The Pauper Prince's Vow

Chapter 1

Isabella

The champagne flute is cold against my fingers, a fragile anchor in a sea of ghosts. This was supposed to be my party. My life. Eight years of my life, culminating in a celebration under these very crystal chandeliers, in the penthouse Julian and I picked out together.

Now, another woman stands beside him, her hand resting proprietarily on his chest. My stepsister, Chloe. Her belly is a gentle, smug swell beneath the silk of her white dress. A dress that looks suspiciously like a wedding gown.

My stomach churns with a toxic mix of alcohol and bile. A ghost at the feast. That’s what I am. A walking, breathing cautionary tale for the city’s elite, all of whom are pretending not to stare.

“Izzy, darling.”

Chloe’s voice is like poisoned honey. She glides over, her smile a perfect, predatory curve. She places a hand over her bump, a gesture that is anything but maternal. It’s a claim. A trophy.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, her eyes flicking over my simple black dress. It’s the only thing I own that still felt like mine. “We were worried you wouldn’t. It means so much that you’re here to support us.”

I take a long swallow of champagne. The bubbles burn. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Chloe. I’ve always enjoyed a good work of fiction.”

Her smile tightens for a fraction of a second. “Oh, Izzy. Always so sharp. That’s what Julian and I love about you.” She leans closer, her perfume, a cloying gardenia, suffocating me. “Honestly, I was a mess when we found out. I kept telling Julian, what will Bella think? She’s my sister. But love… well, it’s just not something you can control, is it?”

My grip on the glass is so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “No. Some things are harder to control than others. Loyalty, for instance. Decency.”

She lets out a little laugh, a tinkling sound that grates on my last nerve. “You’re hurt. I get it. But this baby… this baby is a blessing. It just forced us to be honest about our feelings. Feelings we’d been hiding for a very, very long time.”

The implication hangs in the air between us, thick and ugly. That this wasn’t a mistake, a one-time betrayal. It was a long-running affair, conducted while I planned a future with a man who was sleeping with my stepsister.

Julian appears behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her temple. He looks at me, his handsome face a mask of practiced pity. The same face that told me he loved me a thousand times. The same face that watched me pack my things from our apartment without a flicker of remorse.

“Bella,” he says, his voice soft. Patronizing. “I’m glad you’re here. It shows real maturity.”

“Does it?” I ask, my voice flat. “Or does it show I have a morbid curiosity to see how far the fall from grace actually is?”

Julian’s jaw clenches. He never liked it when I fought back. He preferred me pliable. Adoring. The perfect accessory for the Vance family empire.

“That’s not fair,” he says. “What happened between us… we just grew apart. Eight years is a long time. We wanted different things.”

“I wanted you,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “Apparently you wanted my replacement. An upgrade with fewer miles on the odometer.”

Chloe makes a wounded sound, pressing her face into Julian’s shoulder. “Julian, she’s being cruel.”

“She’s just lashing out,” he soothes, stroking her hair. He looks at me over her head. “We really do want you to be happy, Bella. You deserve to find someone. Someone who’s a better fit.”

There it is. The final, condescending nail in the coffin of our life together. He’s not just leaving me; he’s critiquing me. Releasing me into the wild like a pet that’s no longer suitable for his lifestyle.

“Don’t worry about me, Julian,” I say, draining my glass and setting it on a passing waiter’s tray with a decisive click. “I’m a survivor.”

I turn and walk away before they can see the tremor in my hands. I push through the clusters of whispering guests, their pitying glances like tiny needles on my skin. I need another drink. I need five more.

At the far end of the ballroom, away from the main crush, is a smaller, quieter bar. I lean against the cool marble, the noise of the party fading to a dull roar. The city glitters outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a million tiny, indifferent lights.

“Another champagne, please,” I tell the bartender.

“Make it a whiskey,” a low voice says beside me. “Macallan 18. Neat. She’s had enough bubbles for one night.”

I turn. He’s leaning against the bar, not looking at me but at the room, his posture relaxed but radiating a stillness that commands attention. He wasn’t here before. I would have noticed. Dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit, a stark contrast to the navy and grey favored by Julian’s circle, he looks like a predator who has wandered into a cage of canaries. His hair is dark, his jaw is sharp, and his eyes, when they finally slide to meet mine, are the color of old secrets.

There is no pity in his gaze. Only assessment. An unnerving, penetrating focus that sees right through the facade I’ve carefully constructed.

“I can order my own drinks,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

“You can,” he agrees, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “But you don’t want more champagne. You want something that burns.”

The bartender places the glass of amber liquid in front of me. The man pushes it gently toward my hand. His fingers are long, his knuckles clean, a simple, heavy silver ring on his pinky finger the only adornment.

I hesitate for a second, then pick up the glass. The whiskey is smooth, fiery, a welcome shock to my system. It clears away some of the champagne-fueled fog.

“Thank you,” I manage, the words feeling inadequate.

He gives a slight nod, taking a sip of his own drink. We stand in silence for a moment, an island of quiet in the swirling party.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” he observes, his eyes back on the crowd.

“An astute observation,” I reply, taking another sip of whiskey. “And you?”

“I’m exactly where I need to be.”

The answer is strange. Confident. Final. It makes me curious.

“Business?” I ask.

“Something like that.” His gaze sweeps the room, pausing for a fraction of a second on Julian, who is now holding court by the fireplace, Chloe clinging to his arm. “You know the groom?”

“I used to think so.”

He turns his head fully toward me then, and the full force of his attention is staggering. It’s like the rest of the room ceases to exist. “And the bride?”

“She’s my stepsister.”

A flicker of something—understanding, maybe even dark amusement—crosses his features. He doesn’t offer condolences. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He just holds my gaze, and in that moment, I feel seen. Not as the jilted fiancée, not as the poor, pathetic Bella Greer. But as a woman holding a glass of whiskey in a room full of enemies.

A reckless, desperate idea begins to form in the ruins of my heart. It’s born of humiliation and fueled by scotch. I will not leave this party alone. I will not go home to my empty apartment and cry into my pillow. I will not be their victim tonight.

I will be the woman who walked out with him.

I straighten up, drawing a deep breath. The alcohol has burned away my fear, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve.

“I have a proposition for you,” I say, my voice steady.

One of his dark eyebrows arches. “I’m listening.”

“You look as bored as I am. This party is a waste of a good suit.” I gesture with my head toward the exit. “Get me out of here.”

I expect him to question me. To laugh. To ask who I am. He does none of those things. He simply studies my face, his expression unreadable, searching for something in my eyes. He must find it, because a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips.

“Alright,” he says.

He places his empty glass on the bar and turns to me, extending his hand. “My name is Chase.”

I place my hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, sending a jolt straight up my arm. “Bella.”

“Well, Bella,” he says, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he laces his fingers through mine and starts walking, cutting a clean path through the crowd. People turn to watch us, their conversations faltering. The whispers follow us like a wave. I hold my head high, my fingers tightening around his.

We walk directly past the main group. I can feel Julian’s eyes on us. I can practically hear the furious hiss from Chloe.

I don’t look at them. I keep my eyes fixed on the doors, on the promise of escape. Chase’s presence is a shield. A declaration. He puts his free hand on the small of my back, a simple, possessive gesture that sets my skin on fire.

We don’t stop until we are in the private elevator, the polished brass doors sliding shut, encasing us in a silent, intimate space. The muffled sounds of the party die away.

Alone with him, my heart hammers against my ribs. I’ve just left my ex-fiancé’s engagement party on the arm of a complete stranger. A beautiful, intimidating stranger who looks at me like he knows every secret I’ve ever kept.

The elevator begins its smooth descent.

He releases my hand and turns to face me. The space feels suddenly smaller, charged with unspoken energy. “Second thoughts?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.

I lift my chin, meeting his intense gaze in the mirrored wall. “Not a single one.”

Chapter 2

Isabella

The first thing I register is the light. A cruel, uncompromising slash of white across a ridiculously expensive Egyptian cotton sheet. The second is the throb behind my eyes, a frantic drumbeat of regret.

I push myself up on my elbows. The room is vast, impersonal, and definitely not mine. Floor-to-ceiling windows display a panoramic view of the city, a view that costs more per night than my first car. The other side of the king-sized bed is empty. The sheets are cool.

He’s gone.

Chase.

A fizz of panic, sharp and unpleasant, cuts through the alcoholic haze. What did I do? I remember the elevator. His hand on my back. The intense, unnerving focus of his eyes. The rest is a blur of whiskey and defiance.

My dress is pooled on a chair, a sad black puddle. My phone is on the nightstand, buzzing insistently. A persistent, angry vibration that makes my teeth ache.

I reach for it, my hand shaking slightly. The screen is a constellation of notifications. Dozens of texts. Missed calls from numbers I don't recognize. And the headlines. Oh God, the headlines.

My finger hovers over a link from a gossip blog. The title screams: 'JILTED BELLA Greer’S DESPERATE REVENGE REBOUND.'

Before I can click, the screen changes. An incoming call. Chloe.

My thumb hits the green icon out of pure, morbid instinct.

“Izzy? Thank God. I’ve been calling all morning. We’ve been so worried.”

Her voice is a thick syrup of fake concern. It makes my stomach turn.

“Don’t be,” I say, my own voice a dry rasp. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? Darling, are you sure? Where are you?”

“I’m at a hotel.”

“A hotel,” she repeats, drawing the word out. “Oh. I see. Julian and I were just hoping you’d made it home safely. Alone.”

The unspoken accusation hangs there, glittering and sharp.

“Why are you calling, Chloe?”

“I’m worried about you, of course,” she says, her tone dripping with saccharine pity. “After we saw the pictures… well, we were just horrified for you.”

“What pictures?” I ask, even though my blood is turning to ice.

“Oh, you haven’t seen them? Poor thing. You should probably look before someone else shows you. Page Six has the clearest ones. The ones of you leaving with… him.”

My fingers feel like sausages as I navigate back to the browser. I click the link. And there it is. A grainy, long-lens photo of me and Chase walking out of the hotel. His hand is possessively on my back. My head is held high, but the camera flash catches a glint of desperation in my eyes. I look wild. Cornered.

He just looks powerful.

“They’re calling him your ‘mystery mechanic’,” Chloe says, her voice laced with amusement. “Something about the cut of his suit not quite hiding how rough his hands look. It’s all terribly romantic, in a gritty, working-class sort of way.”

I scroll down. Another photo. Us getting into a sleek, black car that I don’t recognize. The caption reads: 'Sources say Greer appeared intoxicated as she was led away by the handsome but unknown companion, a stark downgrade from billionaire fiancé Julian Vance.'

“You did this,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “You called them. You gave them the story.”

“Why would I ever do that, Izzy?” she asks, feigning a wounded gasp. “This reflects badly on all of us. On the family. Julian is beside himself. He said you looked so… broken. Grasping at the first man who showed you a moment of attention. He feels responsible, which is just so sweet of him.”

Every word is a carefully placed stiletto heel, grinding into the wound.

“He doesn’t get to feel responsible,” I say, my voice gaining a hard edge. “He abdicated that right when he put a baby inside you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “There’s no need to be vulgar. This isn’t about me. This is about your behavior. Honestly, Bella, what were you thinking? Who even is he?”

“His name is Chase.”

“Chase,” she muses. “Just Chase? No last name? No family I should know?”

The question is a trap. She already knows the answer. The tabloids have found nothing, which means he's a nobody.

“His name isn’t your concern, Chloe.”

“Well, I just hope he’s a nice man. For your sake. Even if he can’t afford… well, you know. Julian said his suit was probably a rental. It’s the heart that matters though, right?”

My grip tightens on the phone. She’s not just mocking me. She’s building a narrative. Painting me as the pathetic, cast-off woman who fell into the arms of the first available, unsuitable man. She’s making my one act of defiance look like a cry for help.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, my tone clipped.

“Actually, yes. Daddy wants to see you. This afternoon. He’s very… disappointed. This whole mess is tarnishing the Greer brand.”

Of course. The brand. Not his daughter’s broken heart. His hotel chain’s reputation.

“I’ll be there.”

“Good. And Izzy?” she adds, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just some sisterly advice. Don’t bring your new friend. I don’t think Daddy is ready to meet the help just yet.”

She hangs up.

I stare at the phone, at the picture of my own public humiliation. She’s won. She and Julian, they’ve taken my pain and twisted it into a weapon against me. They’ve made my escape look like a pathetic stumble.

I throw the phone across the room. It hits the plush carpet with a pathetic thud, failing to give me even the satisfaction of a good smash.

A wave of nausea rolls over me. I need to get out of here. I stand up too quickly, and the room spins. I brace myself against the polished mahogany of a dresser.

My clothes. I need my clothes. I spot my clutch purse on the nightstand, next to where my phone was. I grab it, my movements jerky. I need my keys. My wallet. A shred of my former life.

My fingers fumble inside, brushing against lipstick, my credit cards, and something else. Something small and stiff.

I pull it out.

It’s a card. Not a business card. Thicker. Heavier. The color of charcoal, with no gloss. In the center, embossed in a simple, severe silver font, is one word.

Chase.

Beneath it, a phone number. Nothing else. No company. No title. No address.

Chloe’s words echo in my head. *Just Chase?* *A mystery mechanic.* *The help.*

They think he’s nobody. They’re laughing at me for falling so far, so fast. From the heir of the Vance hotel empire to a man with nothing but a name on a piece of cardstock.

I sink down onto the edge of the bed, the card cool against my palm. The public mockery is just beginning. The whispers at the country club, the pitying looks from old friends, the triumphant smile on Chloe’s face when I see her next.

They expect me to hide. To crumble. To disappear under the weight of my shame.

A cold, hard anger begins to crystallize in my chest. It pushes out the hurt, the humiliation. It gives me something to hold onto.

They’ve written their narrative.

Now, I’ll write mine. With him.

I stare at the phone number on the card. It’s a lifeline. A weapon. A wild, reckless idea taking shape in the wreckage of my life.

They think he’s my downgrade. My moment of desperation.

I’m going to make him their worst nightmare.

Chapter 3

Isabella

The charcoal card is cool and heavy in my hand. A single name. A phone number. It feels like the only real thing in this sterile, silent hotel suite. Outside, the city I used to own mocks me with its glittering indifference.

I won't let them break me.

I shower, the water scalding hot, washing away the scent of him, of whiskey, of last night’s desperate gamble. I dress with the precision of a soldier preparing for battle. Not a dress. Not something soft or vulnerable. I pull on a pair of black trousers, sharp enough to cut, and a silk blouse the color of clotted blood. My heels are high, my makeup a perfect, impenetrable mask. I slide Chase’s card into my wallet. A secret weapon. A promise.

My childhood home doesn't feel like home. The Greer estate is a museum of my father’s success, all gleaming marble and cavernous silences. The air is thick with disapproval before I even step into the drawing room.

They’re all there, of course. A tribunal. My father, Arthur Greer, stands by the fireplace, his posture rigid, a tablet in his hand like a stone commandment. My stepmother, Eleanor, is perched on the edge of a velvet sofa, her hand resting protectively on Chloe’s shoulder.

And Chloe. She’s in the center of it all, dressed in pale cashmere, her baby bump prominent. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and wet, a perfect portrait of wounded innocence. Julian stands behind her, his hand on her chair, the loyal, concerned partner.

My father doesn’t greet me. He just turns the tablet in his hand, the screen glowing with the Page Six article. With my face.

“Explain this,” he says. His voice isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s the voice he uses when a hotel manager has failed to meet quarterly projections. Cold. Final.

“There’s nothing to explain,” I say, my voice steady. I walk to the drinks cart and pour myself a glass of water, my hands perfectly still. “I attended a party and I left.”

“You made a spectacle of yourself, Isabella,” he clips out. “You dragged the Greer name, our brand, into a gutter brawl with the Vances.”

“The Vances dragged me into this when Julian knocked up my stepsister,” I reply, taking a small sip of water.

Chloe lets out a sound, a little choked sob. Eleanor immediately starts rubbing her back.

“Arthur, please,” Eleanor says, her voice a sharp whisper. “Can’t you see she’s lashing out? She’s not well. This whole ordeal has been a terrible shock to her system.”

Julian steps forward. “With all due respect, sir, Eleanor is right. Bella is fragile right now. We’re all worried about her.”

My fingers tighten on the cool glass. “I’m not fragile, Julian. And I’m certainly not your concern anymore.”

“Of course you are,” Chloe says, her voice trembling. “You’re my sister. When I saw those pictures… my heart broke for you. You looked so lost. And that man… who is he? He looked… rough.”

Her words are a deliberate echo of our phone call. A performance for our father.

“He’s a friend,” I say, my tone clipped.

“A friend?” Julian scoffs, a condescending little smile playing on his lips. “It didn’t look very friendly, Bella. It looked desperate. You picked up the first man who looked at you in a bar.”

“It wasn’t a bar, it was your engagement party,” I correct him sweetly. “And he didn’t just look at me. He was a gentleman. Something you seem to have forgotten the definition of.”

“A gentleman?” Julian laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. “The papers are calling him a mechanic. They said he was probably wearing a rented suit. Is that your new standard, Bella? Has my leaving you reduced you to this?”

“Your leaving me was the best thing that ever happened to me,” I lie, the words tasting like acid. “It opened my eyes.”

“It seems to have opened your legs as well,” my father says, his voice dangerously low. The room falls silent. The cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

Chloe makes a gasping sound. “Daddy, don’t. She’s just hurting. She doesn’t know what she’s saying or doing. It’s why she found someone so… unsuitable. Someone who can’t protect her reputation because he doesn’t have one of his own.”

She looks at me, tears gathering in her eyes. “I’m just so scared for you, Izzy. A man like that… what does he want from you? Are you paying him? Is that it? Because Julian and I, we would help you. You don’t have to buy affection from… the help.”

The word hangs in the air. Help. It’s meant to be the final humiliation. The confirmation of my fall from grace.

I place my glass down on the table with a soft click. “The only person who was ever ‘the help’ in this family, Chloe, was you. Before you clawed your way into my fiancé’s bed.”

Her face crumbles. This time, the tears are real. Tears of rage. She turns and buries her face in Julian’s chest, her shoulders shaking.

“You see?” Julian says, his voice tight with fury as he glares at me over her head. “This is what I’m talking about. She’s out of control. She’s vicious.”

“She’s always been jealous of Chloe,” Eleanor adds, standing up. “Ever since I married you, Arthur. She’s never accepted us. Now she’s trying to ruin her sister’s happiness.”

The narrative is set. I am the villain. The unstable, jealous shrew, lashing out at the happy couple. They’ve twisted my pain into a weapon and are using it to beat me into submission.

My father’s face is like stone. He has made his decision.

“Enough,” he commands. “This ends now, Isabella. This public circus. This… sordid affair with this nobody. You will end it. You will stay out of the papers. You will conduct yourself with the dignity befitting a Greer. Am I understood?”

He isn’t asking me. He’s telling me. It's an order.

“And if I don’t?” I ask, my voice a quiet challenge.

“Do not test me,” he warns. “The brand, this family, is bigger than your fleeting emotional dramas. I have spent my life building an empire. I will not let you tarnish it because you can’t handle being replaced.”

Replaced. Like a worn-out part in a machine.

I look at their faces. My father’s cold disappointment. Eleanor’s smug triumph. Julian’s pitying contempt. Chloe’s tear-streaked, victorious face peeking out from Julian’s embrace.

There is no love for me here. No family. Just stakeholders in a brand I am currently devaluing.

The isolation is a physical thing, a sheet of ice closing around my heart. And in that cold, something hardens. Not sadness. Not defeat. Rage.

A pure, clean, clarifying rage.

“I understand perfectly,” I say, my voice devoid of all emotion. I turn without another word and walk out of the room, leaving their suffocating judgment behind me.

I don’t stop until I’m back in my car, the leather cool against my skin. My hands are shaking now, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind the hollow ache of betrayal. They’ve left me with nothing. No support. No family. Nothing to lose.

Which means I am finally free.

I take my phone out of my purse. My fingers find my wallet, sliding past credit cards until they touch the stiff, thick edge of the card. I pull it out.

Chase.

A phone number.

They think he’s my weakness. My mistake. My rock bottom.

They have no idea.

He’s my only move left on the board.

I press the numbers into my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button. The anger in my chest solidifies into a desperate, singular purpose.

I will not just prove them wrong.

I will burn their world to the ground.

I press call.