.

Frank Baxter, the general manager of Lumiere, was running down the stairs. His face was slick with sweat, his chest heaving as if he were sprinting for his life.