The Billionaire’s Brat
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Nineteen-year-old Tiffany Dion is daddy's little girl, and she would do anything to save her father's company, even if that includes getting married to a pompous show off who calls her a rude brat. Although her husband to be is currently top three among the world's youngest directors, Tiffany can't help but think that he's just childish and annoying. At first, they had it out for each other, fighting over the pettiest and darnest things, but after everything, they put aside their differences and let love lead them. But not without facing some obstacles in the way of their love. Shawn always comes to her rescue whenever she's in danger because she's his brat. Not anyone's but his.
Tiffany clenched and unclenched her fists as they stood in front of the restaurant waiting for their reservation to be confirmed. She smoothed her velvet green skirt over and over again and tapped the sides of her french bun, attempting to fix it even though she knew it was already perfect. She couldn't help it, though, she was nervous. More nervous than she had ever been before.
Afterall, it wasn't every day one met their fiancé for the first time.
The restaurant staff looked up from the list in his hand, and offered them a too-bright smile, having found their names on the list.
"Yes, Mr. and Miss Dion," he said, his attitude immediately taking a huge turn from the sour display earlier, probably recognising the last name, "Will it be just the two of you tonight?"
"No," Tiffany's dad, Russell Dion, said. "We're expecting two more guests."
"Alright, that's perfect, sir." Said the staff, and he snapped his fingers to summon a waiter to them like calling a dog. "Please, let us escort you to your table. That will be, table five."
The waiter bowed, looking nervous and flustered, but escorted them to a very good table near the center of the room and in the crux of the state-of-the-art lighting, so that no shadows were cast on anyone that sat down to eat there.
They sent the waiter away for water, claiming they would only order once their guests arrived, and he left them with a deep bow.
"I don't like this place," Tiffany said to her father as soon as she was seated, "They treat their staff like slaves."
She cut an impressive figure even just sitting. From her perfect posture and poise, one could easily tell that she was a lady of fine upbringing. Her green velvet dress hung gently and gracefully off her skin, and the dip of her collarbones was elegantly adorned with a simple silver chain. Small green emeralds hung from her ears and dangled from her wrists, these three the only jewelry she had on.
She had debated for a long time whether to keep her look simple or elaborate, but in the end decided to just go with what she was most comfortable with. There was no point putting up appearances, afterall. If she was going to marry this man, then he should get comfortable with seeing her as she truly was.
Not to say that she wasn't nervous about what he would think of her appearance. She was nervous as hell. If she had read clearly into what her father was purposely not telling her, then it seemed that the fate of their company, and ultimately, her future, rested on this single night. And she had to do everything in her power to make sure it worked.
Her father shrugged at her statement. He kept looking over his shoulder to see if his guests had arrived yet. "I don't care much for it either," he said, "But it's apparently the young Mr. Gold's favourite, so it would be tactful to eat here."
Under the table, Tiffany's hand clenched on her knees, and her heart sank even lower than it had been all night. She had tried, had really tried to get comfortable with the idea of this man. Afterall, one had to like someone before they began to love them. She had even asked her father to tell her all he knew about him. But unfortunately, everything she'd heard had only made her form a bad opinion of him.
He'd sounded like a stuck-up, arrogant, up-tight asshole, who knew nothing but how to work and how to look down on others, but Tiffany decided to put her impressions away until she actually met him. She really, really hoped they were wrong.
The water arrived, and the Golds still hadn't. Tiffany shifted in her chair, suppressing the urge to get up and go to the bathroom to fix her hair and make up. She knew they were already perfect – she'd seen them at home, and nothing particularly perilous had occured in the twenty minutes' drive from their house to the restaurant, and so by all reasonable logic there was nothing to fix. However she still couldn't stop herself from twitching nervously, first raising her hands up to her face or hair, halting it in mid air, then returning it back to the table, and then her lap.
She did this for a few minutes before her dad noticed her twitchy behavior and glanced at her. She instantly felt guilty at the worry that immediately clouded his face, and he reached a hand across the table to clasp her own.
"Tiff?" He asked with concern in a low voice, "Are you alright? If you're not sure about this, we can—"
"I'm fine, dad, really." Tiffany said bravely, smiling reassuringly at her father. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. "I'm here because I want to be. You don't have to worry."
Her dad smiled at her, hopefully reassured. "My brave girl. Your mother would be proud."
The mention of the mother she had never known was too much at that point, so she quickly excused herself afterall, claiming she needed to use the restroom. If her father noticed anything was off, he gave no indication.
Once she was there, she stood facing the mirror over the elegant sink, staring at her reflection. Her own green eyes gazed back at her in desperation, a little red-tinged at the edges. If truth be told, she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, anxious about today's meeting, and now she was feeling the effects. She felt faintly nauseous and somewhat dizzy, and overall the feeling of diluted fear and uncertainty bordered on overwhelming.
Gripping the sink, she leaned forward to face her reflection, whispering, "Get it together, Tiff. You can do this. Be. Strong." Those were her words, the ones she usually whispered to herself with when she was about to go on a new diet, or to an audition, and even now they gave her a little bit of strength. Enough for her to decide she was ready to go back outside.
She turned on the tap and splashed her face with water, and when she looked back at her reflection, she gasped in horror.
She forgot she had been wearing makeup. Her mascara ran down her face in dark lines, making her lashes stick together in wet, dark clumps, and her blush and foundation were now uneven and smudgy. She literally looked like the corpse bride.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck," she cursed, quickly opening her purse to search for a solution. She had to fix it, and fast. What if the Golds had already arrived? Would they think she was suffering from constipation or something? Tiffany groaned to herself at the thought. That would be so embarrassing.
She located some wipes and, deciding that it would be better for her to just start over, cleaned all the makeup off her face save her lipstick, which was fainter now but she decided she liked it. She quickly touched up on her concealer and blush, fixed her eyebrows and applied more mascara. Then finally, touched up just a little on her lips.
The overall effect wasn't too bad for something so rushed, but it definitely didn't look as good as it had before. She bit her lip, worrying, but then deciding there was nothing else she could do about it, left to go rejoin her father at the table.
Immediately Tiffany returned to the dining area, the sight of their table made her heart skip a beat.
Contrary to the way she'd left him, her father was no longer alone. Instead, he sat at the table with two other men, one older gentleman and a younger one, additions that could only be the guests they were expecting. Her dad looked to be deeply engaged in an amusing conversation with the older, while the younger sat rigidly, arms crossed, nodding and offering stiff smiles in intervals. There was a cold but regal air to him, and the way he held himself forcibly reminded Tiffany of the phrase "proud peacock."
As if he'd somehow magically heard her thoughts, the man suddenly lifted his head, his eyes instantly finding hers in the dim lighting, and even from across the room the shock of his gaze made her feel a little dizzier, a little weaker than she had been before.
Her heart skipped anothe
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