Service Was Mediocre: Reviewing My Billionaire Lover

Inside the penthouse, Cullen Hunter walked over to the nightstand. He picked up the three hundred dollars. He crushed the bills in his fist, his knuckles turning white. He looked at the empty space where she had stood.

He didn't feel the satisfaction he usually felt when he discarded a nuisance. He felt a burning, unfamiliar irritation.

"You're awake. Finally."

The voice was low, vibrating with a morning rasp that usually sent shivers down a woman's spine. But for Avery Hall, it triggered a sharp, blinding headache that started behind her eyes and drilled into her skull.

She didn't open her eyes immediately. Her body felt heavy, like she had been dragged over gravel. The scent of sandalwood and expensive, chemically crisp laundry detergent filled her nose. It wasn't the smell of her mildewy apartment in West Hollywood.

It was the smell of money. Cold, hard money.

Avery opened her eyes. The ceiling was too high. The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass was too bright. She turned her head, ignoring the stiffness in her neck, and looked out at the Los Angeles skyline. It sprawled below her like a circuit board of grey and smog.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her brain. She knew this room. She knew the minimalist grey furniture that looked uncomfortable to sit on. She knew the man who was currently running the shower in the adjacent bathroom.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing an oversized white dress shirt that wasn't hers. Her legs were bare. There were faint, purple bruises blossoming on her thighs.

The memories hit her then. Not her memories. The memories of the woman she used to be-or the woman she was supposed to be in this script. The desperate, clawing need for validation. The drugs slipped into a drink at a party she wasn't invited to. The stumbling into Cullen Hunter's car. The begging.

She sat up, the movement making the room spin. She wasn't that woman anymore. The realization settled in her chest, heavy as a stone. She had woken up in the "Death Flag" scene. This was the morning Avery Hall got kicked out, humiliated, and started her downward spiral into oblivion.

The shower turned off. The silence that followed was louder than the water had been.

She had maybe two minutes.

Avery swung her legs off the bed. Her feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and the shock helped ground her. She spotted her dress-a torn, sequined disaster-crumpled in the corner. She cursed under her breath.

She moved to the nightstand. There it was. A single sheet of heavy, cream-colored personal stationery lay next to a signed, blank check drawn from a private bank. The payoff. The silence fee.

A surge of anger flared in her gut, hot and acidic. It burned away the last of the fear. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to beg him to love her. She was going to rewrite this scene.

She grabbed her clutch from the floor. She found her own clothes in the bathroom doorway, draped over a sleek, black valet stand that had steamed them perfectly dry and wrinkle-free during the night. She dressed with military precision, ignoring the soreness in her muscles.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Cullen Hunter stepped out. A towel hung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, trailing down his abdomen. He was beautiful in the way a switchblade was beautiful-sharp, dangerous, and likely to cut you if you held him wrong.

He stopped when he saw her standing there, fully dressed. His dark eyes narrowed. He braced himself, his jaw tightening. He was waiting for the tears. He was waiting for her to throw herself at his feet.

Avery didn't look at his chest. She met his eyes. Her face was a mask of terrifying boredom.

Cullen opened his mouth. "Avery, don't make this difficult. You know you're-"

"Cheap?" she finished for him. Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

She walked back to the nightstand. She opened her clutch and pulled out her wallet. It was thin. She took out everything she had. Three hundred dollars in crumpled twenties and tens.

She slapped the bills onto the nightstand, right on top of his pristine, signed check.

Cullen stared at the money. His brow furrowed. It was a genuine crack in his armor. He looked from the cash to her face, confusion warring with his usual disdain.

"Service was mediocre," Avery lied. She kept her face completely neutral.

She turned on her heel. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her steps were steady.

"Avery," Cullen's voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a question anymore. It was a warning. "If you think this game will work..."

She paused at the heavy oak door. She didn't turn her body, just her head. She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes flat.

"It's not a game, Mr. Hunter. It's a review."

She opened the door and slammed it shut behind her.

The sound echoed in the hallway. Avery leaned against the wood for a second, squeezing her eyes shut, exhaling the breath she had been holding since she woke up. Her hands were trembling.

She pushed off the door and walked to the elevator. She pressed the button with a shaking finger. She had just insulted the most dangerous predator in Los Angeles.