Fiancé Cheated... So I Took His Rival’s Deal - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
You are reading Fiancé Cheated... So I Took His Rival’s Deal, Chapter 4: Chapter 4. Read more chapters of Fiancé Cheated... So I Took His Rival’s Deal.
Camila freshened up quickly. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through her window when a notification popped up in her side gig group chat:
(Upscale restaurant opening TONIGHT—desperately need violinist. $2,000 for 3 hours. DM samples ASAP.)
The 200+ member chat buzzed with pianists and guitarists, but violinists were rarer. Still, the fat paycheck had competitors scrambling. No way Camila was letting this slip through her fingers.
She fired off a performance video Jasmine had filmed. Ten minutes later: "You're hired. But show starts in 60—can you make it?"
Camila: Send address.
A map pin appeared. Her fingers flew: ETA 30 min.
The reply came with a cherry on top: "Nail this and there's a $700 bonus."
$2,700—more than her entire monthly paycheck at the music studio. Now that's high-end, she thought, yanking on performance blacks and grabbing her violin case.
She arrived early. The manager's eyes lit up at her runway-worthy posture. "Ms. Bateman, ever consider a permanent gig? I'll pay double standard rates."
Camila's guard shot up. "What exactly would 'permanent' entail?" Nothing this lucrative came without strings.
The man offered a practiced smile. "Occasional client entertaining—just drinks with respectable guests. Nothing untoward."
"I'll think about it," she said, already scanning the setlist. Slipping into the provided white chiffon gown, she dusted on minimal makeup and took the stage.
First a solo, then ensemble pieces. Smooth sailing—until the restaurant doors swung open.
Every male head swiveled like magnets to steel.
Carl Anderson—Noel's baby brother—followed the collective gaze and choked on his cocktail. "Holy shit. Is that... Camila?"
The woman on stage bore zero resemblance to his brother's meek ex. Backlit by mood lighting, her silhouette curved against the violin's neck, fingers dancing over strings. The chiffon dress clung to her waist like liquid moonlight. This wasn't the faded wallpaper of Noel's life—this was a goddamn Renaissance painting come to life.
Carl rubbed his eyes. Same delicate features, but now crackling with energy. Where was the heartbroken mess Noel swore would come crawling back? This woman radiated confidence that had businessmen leaning so far forward their ties dipped in soup.
If Noel sees this... Carl bolted for the private dining room next door.
The door slammed against the wall. Noel glared up from his steak. "Christ, Carl. Act like you've been in public before."
Carl ignored the dig. "Dude. Camila's performing next door."
Noel's knife paused mid-cut. A smirk crept in. "Finally came to her senses, huh? Tell her I'll—"
"Are you listening?" Carl deadpanned. "She's on stage. In a backless gown. Playing Vivaldi while dudes throw napkins to wipe their drool."
"Impossible." Noel's chair screeched back. "She knows I hate—"
"Exactly." Carl crossed his arms. "Face it—she's done."
Noel's phone was already out. One call. Straight to voicemail. Blocked. His jaw twitched.
By 11 PM, he was storming into the emptying restaurant. A waiter pointed to the musician's exit. There—violin case in hand, chiffon swapped for jeans, but unmistakably Camila.
He grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise. "You disgrace yourself in this dive for attention?"
Camila didn't flinch. Just leveled a look that could frost hell. "Let go. Or I'll show you what disgrace really looks like."
The surrounding musicians froze. Noel's grip tightened—until he registered the cell phones pointed their way, red recording lights blinking.
For the first time in years, Camila watched uncertainty flicker across his face. She wrenched free with a laugh. "Run along, Noel. Your fragile ego's showing."
(Upscale restaurant opening TONIGHT—desperately need violinist. $2,000 for 3 hours. DM samples ASAP.)
The 200+ member chat buzzed with pianists and guitarists, but violinists were rarer. Still, the fat paycheck had competitors scrambling. No way Camila was letting this slip through her fingers.
She fired off a performance video Jasmine had filmed. Ten minutes later: "You're hired. But show starts in 60—can you make it?"
Camila: Send address.
A map pin appeared. Her fingers flew: ETA 30 min.
The reply came with a cherry on top: "Nail this and there's a $700 bonus."
$2,700—more than her entire monthly paycheck at the music studio. Now that's high-end, she thought, yanking on performance blacks and grabbing her violin case.
She arrived early. The manager's eyes lit up at her runway-worthy posture. "Ms. Bateman, ever consider a permanent gig? I'll pay double standard rates."
Camila's guard shot up. "What exactly would 'permanent' entail?" Nothing this lucrative came without strings.
The man offered a practiced smile. "Occasional client entertaining—just drinks with respectable guests. Nothing untoward."
"I'll think about it," she said, already scanning the setlist. Slipping into the provided white chiffon gown, she dusted on minimal makeup and took the stage.
First a solo, then ensemble pieces. Smooth sailing—until the restaurant doors swung open.
Every male head swiveled like magnets to steel.
Carl Anderson—Noel's baby brother—followed the collective gaze and choked on his cocktail. "Holy shit. Is that... Camila?"
The woman on stage bore zero resemblance to his brother's meek ex. Backlit by mood lighting, her silhouette curved against the violin's neck, fingers dancing over strings. The chiffon dress clung to her waist like liquid moonlight. This wasn't the faded wallpaper of Noel's life—this was a goddamn Renaissance painting come to life.
Carl rubbed his eyes. Same delicate features, but now crackling with energy. Where was the heartbroken mess Noel swore would come crawling back? This woman radiated confidence that had businessmen leaning so far forward their ties dipped in soup.
If Noel sees this... Carl bolted for the private dining room next door.
The door slammed against the wall. Noel glared up from his steak. "Christ, Carl. Act like you've been in public before."
Carl ignored the dig. "Dude. Camila's performing next door."
Noel's knife paused mid-cut. A smirk crept in. "Finally came to her senses, huh? Tell her I'll—"
"Are you listening?" Carl deadpanned. "She's on stage. In a backless gown. Playing Vivaldi while dudes throw napkins to wipe their drool."
"Impossible." Noel's chair screeched back. "She knows I hate—"
"Exactly." Carl crossed his arms. "Face it—she's done."
Noel's phone was already out. One call. Straight to voicemail. Blocked. His jaw twitched.
By 11 PM, he was storming into the emptying restaurant. A waiter pointed to the musician's exit. There—violin case in hand, chiffon swapped for jeans, but unmistakably Camila.
He grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise. "You disgrace yourself in this dive for attention?"
Camila didn't flinch. Just leveled a look that could frost hell. "Let go. Or I'll show you what disgrace really looks like."
The surrounding musicians froze. Noel's grip tightened—until he registered the cell phones pointed their way, red recording lights blinking.
For the first time in years, Camila watched uncertainty flicker across his face. She wrenched free with a laugh. "Run along, Noel. Your fragile ego's showing."
End of Fiancé Cheated... So I Took His Rival’s Deal Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to Fiancé Cheated... So I Took His Rival’s Deal book page.