I Paid a Sexy Guitarist Ten Grand a Month to Be Mine, Turns Out He's My Family's Rival Heir.
I wasn’t supposed to end up in a dive bar on a Wednesday night, but my brother’s latest round of sarcastic jabs about my “spoiled rich kid” life had me storming out of the family estate, keys in hand, desperate for an escape. That’s how I found myself pushing through the creaky door of The Rusty Note, a hole-in-the-wall joint near campus that smelled like stale beer and regret. The lights were dim, flickering like they were on their last breath, and the crowd was a mix of broke students and grizzled regulars nursing cheap whiskey. I didn’t belong here—Nathan Caldwell, heir to a real estate empire, slumming it in a place where the barstools wobbled—but something about the chaos felt right.
Then I saw him.
He was up on the tiny stage, a beat-up acoustic guitar slung across his chest, fingers sliding over the strings like they were an extension of him. Hunter. That’s what the bartender called him when I asked, leaning over the sticky counter with a twenty-dollar bill to pry out a name.
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