Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 14

**The Long Didn’t Say by Mark Twain**
**Chapter 14: VENUS**

Panic surged through me like a tidal wave.

I had 55 vouchers, but that hardly mattered now.

Getting dressed? That was the easy part. I could manage that with my eyes closed. But my hair? It was a battlefield, a chaotic mess of curls and frizz that refused to cooperate. After much deliberation, I settled for a ponytail—simple, neat, and most importantly, out of my face. My makeup was minimal, a hasty attempt to mask my nerves, as my hands trembled like leaves in a storm. There was no glam squad here to save me; it was just me and my reflection. Yet, despite my efforts, nothing I did could possibly match the sheer drama of the dress I was wearing. That dress was a statement, a bold proclamation, and I could only hope I wouldn’t ruin its narrative with my clumsiness.

I found myself gazing into the mirror, searching for answers.

Who was this girl staring back at me?

At precisely 8:00 p.m., my phone buzzed, jolting me from my thoughts.

Aaron: I’m outside.

Of course, he was right on time. The man likely operated on a schedule so precise it could rival a Swiss watch.

I made a snap decision to leave my clutch behind. If he was inviting me to dinner, it was only fair that he would be the one picking up the tab. I grabbed my phone, slipped my feet into the heels as if I had been wearing them all my life, and made my way downstairs, my heart racing with anticipation.

And there he was, waiting for me.

A sleek black Mercedes Benz stood parked at the curb, looking far too luxurious for my modest neighborhood. Leaning against it was Aaron Sinclair, clad in a tailored black suit that screamed sophistication. He appeared utterly out of place, like a high-powered CEO mistakenly dropped onto the set of a low-budget indie film.

As I approached, he looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. His expression was unreadable, and the silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

Then, just like that… nothing.

“Uh, Mr. Sinclair?” I ventured, my voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if awakening from a dream, and moved to open the passenger door for me. I slid into the car, battling the irrational disappointment that threatened to bubble up inside me.

No compliments? No “You look stunning”? Just a deafening silence?

It figures.

He closed the door with a soft click, walked around, and settled into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, but the silence remained oppressive, wrapping around us like a thick fog.

After a moment, he turned his head to look at me.

“You look so… normal,” he remarked, his tone flat and devoid of enthusiasm. “Whoever styled you worked a miracle.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor.

Was that really his idea of a compliment? My God, this man’s arrogance was insufferable. It was as if he couldn’t shed it, even for a single evening.

This was not just any restaurant; this was the kind of place that had people waiting months just to step inside. Its black marble exterior gleamed under the streetlights, adorned with gold accents and velvet ropes. It was the sort of establishment you only read about in high-end magazines or heard whispered about in the most upscale salons.

“This is not a cozy restaurant,” I muttered under my breath, incredulous.

He came around, opened the door for me, and handed the keys to the valet, who greeted him with a familiarity that suggested this was his regular haunt. Of course it was; why wouldn’t it be?

As we stepped inside, a hostess immediately led us to our table, tucked away in a secluded corner, intimate and deliberate in its placement.

The waiter approached, pouring wine without us even having to ask. Moments later, another waiter appeared to take our order.

I opened the menu and nearly choked on my own breath.

Was this food or gold? Every single item seemed to carry a price tag that could cover a significant portion of my rent.

“Do you know what to order?” Aaron asked, glancing at me with a casual indifference. “Or should I order for you?”

I looked up from the menu, wide-eyed and flustered.

“Please. You order,” I replied, feeling a wave of relief wash over me.

Because if I had to pronounce one more French dish or weigh my dignity against a thousand-dollar salad, I might just break down right there.