Billion Dollar Vengeance

Chapter 7: A Nice Night for a Run

Jenna calls my name from the kitchen late in the morning while I'm brushing my teeth. I wasn't out late with Bruce last night, but the evening took a lot out of me. My spine is sore from standing so stiffly around all those socialites and dignitaries. My dress now hangs in a garment bag in the back of my closet, and the earrings and bracelet that are no doubt worth more than this house lay repackaged and in the bottom of my messy jewelry box. Mom's shoes are still sitting at the end of my bed. I'll have to work up a little courage to go into my parents' closet to return them.

While my body remains tired, my mind is alight with energy. Thoughts of Bruce and our night together hang with me like a companion, reminding me of his touch on my lower back, his polite and stilted words to people I think he would enjoy punching in the face, the way his eyes narrowed on me at the beginning of his speech, and certainly him taking me in his big office.

Jenna's frown when I enter the kitchen pulls me out of my reverie. She's sitting on a stool at the bar top, glaring with disgust at the screen of her tablet. Without a word, she hands it to me with a whispered apology. "I thought you'd probably need to see."

My jaw drops, heart turning to stone and plummeting into my intestines. My knees grow weak, and my head spins. The headline alone draws bile up to my throat.

Bruce Wayne's Mystery Woman: A Harlot?

But the accompanying picture makes it all the much worse. It seems we weren't quite alone when Bruce kissed me as the elevator doors were shutting. The picture makes it seem like I was throwing myself at him. I remember with vivid detail the way he pulled my hand so my chest pressed into his. And then that hand left mine to touch the slit in my dress. But the photo was taken with perfect timing from the perfect angle. My hand is clenched at his chest, while his looks like it's hanging limp. In reality, he was reaching, but in this still image, his body looks weary of my touch.

My teeth grind as hot anger pools in my eyes, making them wet. "Disgusting," I hiss.

"Don't read the article," Jenna whispers.

That pulls my eyes to the paragraph below. Of course, Gotham doesn't know me. I am not wealthy, nor do I come from any wealth. Being accused of Bruce Wayne's whore doesn't quite bother me as much as the paragraph below, which suggests that he hired an escort because he is so lonely and antisocial. My blood boils and my hands shake.

Jenna snatches the tablet back, and I don't stop her. She keeps her eyes down, her voice quiet and delicate. "There's others. Accusing you of being a gold digger, a social climber, an outright prostitute. But..." she glances up at me, and whatever she sees makes her dip her head back down in submission. "Here..."

Her fingers move on the tablet, and a moment later, my phone rings with a text. "It's really nice. And I think you should remember the date... if you enjoyed yourself."

I look at the photo from one of the articles. It dampens the growing rage in my chest a fraction. The paparazzi photo is from inside the big hall, where the lighting was soft. I can see through the image how my dress shimmered with movement even when I was still. It's far enough away that I can't make out the faint scratch marks on my back. Bruce's hand rests just at the curve of my spine. And his face is leaned toward me, lips right at my ear to whisper something. I'm sure it was something like, "just a few more minutes," or another word of reassurance. It looks like his eyes are closed, like he's truly affected by the closeness.

"I think he really likes you," Jenna says.

But my eyes sweep the table, and accidentally land on another headline gracing her tablet, accusing Bruce of stooping so low as to hire a date. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if it weren't so close to the truth. I am his hired help. Fucking him doesn't change that. And Bruce is most definitely a little anti-social. Not because he's bad at talking to people, but because the only people he can talk to are insufferable. The only people in his life worth talking to are the ones who work for him and are brave enough not to kiss his ass with flattery.