I took that chance to look away from him, realizing I was staring in silence for far too long.
"Please," he added, I hated the edge of desperation creeping into his voice. "Anything. You can yell. Hit me. Tell me I'm insane. Just do something."
I looked back at him, spoon poised in midair. I sighed softly and set the bowl down on the table. Then I asked, completely straight-faced—
"Are you really a billionaire?"
He nodded. I studied his face, searching for cracks. A twitch. A sign of discomfort. Anything that screamed that he was lying. There was nothing. But that didn’t stop my nerves from buzzing.
“Alright,” I said finally. “Prove it.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Prove what?”
“That you’re actually a billionaire.”
My words hung between us, bold and ridiculous. Embarrassment flared for a split second. Who asked to see proof of someone’s wealth? Me. I did. If I didn’t, my imagination would spiral until I couldn’t tell fantasy from reality.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” I added quickly. “It’s just… people lie. And I read a lot of books.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
“And those books have taught me to be suspicious of people claiming to be rich.”
His gaze softened instead of hardening, which only unsettled me further. He didn’t argue or try to convince me with words. He simply reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, like this was something he’d already accepted might happen.
When he turned the screen toward me, I leaned in out of instinct, curiosity sharpening into something closer to disbelief.
And then I saw it.
The number didn’t make sense at first. My brain skimmed over it the way it skimmed over overly long sentences or dense paragraphs—registering the shape without understanding the meaning. Commas where they didn’t belong. Too many zeros. A balance that looked more like a concept than an amount.
Then my mind caught up.
And my breath stopped.
Five hundred million dollars.
He had $500 million sitting in his account. I looked at him, then back at the screen, then back at him again, searching for some sign that this was a joke I wasn’t in on. But his face was open. Honest. Almost… hopeful.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, the words barely audible even to me. “Is that…” My voice came out thin, disbelieving. I swallowed and tried again. “Is that five hundred million dollars?”
His eyes flicked to the screen and back to me, panic flashing across his face as if he’d just realized how absurd the truth looked laid bare like this. “Yes, but—Evania, listen—it’s not all just sitting there like that. Most of my money is in stock. Investments. Real estate. Assets. This is only a portion—”
He kept talking. I could see his lips moving. Hear the cadence of his voice. But the words didn’t register with me. All I could think about was the fact that he had five hundred million dollars in his account, but he was anxious because it wasn't a billion as he had told me.
He really was a billionaire.
I was on a date with a billionaire.
Everything he said came to a head, swirling in my mind. He really was a billionaire, being pushed by his parents into a marriage of convenience. This was a dream come true for me. As a fan of billionaire marriage-of-convenience romances, I wanted nothing more than to convince him I should be his wife. We already liked each other—we were on this date—and I was ready to help him.
I didn’t hear the beginning of what he said because I was too busy being married to him in my head.
In the version of reality currently playing behind my eyes, I was stepping into a penthouse elevator with mirrored walls. There was a contract involved. A credit card with no limit. A closet that could swallow my entire apartment. A last name that opened doors.
So when Callahan’s voice finally pierced through the fantasy, it felt like someone had shaken me awake mid-dream.
“…and I’m sorry,” he said.
