The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 46

Aveline

Todd actually snorted. "Take it? Ma'am, do you understand what we're discussing here? This isn't a lease situation. You'd need substantial down payment, excellent credit history—"

"I'll pay in full. Today."

The words hit Todd like a physical blow. He actually took a step back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"You'll... what?" he finally managed, staring at me like I'd started speaking Mandarin. "Miss, I don't think you understand the numbers we're talking about here. Thirty-eight thousand dollars. Cash. Today. That's not... people don't just..."

I smiled sweetly and pulled out my American Express Centurion Card, letting the heavy titanium catch the showroom's dramatic lighting.

The effect was immediate and spectacular. Todd's face went completely white, then flushed deep red. I heard someone behind us—another salesperson—actually gasp.

"Is that—" Todd whispered.

"The real deal," I confirmed cheerfully. "So, about that paperwork?"

---

An hour later, I was cruising through Manhattan with the top down, the wind whipping through my hair, feeling absolutely euphoric. The little car handled like a dream, responsive and nimble in a way that made city driving actually enjoyable.

The real test came when I hit the typical Manhattan maze of narrow streets and tight spaces.

"Thank God I didn't buy a boat," I muttered, watching some enormous luxury sedan ahead struggle to squeeze between parked cars and a delivery truck.

I couldn't help but grin as I caught my reflection in a storefront window—the cheerful mint green convertible looked absolutely perfect against the city backdrop, and I was handling it like a pro. Years of city driving had definitely paid off.

I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change, when the sound of a revving engine made me look to my right. A Lamborghini Huracán Performante had pulled up beside me, its orange paint job so bright it practically hurt to look at. The driver was revving the engine unnecessarily, creating that aggressive rumbling that seemed designed to announce his presence to the entire city.

Show off.

I'd heard all about this particular model back at the dealership—640 horsepower, 0 to 60 in 2.9 seconds, top speed over 200 mph. Basically a rocket ship disguised as a car.

The driver revved again, louder this time, and I rolled my eyes. What was it with men and their need to make noise? The light was still red, and this asshole was acting like he was at a Formula 1 starting line instead of stuck in Manhattan traffic.

A wicked thought crossed my mind.

Fine. If he wanted to play games, I'd show him what this little "toy" car could do.

I shifted into sport mode, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I watched the light. The Lambo's engine roared again, all sound and fury.

The light turned green.

I dropped the clutch and floored it, my little Cooper shooting forward like a bullet. For just a moment, I had the satisfaction of seeing the orange monstrosity in my rearview mirror, its driver clearly caught off guard by my sudden acceleration.

But of course, 640 horsepower wasn't going to stay behind for long. Within seconds, the Lamborghini was roaring up beside me, its driver apparently taking this impromptu race seriously.

A sharp right turn was coming up ahead. Perfect.

I downshifted, tapped the brakes, and swung into the turn with a precision that would have made my Swiss driving instructor proud. The Cooper's shorter wheelbase and lower center of gravity gave me the advantage I needed—while the Lambo had to slow significantly to take the corner safely, I whipped around it like I was on rails.

The satisfaction was immediate and intoxicating.

Behind me, I could hear the Lamborghini's engine note change to something angrier, more frustrated. But ahead was the perfect obstacle course—a delivery truck double-parked, a taxi letting out passengers, a sea of cars moving at typical Manhattan speed.

This was where my little car's size became an asset.

I slipped between vehicles like threading a needle, and I could practically feel the Lambo driver's frustration. *Take that, you overcompensating show-off!* Years of navigating Swiss mountain roads had taught me that skill mattered more than horsepower.

*David versus Goliath, automotive edition.*

The Lambo's engine roared with frustration behind me, but there was nothing he could do. In heavy traffic, horsepower meant nothing. Agility was everything.

Ahead, the light was turning yellow, then red. I had maybe two seconds to make it through.

I gunned it, shooting through the intersection just as the light went solid red, leaving the Lamborghini trapped at the line with a row of cars between us.

The adrenaline was incredible. I couldn't stop laughing as I pulled to a stop at the next red light, victory coursing through my veins.

Looking back at the frustrated orange beast stuck at the previous intersection, I couldn't resist.

I turned around in my seat, stuck my hand out of the convertible, and made the universal "loser" gesture—thumb and forefinger forming an L against my forehead.

*God, this felt good. Take that, you—*

But as I got a clear look at the Lamborghini's driver through his windshield, my triumphant grin froze on my face.

Dark hair. Sharp jawline. Those unmistakable dark eyes that were currently staring at me with a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and dawning recognition.

*Orion. Fucking. Blackwell.*

I slowly lowered my hand, my face burning with mortification.

*Well. This was awkward.*