The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 115

Orion

The next morning, I spent every minute pacing my study, second-guessing every aspect of this insane plan. By the time Mitchell knocked on my door, I'd probably worn a permanent groove in the Persian rug.

"Sir, your... consultant has arrived," Mitchell announced with that diplomatically neutral tone he used when he thought I was making questionable life choices.

"Send him in," I said, straightening my tie and trying to look like a man who definitely had his life together and wasn't about to send a complete stranger to impersonate him to his own wife.

The door opened, and I immediately understood why my confidence had been misplaced.

The man who walked in was about my age, maybe an inch taller, with the kind of lean, athletic build that spoke of yoga classes and organic smoothies rather than brutal gym sessions. Gold-rimmed glasses framed a face that belonged on a romance novel cover, and when he smiled, I caught a glimpse of those perfect white teeth that probably cost more than most people's cars.

But it was the eyes that really irritated me. Bright blue, gentle, with that soft, knowing look that women seemed to find irresistible. The kind of eyes that probably made baristas write their phone numbers on coffee cups.

"Jesus Christ, Mitchell," I muttered under my breath. "Did you recruit him from a Calvin Klein ad?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Mitchell inquired innocently, though I caught the hint of amusement in his voice.

The walking GQ magazine cover stepped forward with easy confidence, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

"Good afternoon," he said, and even his voice was annoyingly perfect—warm, cultured, with just a hint of that gravelly quality that romance audiobook narrators spend years trying to achieve. "I'm Sebastian Cross. I'm currently with the Manhattan Shakespeare Company. Mitchell explained that you need someone for a rather... delicate performance?"

I shook his hand, trying not to notice how firm his grip was or how his smile somehow managed to be both professional and charming at the same time.

"That's one way to put it," I said dryly. "Though I have to ask—did Mitchell specifically request someone who looks like he stepped out of a Jane Austen fever dream?"

Sebastian laughed, a rich sound that probably made women swoon in theater seats across the city. "I prefer to think of it as 'romantically versatile.' But I can assure you, Mr. Blackwell, my looks are just tools of the trade. I'm here to do a job, nothing more."

"A job that involves meeting my—" I caught myself. "Meeting a woman who wants to divorce her husband. Tomorrow."

"Ah," Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "And I'm guessing this woman has some very strong feelings about said husband?"

"You could say that." I pulled out my phone and showed him Aveline's latest email. "She wants to hunt him down 'like the coward he is' and expose him as a 'manipulative bastard.' So, you know, just your typical romantic comedy setup."

Sebastian read the message, his eyebrows rising higher with each line. "Wow. She really doesn't pull her punches, does she?"

"No," I said grimly. "She doesn't. Which is why I need you to do whatever it takes to buy me a month. Use that—" I gestured vaguely at his entire infuriatingly perfect existence, "—whatever it is you've got going on. Just make sure she doesn't hate him any more than she already does."

"Not hate him more?" Sebastian looked almost offended. "Sir, I think you're underestimating my abilities here. I don't just prevent hatred—I inspire passionate devotion. I once had a woman rearrange her entire wedding because she met me at the rehearsal dinner."

Mitchell coughed delicately. "Perhaps we should focus on the more modest goal of 'not making things worse,'" he suggested.

I shot him a grateful look. "Exactly. Look, Sebastian, I'm not expecting miracles here. Not every woman is going to fall for..." I waved my hand at him again, trying to find words that wouldn't sound like I was giving him compliments. "Not every woman is impressed by the whole 'sensitive artist' thing."

"The whole sensitive artist thing?" Sebastian repeated, his grin widening. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Some women value substance over style," I continued, though even I could hear how weak that sounded. "Intellectual connection over superficial attraction."

"Of course," Sebastian agreed solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "I'm sure this woman is far too sophisticated to be swayed by mere physical appeal."

Mitchell cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt this fascinating debate about feminine psychology," he said, "perhaps we should discuss the practical aspects of tomorrow's meeting?"

"Right," I said, grateful for the redirect. "Here's what you need to know: Tomorrow at 2 PM, The Brew St on 5th Avenue. She'll be expecting her husband to show up and sign divorce papers. Make sure you have a bouquet of white roses on the table—that's how she'll identify you. Your job is to charm your way into a one-month delay. I don't care what excuse you use—legal complications, emotional revelations, sudden onset of amnesia—just buy me time."

*I'd had to send her another email last night to confirm the meeting details and the identification method. The white roses had been her idea originally—something about symbolism and death of innocence. I'd simply agreed and confirmed the arrangement.*

"And most importantly," I added, fixing him with what I hoped was a threatening stare, "you absolutely cannot let her suspect this isn't a legitimate meeting. If she figures out this is a setup..."

"She'll destroy you," Sebastian finished matter-of-factly. "Got it. Standard high-stakes romantic deception. I've played Benedick enough times to understand the concept."

I was about to respond when Sebastian tilted his head thoughtfully. "You know, I have to say, Mr. Blackwell—you're one of Manhattan's most eligible bachelors, aren't you? I would have thought pursuing women would be... simpler for someone in your position."

The comment hit closer to home than I cared to admit. "Yeah, well," I said stiffly, "turns out real relationships are a bit more complicated than the gossip columns make them sound."

"Apparently so," Sebastian murmured, and I caught him exchanging an amused glance with Mitchell.

"Sir," Mitchell interjected smoothly, "if I may offer a word of reassurance—while Mr. Cross is certainly... presentable, I think you're underestimating your own considerable appeal. After all, Ms. Reeves has shown quite obvious interest in you without any theatrical assistance."

I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. Mitchell was right. Whatever else was happening, Aveline's feelings for me—for Orion—were real. Sebastian might be able to buy me time, but he couldn't replicate what we had.

"Alright," I said finally, turning back to Sebastian. "Do we have a deal? One month delay, no additional complications, and definitely no making her fall in love with you."

Sebastian's smile was pure professional confidence. "Mr. Blackwell, I can guarantee that by the end of our meeting tomorrow, your wife will be thinking about her husband in an entirely new light."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach clench with anxiety, but Mitchell was nodding approvingly, and it was too late to back out now.

"Fine," I said. "Just... try not to be too charming, alright?"