The Saintess Chose The Wrong Man

Chapter 3

Everything in Lombard’s brain shut down. Every cells.

One hundred million.

“I—I…”

God. He was stuttering now? Really? “I just… I just have to stay with him?” Lombard asked, like the words themselves might explode.

“Yeah, man. I’m really sorry for breaking into your schedule like this,” the voice said quickly. “But don’t worry—I got you someone. A woman. She’s twenty-seven. I already gave her your number.”

Lombard frowned.

He almost asked what a woman was supposed to do when all he needed was to stay with a kid for one night—but hey. Pride. Composure. Whatever scraps of dignity he still had left.

“Okay,” he said, forcing his voice into something flippant.

“Thank you so much, Lomb. My son’s gonna be really happy to have you. I told you about him already.”

“Alright.”

Lombard hung up first.

Then he checked again.

Credit Alert: $100,000,000

For one night.

That was insane.

Four years ago, he wouldn’t have accepted this kind of interruption even if the money had been doubled. Back then, his schedule mattered. His time mattered. His life had weight.

Now?

He shook his head, bitter, and flagged down a cab. His bag was gone with the car anyway. Funny how life packed itself up for you when it was done using you.

****

Back at the house, the boy was already waiting at the gate, practically vibrating with excitement.

His father had called him last minute—said he’d found an old friend who would accompany him to the charity board donations. The nanny had been arranged weeks ago, but she’d left suddenly to handle an emergency.

“He’s a great man. My old friend since we were eighteen,” his father had said minutes earlier. “I haven’t heard from him in years, but that man has everything a successful person could ever want. Think of someone who turned down five Ivy League schools—even after they begged him for negotiations worth millions.”

Finn’s feet shuffled nervously as he waited at the gate.

This was big.

His dad’s mysterious friend. A legend. Someone he could casually name-drop at the charity board, someone who would look good standing beside him. Someone who screamed credibility.

Then a car stopped at the gate.

Finn’s excitement spiked—

Then stalled.

The car looked like a cab.

Wait.

A cab?

Red flags flashed immediately, but Finn brushed them aside. Maybe it was just a temporary thing. Maybe the driver was parking.

Then the door opened.

Lombard stepped out.

The shirt he wore had definitely lived through better days. Seen success. Lost it. Been washed too many times. Retired against its will.

Finn’s stomach dropped.

Disappointment hit him fast and heavy.

“Good evening,” Finn said anyway, walking forward, forcing politeness like it owed him money. “Mr. Lombard?” he asked, just to be sure.

“And you must be Elliot’s son,” Lombard said, studying him. “You look exactly like him.”

“Y-yeah. I’m Finn.”

Awkward. All of it was awkward.

Every fantasy Finn had built in the last five minutes collapsed quietly into a ditch.

There was no way this man—standing here, broke-looking, cab-delivered—had anything useful to offer him. No clout. No stories. Definitely nothing Ivy League–worthy.

“So?” Lombard asked casually.

“Oh—right.” Finn laughed, too fast. “My dad must’ve told you. We’re going to a charity board donation.”

“Ooh. Right,” Lombard nodded. “He didn’t tell me that. Just said to stay with you tonight.”

Shit.

Finn swallowed hard. He would never forgive his father for this.

“I’m a senior,” Finn said quickly, trying to recover. “So… this matters. I have to write about it in my essay. About how I care about kids with nothing. You know. From the money I made from my startup.”

The last shred of hope holding Finn together slipped away.

He had been expecting something—a boast, a casual name-drop, even a lazy remark about how Ivy League schools were easy to manipulate if you knew the right people.

But Lombard said nothing.

Nothing at all.

“We might need to get you some clothes first,” Finn said quickly, scrambling for control. “Maybe a suit. You’ll be introduced to the top elite on my board as my… uh, guardian.”

“Alright,” Lombard said calmly. “I’ll handle it. I’ll order something. It should be here in ten minutes.”

Finn blinked.

Ten minutes?

There was no way. He was already picturing cheap fabric, rushed tailoring, something embarrassing enough to reflect badly on him by association.

“I—excuse me,” Finn muttered, already turning away.

He went inside and dialed his father immediately.

“Dad,” he hissed the moment the call connected. “How could you do this to me? Is that man even your friend?”