Engaged to the Ruthless Billionaire

"Oh God, I had actually forgotten how annoying these events usually are," Katherine said as she glided beside me with her third glass of champagne tonight.

I nodded in agreement. 

Being one of the event planners for this charity gala meant that I had to observe every detail, ensure that the party was running smoothly, and ensure that the guests received the best service. 

When I first went into business, it felt weird working events I would otherwise be invited to as a guest. But I'd gotten used to it over the years, and the extra income allowed me a small degree of Independence from my father. 

"Tell me about it. I've faked so many smiles tonight, my cheeks are actually starting to hurt," I replied as I scanned the opulent ballroom, my eyes darting from the Veuve Clicquot station to the swag table like a general surveying a battlefield.

"Please tell me you saw that woman in the Valentino swipe an extra gift bag," Katherine said, with an arched brow. "She looked like she was committing espionage, not petty theft."

"I did," I sighed. "Tilda Monroe. Third time this quarter. I'm starting to think she believes luxury gift bags are a form of cardio."

Katherine grinned and sipped her drink. "Honestly, I respect the hustle. Those bags are worth more than my monthly rent."

I pressed a hand to my earpiece. "Lilah, Code Pink at the swag table. Tilda Monroe again. Replace the bag before we have a pearl-clutching incident."

"Got it" she replied.

"God, I love it when you get all Mission Impossible," Katherine whispered, eyes sparkling. "Tell me you at least wore cute heels for your covert ops."

I glanced down at my Jimmy Choos and lifted a shoulder. "Six-inch stilettos. So when the chaos inevitably breaks out, I can run gracefully into a wall."

"Stunning. Inspiring. Brave."

"Shut up."

Katherine bumped her hip against mine. "This party's fabulous, by the way. The lighting is giving everyone a face-lift, and the tartlets are like crack. How do you do it?"

"I sell my soul to the glitter gods, threaten two rental vendors, and bribe the pastry chef with my diamond tennis bracelet," I said dryly. "Also, I'm on my third near-anxiety spiral of the night, so let's hope no one decides to set the floral arch on fire."

We both laughed-hers rich and open, mine a little more weary.

"I don't know how you do this for a living," Katherine said. "If I had to manage this many rich people in one room, I'd be hiding in the coat closet with a bottle of rosé and a stun gun."

"Honestly, that was Plan B." I chuckled in response. 

But then, something shifted.

It started with a murmur, almost too soft to register at first. A ripple through the guests-a low, shared current of surprise and excitement.

My attention was still focused on the audio setup when Katherine gave a low whistle. "Okay, who just walked in and