I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 318: Baby Doll

Brandon stepped through the warped wooden door and immediately regretted it.

The bar was dim. not in the curated, atmospheric way of high-end lounges but in the way of places that couldn’t afford proper lighting. Neon beer signs flickered against nicotine-stained walls. The air smelled of cheap lager, sweat, and old wood soaked with decades of spilled alcohol.

This was not his world.

When Brandon went to a bar, it was to places with velvet booths and aged whiskey lists that required explanation. Crystal glasses. Imported cigar smoke curling beneath chandeliers. Women in silk dresses. Men in tailored suits.

This place?

It was a hole in the wall.

Laborers still in work boots crowded the tables, their laughter loud and unfiltered. A few construction helmets sat abandoned on the counter. Someone in the back shouted over a football game playing on a mounted television with fuzzy reception.

In the middle of the room stood a small elevated stage, a single spotlight trained down onto a microphone stand. A woman in a sequined dress was finishing a tired rendition of an old pop song while a handful of patrons half-heartedly clapped along.

Brandon resisted the urge to grimace.

She had chosen this spot.

Baby Doll.

Even the name irritated him.

He adjusted his jacket subtly, aware that he looked out of place, expensive watch, polished shoes, posture too straight for this crowd.

As he made his way toward the bar, he scanned the room.

He was looking for blonde hair.

Short. Sleek. The way she’d worn it the last time.

He saw brunettes. Redheads. Dyed streaks of purple and blue.

But no blonde.

He checked his phone.

On time.

Exactly on time.

And she was nowhere to be seen.

He disliked being kept waiting.

"What would you like?"

The voice came from behind the counter, gravelly, slightly amused.

Brandon turned sharply.

The bartender was a woman in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint old scars. Her gaze was steady. Assessing.

For half a second, something about her seemed familiar.

A shape to her jaw. The angle of her eyes.

He squinted.

Then dismissed it.

He met too many people to remember every face.

"I’m looking for a girl," he said curtly.

Her brow lifted slightly.

"That narrows it down," she replied dryly.

He ignored the tone.

"I’m here to meet Baby Doll."

A faint flicker passed through her expression, something subtle, almost imperceptible.

Then it was gone.

"Sit down and take a drink," she said evenly. "She’ll be here."

Brandon bristled.

He did not like being instructed.

"Fine," he hissed. "I’ll have a beer. Give me any one."

In his mind, the sooner the beer arrived, the sooner he could justify leaving if she didn’t show.

The bartender grabbed a glass and turned toward the taps without further comment.

Brandon slid onto a bar stool, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.

He pulled out his phone.

No new messages.

He opened the call log.

Her number.

Disposable.

He had tried calling earlier, straight to dead line.

He cursed under his breath.

Idiot.

He should have insisted on a secondary contact.

But she had insisted on caution.

On secrecy.

And secrecy had suited him.

He needed someone like her.

Someone outside the usual circles.

Someone who could move without attracting attention.

The beer landed in front of him with a dull thud.

He stared at it.

Amber.

Foam slightly uneven.

Cheap.

He took a reluctant sip.

It tasted flat.

He swallowed anyway.

The bartender wiped the counter slowly, watching him from the corner of her eye.

"You don’t look like you belong here," she said casually.

"I don’t," he replied without hesitation.

A corner of her mouth twitched.

"So why are you?"

He glanced at her sharply.

"I told you. I’m meeting someone."

"And you trust this someone?"

He stiffened.

"That’s none of your concern."

She shrugged.

"Just making conversation."

The woman on stage finished her song and stepped down. A few men whistled half-heartedly. The spotlight dimmed.

Music from an old jukebox crackled to life.

Brandon checked his watch.

Ten minutes late.

His foot began tapping against the stool rung.

He scanned the entrance each time it opened.

A group of three men entered.

Then two women.

Still no blonde.

He imagined her deciding not to come.

Testing him.

Seeing how long he would wait.

He would not be made a fool.

He would give her fifteen more minutes.

No more.

Another sip of beer.

He hated how the noise pressed against his skull.

Laughter too loud.

Conversation too close.

He felt exposed.

Out of control.

He tried calling again out of frustration.

The automated message confirmed what he already knew.

Number unavailable.

He cursed again, louder this time.

A few heads turned.

The bartender’s eyes lingered on him longer now.

"You seem tense," she observed.

"Do I?" he snapped.

"Yes."

He looked away.

His mind drifted briefly, involuntarily to the cemetery.

To the drive earlier.

To the sense of being watched.

The paranoia crept back in.

What if this was a setup?

What if someone had traced his movements?

He scanned the room more carefully this time.

Two men at a corner table who weren’t drinking much.

A woman pretending to scroll her phone but glancing up too often.

His pulse quickened.

No.

He was overthinking.

Baby Doll had approached him first.

She had information.

She had hinted at leverage.

She claimed to know things about Levi.

About Lyse.

She had promised something valuable.

That was why he was here.

Not for the beer.

Not for the atmosphere.

But for opportunity.

He straightened slightly, trying to project composure.

"Relax," he muttered to himself.

The bartender leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the counter.

"She keeps interesting company, you know."

His head snapped toward her.

"What?"

"Baby Doll," she clarified. "She doesn’t meet just anyone."

His eyes narrowed.

"How do you know her?"

Another faint flicker of amusement.

"I know everyone who passes through here."

He didn’t like that answer.

"Then you know I’m not just anyone," he said coolly.

She studied him for a long moment.

"No," she agreed quietly. "You’re not."

The door opened again.

Brandon’s breath caught.

Blonde hair.

Finally.

A woman stepped in, shaking rain from her jacket.

But as she turned toward the light, his heart dropped.

Wrong face.

He clenched his jaw.

Fifteen minutes.

Then he was leaving.

He lifted the beer again, forcing himself to drink slower now, to appear patient.

To appear unfazed.

But beneath the surface, irritation coiled tightly.

He did not like unpredictability.

He did not like being summoned.

He did not like not being in control.

The bartender slid a small bowl of peanuts toward him.

"On the house," she said.

He stared at them like they were an insult.

"I didn’t ask for that."

"I know."

Silence stretched between them.

The clock above the liquor shelf ticked steadily.

Seventeen minutes.

He stood abruptly.

"I don’t wait for people," he muttered.

The bartender’s gaze didn’t shift.

"Maybe that’s your problem."

He paused.

"What?"

She shrugged.

"Nothing."

He tossed a few bills onto the counter, far more than the beer cost and stepped away from the stool.

He glanced once more at the entrance. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Empty.

His chest tightened with a mixture of anger and unease.

This didn’t feel right.

He turned toward the door.

Behind him, the bartender watched quietly.

And somewhere in the crowded, noisy bar, unnoticed by Brandon was a small camera embedded in the corner of the stage light blinked once.

Recording.