Chapter 4 : From Classy to Called Out

Haven’s POV

How the everloving fuck did I manage to get myself into this situation? I keep wondering about this statement in my head with every little thing that I read.

I have absolutely no idea how Daisy did not manage to catch my absolute surprise when she mentioned the name, Cruz Martinez. My composure was barely under control. I quizzed Daisy about this guy, and I managed to get a lot of useful information from her during our time together.

Turns out that Daisy was just at the beginning of her research when I had first walked into the coffee shop earlier. So, naturally, I whip out my computer the moment I get home after my afternoon outing with Daisy.

Fingers trembling with nerves, I type “Cruz Martinez” into the search bar of the first browser that pulls up on my ancient computer. The fan hums and clicks in protest, demanding to be replaced, as the icon spins, searching for the name I requested of it.

Immediately, twelve pages of information pull up. From news articles, images, and even a personal profile page on what looked like his family’s business page, I recognize him immediately.

Decked out in some kind of name-brand suit, Cruz is on the main page, his piercing blue eyes seemingly looking directly at me through the computer screen. I feel a shiver crawl down my spine like a bead of sweat on a particularly hot day. It starts at the top and traces the line my spine makes, starting and stopping as it gathers momentum down my body.

This was the guy who was at the club last night.

This is the guy who stepped in and helped me get rid of those guys last night.

This was the guy who was coming to get me tonight for some kind of swanky event!

My mouth feels dry like sandpaper despite how many times I swallow. Daisy was right - this guy was indeed a Spanish prince.

His family had some kind of special holding back in their home country, and they were very prominent in their social circles. The number of organizations they donated and or contributed to filled pages of online website content. Their scholarships were astronomical and came with fancy price tags that could easily pay for an associate's degree at any community college.

His family was also huge! He had loads of cousins and extended family, all of whom seemed to have some kind of prominent business or political position. Some of them even had some brand of diplomatic immunity.

The more I read, the more I start to shake in my shoes. I curl under the comforter on my bed and pull on my faded green jacket that has more holes than fabric. I want to hide under the blankets and continue reading about this guy, but that would be extremely stalkerish and, frankly, the building nausea is the only thing that makes me stop.

Did I dare attend the event now?

What kind of event was it?

He wanted me to dress sleek and fancy, but was I even going to be fancy enough?

Without even thinking about it, my mind starts to spiral, making me lay back down on my bed and curl into a fetal position under the blankets.

Maybe I should just cancel.

It would be better if I canceled.

There is no way that anything I have is going to be good enough for this guy.

A bitter, vile thought injected itself into my thoughts.

Is he bringing me to make fun of me? Is this like some kind of dinner for losers and chumps? Is his whole family going to bring someone who is “beneath them” just so they could laugh and poke fun at the average person? Are they doing this to make themselves feel better?

Based on what I saw online in the gossip sections of the newspapers and magazines I managed to find, this Cruz guy did have quite the nightlife. I saw a few journalism exposes with this guy and, needless to say, he is definitely a fan of the nightlife and the ladies. Is this the sort of event that the family wanted to keep quiet?

I peek out from under my covers and stare at the blaring red light of my alarm clock.

It is almost time.

Cruz texted the details and, according to this, I have about an hour to get ready to go.

I snake my hand out from under the covers and snag my phone off my bedside table. I decide that I am not going to go. I am not going to be made a laughing stock of this party for this billionaire playboy with an addiction to nightlife attention.

Just as I pick up my phone, however, I get an email alert from none other than my bank and the hospital. My eyes trace over the words four times before I really absorb what they are saying.

I am overdrawn on my recent transaction to the hospital. I need to pay three hundred dollars and, with any luck, there will be no late fees.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I almost taste the iron of my blood.

Despite the argument with myself, if he gives me half of what he mentioned, a lot of problems will vaporize in a matter of a few hours.

Lowering my dignity and pride for one evening to cling to a rich guy’s arm at this event is probably not the worst thing I could do to help my family.

I sigh.

As long as he does not try anything, I can swallow my pride for the evening.

Shit, is this what prostitutes tell themselves?

Fuck.

Fine.

Before I can change my mind again, I throw the covers off my body and snatch the bag with the dress in it. It is a little wrinkled, but that’s all right. The steam from my shower will get those wrinkles out in no time.

I wash up, comb out my hair, and brush my teeth while I blow dry my hair once I leap out of the stained tub. Thankfully, the spiders were elsewhere today. Sadly, I am sure I snagged my leg a dozen times with little nicks with my razor as I shaved.

After I towel myself dry, I slip into my undergarments and pull the dress onto my body. Some of the tulle clings to my body as I hoist the straps onto my frame, but the dress is flattering if I do say so myself.

While the steam clears, I put on some makeup from my broken-down kit. The blush is definitely running low, and I can see where the eyeshadow is cracking in eight different places. My brush loses a dozen hairs as I use it despite my “delicate” touch, but it does the job.

My eyeliner wings look perfect, and the lipstick I use doesn’t look too bad. A touch of gloss and a smidge of glitter in my hair as I pull it up into the fanciest updo I can manage. I snag a black coat out of the closet and shove the essentials into my purse.

Just as I snap in some earrings, I hear my phone chime. The notification is a text from Cruz.

‘Car should be down the street from the location you sent. Can’t wait to see you…’

My heart pounds in my chest. Every inch of me shivers and it is not because of the natural chill that lingers in the apartment I share with my parents.

I am halfway out of the door when I hear my mother call.

“Haven? Where are you going?”

Shit!

I didn’t tell them where I was going or what I was doing.

Do I tell them now? Do I try and explain the whole situation?

My mom peers around the corner, still in her robe. She looks like she did not sleep a wink last night, dark circles rest under her eyes next to the crow’s feet that have sadly aged her.

My heart leaps into my throat and, even though I feel guilty about it, I make something up on the spot.

“Oh, um… Daisy has some kind of event she is covering and wanted me to tag along. It is supposed to be nice, so… what do you think?” I say as I twirl around to show off the dress. “Thrift shop too, so added bonus.”

“Oh, it looks lovely, sweetheart. Well, okay. Just don’t be too late. Text us and let us know what you’re into and if you need a ride or anything. We can send a cab,” says Mom.

It kills me, but I fake a smile and nod.

“Sure thing!”

With that, I am out of the door and heading down the stairs.

Every part of my chest feels heavy as my heels click against the tile steps beneath me. The broken elevator sits there, mocking me, as I pass by. I wish I could have been honest with my mother, but there is no way she would consent to let me go without throwing a proper “motherly fit” where she would tell me why this is a bad idea.

It is a bad idea.

I am meeting a guy who I met last night for some kind of event. I am getting into a strange car with a guy I don’t know. This is “How to Get Yourself Murdered 101”.

Still…

We need the money, and Cruz didn’t seem like a total cad.

I step out into the evening air, feeling its brisk kiss on my cheek, and spot a car down the road immediately. It stands out like a sore thumb, and it makes my jaw drop when I see it.

A sleek limousine sits on the corner, completely untouched by the surrounding grime. The driver, or who I assume is the driver, stands just outside the door. His expression is neutral, but as I approach I can tell there is disdain in his eyes.

I know instantly he thinks I am trash like the heap of garbage beside him, but I push it out of my head. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. At the end of the day, I am in a business deal and that is the end of it. Hopefully, Almighty willing, I will not have to lower myself any further.

“Good evening, miss,” he says. His accent is extremely thick and he nods politely as he opens the door.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to not be impolite and cotton-mouthed.

The inside of the car smells like fresh roses and, once again, my jaw drops The interior is sleek and obviously custom designed. There are twinkling starlights on the ceiling as well as ice buckets for the three bottles of champagne I see on the left. There is not a stitch out of place.

Instantly uncomfortable, I slip inside the car and sit. One thing that catches my eye is that Cruz isn’t in the vehicle. Once the car begins driving, I let my curiosity get the better of me. I lace my keys in between my fingers and inch toward the front of the vehicle where the driver sits separately.

“Um… excuse me, but where is…”

“Mr. Martinez is already at the venue. He will receive you there,” says the man promptly. I nod slowly.

“Great, and… you are?” I ask, hoping to not seem rude.

“Sanchez, ma’am,” he says politely.

“Right. Thank you, Sanchez.”

The rest of the ride is made in complete silence. I make sure to keep track of every road we pass, making small notes on my phone in an emergency file in case the worst should happen. Daisy will know what to do with the information.

We drive for what seems like hours before we slow and pull up to a magnificent event hall. There is a line of limousines waiting with passengers, which makes my heart palpitate.

Were all of these people related?

Were they all filthy rich?

Feeling like a sore thumb, I glance down at my lavender dress.

This night was going to be hellish.

Just think of the money, Haven.

I put on a smile and, when the time comes, I step out of the car.

Everything is swirling around me. The giant pillars of the event hall. The people in name-brand designer gowns that probably could pay the mortgage on a small house. It isn’t until I feel a presence behind me that I turn and see those piercing blue eyes and that smile I have seen way too much on the internet that I recognize my host.

“Well, miss, you look exquisite,” says Cruz. He is in a tux that fits his toned frame with every stitch. His dark hair, obviously gelled, is in a perfect Superman loop while the rest of his undercut black hair looks freshly trimmed.

“Thank you,” I manage to sputter. “Um… if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of event is this? I am way too underdressed to be here. Don’t you think they’ll know I’m not… you know… from the nice part of town?”

At my hushed words, he chuckles and holds out his arm.

“My dear, you are the most beautiful woman present, and the classiest I am sure. Fear not. Shall I accompany you inside?” he asks.

My entire body feels numb as I reach out to take his arm so he can guide me inside.

Just before I do, however, a stern-looking woman in a billowing black gown comes striding up. She looks like some kind of enchantress, though I can see a touch of age to her from the two silver hairs poking out from under her neatly pinned-up black hair.

She looks at me with a daggered glare, obviously seething. The words lash out in a hiss but hit me in the gut like a ton of bricks.

“Who is the commoner you are about to drape over your arm, Cruz?”