Chapter 4 - The Unwelcome Audience
The bell chimed with an irritating, cheerful ring that shattered the fragile tension hanging between Nora and the billionaire.
“Grant? Grant Mercer? Is that really you?”
A sharp, high-pitched voice sliced across the quiet diner. Both Nora and Grant turned toward the entrance. Stepping past the threshold was a woman who looked like she had just stepped off the glossy cover of Vogue. She wore a floor-length white designer fur coat, oversized designer sunglasses pushed up onto her perfectly highlighted blonde hair, and boots that clicked sharply against the linoleum floor.
Victoria Sterling.
Nora recognized her immediately from the society pages of the Chicago Tribune. Victoria was the daughter of Sterling Media Group, a ruthless socialite, and—according to every gossip column in the city—Grant Mercer’s aggressively persistent fiancée-in-waiting. The tabloids had been trying to marry the two billionaires off for the past two years, despite sources close to Grant insisting he wanted nothing to do with romance.
Victoria swept across the room, ignoring the elderly couple entirely, her eyes locked exclusively on Grant like heat-seeking missiles.
“I’ve been calling your phone all morning,” Victoria purred, linking her arm through Grant’s uninvited. She cast a swift, razor-sharp glance at Nora, taking in the faded apron, the cheap ponytail, and the modest diner surroundings with undisguised disdain. “Your assistant said you weren't at the penthouse. I never imagined Chicago’s most eligible bachelor would be slumming it in a greasy spoon at noon.”
Grant’s body went instantly rigid. The warmth that had flickered in his eyes just moments before vanished, replaced by a cold, impenetrable mask of polite indifference. He smoothly extricated his arm from her grip, stepping half an inch closer to Nora as if to create a physical barrier between the socialite and the waitress.
“Victoria. What are you doing here?” Grant’s voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.
“I had our event planner drop off the seating chart for the Winter Gala at your office, and when you didn't answer, I came looking for my future,” Victoria laughed lightly, a melodic sound that felt like shards of glass. She turned her icy blue gaze onto Nora, her lips curling into a condescending smile. “And I see you’ve found... entertainment. Darling, did you order the pancakes? Or did you just wander in here by mistake after a long night?”
Dean materialized from behind the counter like a ghost seeking salvation. “Ms. Sterling! Welcome to Harbor House Grill! How can we assist you today? A private booth? Some fresh coffee?”
Victoria didn't even look at Dean. Her eyes remained glued to Nora, sizing her up with a predatory amusement. “I don’t eat food cooked in grease traps, manager. I just came to collect my fiancé. My father wants us at the country club by two.”
Nora felt a sudden flash of heat rise up her neck. She wasn't intimidated by billionaires, and she certainly wasn't going to be patronized by someone whose personality was colder than the Chicago wind outside. She opened her mouth to deliver a blistering retail-worker comeback, but Grant beat her to it.
“I am not your fiancé, Victoria,” Grant said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, glacial register that made even the socialite step back a half-step. “And I am not going to the country club.”
Victoria’s smile faltered, a flash of genuine panic crossing her powdered face. “Grant, don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows—the papers say—we’re practically—”
“The papers write whatever your father pays them to write,” Grant interrupted coldly. He turned his full attention back to Nora, ignoring Victoria completely. The icy mask melted away, leaving behind that quiet, intense focus. He picked up the cream-colored invitation from the sugar caddy, held it out, and gently pressed it into Nora’s trembling hand.
May you like
“Seven o'clock tonight, Nora,” Grant said softly, his voice rich and steady. “I’ll send a car. Don’t wait for an excuse to say no.”
Before Victoria could shriek, before Dean could faint, and before Nora could find the words to refuse, Grant turned on his heel, walked straight past the furious socialite, and pushed out the front door into the freezing Chicago morning.
