Billion Dollar Vows

LISA'S POV

They say necessity is the mother of invention. In my case, necessity became the mother of reinvention. I never planned to enter this world where women hunt and men become willing prey. It wasn't forced upon me, nor was it some childhood dream. Just a practical solution to an impractical financial situation.

I adjust my crimson dress in the bathroom mirror of the upscale lounge. The fabric clings to every curve, leaving little to imagination while somehow maintaining an air of class. Two months ago, I wouldn't have recognized myself. Now, I'm getting used to this reflection.

"You're overthinking again," I whisper to myself, applying another coat of lipstick.

The truth is, this is only my second time. My first venture was so unexpectedly lucrative that I'd managed to live comfortably for weeks without returning. But bank accounts have a way of emptying themselves, and here I am again, ready to find another wealthy man willing to pay generously for my company.

When I exit the bathroom, Duchess spots me immediately from across the room. She weaves through the crowd with practiced grace, her smile genuine despite our surroundings.

"Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence again," she says, embracing me tightly. The familiar scent of her perfume brings me comfort in this unfamiliar world.

"Just passing through," I reply with a half-smile.

Duchess rolls her eyes. "That's what you said last time. Yet here you are."

"Because rent doesn't pay itself."

"Neither do designer shoes," she quips, glancing at my heels.

She gives my hand a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd. That's our relationship—no judgment, no lengthy explanations needed. After all, she's the one who introduced me to this world when my financial situation became desperate.

I make my way to the bar, conscious of the stares following me. The other women here don't bother hiding their resentment. I understand why. My first client was a notoriously difficult catch—a wealthy businessman who rarely selected companions. Yet somehow, I'd managed to interest him without even trying. Beginner's luck, but they don't see it that way.

A man in an ill-fitting suit approaches, drink in hand and confidence misplaced. I decline his offer before he can even make it. I'm not here for quick cash; I'm here for sustainability. My standards aren't arbitrary—they're calculated. One excellent client is worth more than five mediocre ones, both financially and in terms of personal safety.

I order a gin and tonic, sipping slowly while surveying the room. The lounge is divided into sections, with the most exclusive area cordoned off for VIP guests. That's where my attention lands.

He sits at a corner table, engaged in what appears to be a tense business discussion with another man. Even from this distance, I can see he's different from the others. It's not just the custom suit or the platinum watch catching the light. It's the way he commands space without effort, the way others orbit around him.

When he gestures to emphasize a point, I notice the edge of a tattoo peeking from beneath his cuff. Something inside me responds immediately. I've always had a weakness for tattooed skin, the permanent commitment to art, the stories etched in ink. I imagine tracing those patterns with my fingertips, discovering where they lead.

"You're wasting your time," a voice interrupts my thoughts. A woman in a barely-there outfit stands beside me, her eyes fixed on the same man. "That's James Westbrook. He doesn't mix business with pleasure."

"Thanks for the advice," I say, my tone making it clear I hadn't asked for it.

She smirks. "Just saving you the embarrassment. I've been working here for years, and he's turned down everyone."

"Everyone has a price," I reply. "Or a weakness."

She laughs, the sound sharp and hollow. "Watch and learn, amateur."

I observe as she approaches the VIP section, speaking briefly to the security guard who lets her through. Her confidence is admirable, I'll give her that. She saunters directly to James's table, interrupting his conversation with a hand on his shoulder.

What happens next is quick and decisive. His expression hardens. Words are exchanged. She retreats, face flushed with humiliation, cursing under her breath as she passes me.

"Like I said," she hisses, "don't waste your time."

But where she failed, I see opportunity. Men like James Westbrook don't respond to obvious advances. They're accustomed to being pursued, to women throwing themselves at their feet. The trick is to make them believe they're the ones doing the hunting.

I turn my attention elsewhere, deliberately looking away from the VIP section. I engage in casual conversation with the bartender, laugh at his jokes, all while positioning myself in James's line of sight. I'm not obvious about it—subtlety is key.

Occasionally, I allow myself a glance in his direction, never lingering. The third time I do this, our eyes meet briefly. I don't smile. I don't wave. I simply hold his gaze for three seconds before looking away. A challenge, not an invitation.

The business discussion in the VIP section concludes. James's companion leaves, and I watch from my peripheral vision as he sits alone, nursing his drink. He checks his watch once, twice. Orders another drink.

I've nearly finished my own when I feel a presence behind me. The air shifts, carries the scent of expensive cologne.

"I've been watching you," a deep voice says, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck.

I don't turn immediately. "That's interesting. I've been watching everyone else."

When I finally face him, I'm struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. Up close, his features are even more striking—strong jawline, perfectly trimmed beard, lips that seem perpetually on the edge of a smirk.

"You're new here," he states rather than asks.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because," he says, leaning closer, "I would have remembered you."

The tattoo on his wrist is now fully visible—an intricate design that disappears beneath his sleeve, promising more beneath the fabric.

"I've noticed something about you," he continues, his voice dropping lower.

"And what's that?" I ask, maintaining my composure despite the heat rising within me.

His lips curve into a smile that's both arrogant and irresistible. "Women always come to me. I've never seen one who dares to call me over."

A shiver runs through me at his words, at the promise they contain. And I know, in this moment, that my hunt has been successful.