Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 30

**The Long Didn’t Say by Mark Twain**
**Chapter 30**

**VENUS**

Yesterday, I was a whirlwind—a tempest of emotion, swirling and spinning, wild and unrestrained. And today? Today I find myself in the serene eye of that very storm, enveloped in luxurious silk as if I were some starlet gracing the red carpet. Stylists flitted around me like devoted courtiers, treating me as if I were royalty. It felt almost surreal, as if I had stepped into a dream. I felt… untouchable, as if the world outside this bubble of glamour couldn’t reach me.

The gown they had selected for me? A breathtaking black backless creation, adorned with ruffles that cascaded down like gentle waves lapping at the shore. It clung to my figure as if it were crafted for temptation itself. My hair was elegantly twisted up, exposing the delicate curve of my neck, while my makeup? Flawless, as though I had been transformed into a living masterpiece.

As I gazed into the mirror, I hardly recognized the girl staring back at me. She seemed like a stranger, wrapped in elegance and allure.

Then, my eyes fell upon the phone sitting on the table. Not the cracked relic I had once cradled like a fragile piece of glass, but a brand-new iPhone—top of the line, gleaming and pristine. It sat alongside a sleek laptop, AirPods, chargers, and cases, a veritable paradise of technology, with a little note perched atop the pile:

I forgot.

Of course, he did. Aaron Sinclair is not one to indulge in sweet gestures; his charm is a facade that conceals a need for control. Possession masquerading as generosity, a dangerous blend.

He had also gifted me a black card—one of those that heroines in billionaire romance novels wield like magic wands. But let’s be honest; I doubted I would ever get the chance to use it.

Just weeks ago, I had been skipping meals, barely keeping myself afloat. Now, I found myself sipping on imported wine, draped in designer gowns, stepping into rooms I felt utterly unworthy of. Isn’t that a twist of fate?

Before I left the hospital yesterday, I had managed to video-call Gianna. Her face lit up at the sight of my mom, and she spoke all the right words, as she always did—soft, graceful, and kind. I missed her more than I could express. Seeing her this weekend was going to mean everything, even if I had to explain… all of this.

The stylists finally wrapped up their work, all of them gushing about how they hadn’t really done much, insisting it was all me. I smiled and thanked them, allowing them to cling to their little white lie. I knew the truth—beneath all that gloss and shimmer, I was still just me.

They had chosen a pair of black four-inch heels for me, and after they left, the house fell into a hush. It was that eerie kind of quiet that rich people seem to cultivate, a silence that buzzes in your ears and makes you feel like an intruder in someone else’s world.

Aaron would be here any moment.

I grabbed my clutch, slipped into the heels, and made my way down the stairs. My heart raced, pounding loudly in my chest, each beat echoing my anxiety.

And then I saw him.

He was already there.

His gaze met mine, unwavering and intense. His eyes didn’t drift; they locked onto me, as if I were something sacred—or perhaps something perilous.

“Wow, you look…” he began, his voice low and smooth.

“Normal?” I shot back playfully, recalling his teasing jab from our first date.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Beautiful.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I blinked, warmth spreading across my cheeks. “Thanks. You don’t look bad yourself,” I managed, which was probably the understatement of the year.

“Stop squirming so much,” he remarked without glancing up from his screen. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a charity event, not the end of the world.”

“Easy for you to say,” I retorted, turning to face him. “You were born into this. Me? I didn’t even know a glass of wine could cost $2,000 until last week. What if I mess up?”

“You won’t,” he replied, finally putting the tablet away and giving me his full attention. “Because I need this to work. I need you—us—to sell this relationship. I’m not losing to Richard.”

Ah, of course. Nothing says “relax” quite like the pressure of a corporate rivalry.

“Wow. Pep talk of the year, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, attempting to inject some humor into the situation.

“I try,” he said, and for a fleeting moment, I couldn’t discern if he was being serious or just teasing me.

Before I could formulate a response, the car slowed, and the atmosphere shifted.

Camera flashes erupted outside.

Paparazzi.

We had arrived.