The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Emma Brooks' POV.

The diner smelled like burnt coffee and old grease. I had been breathing it for four years, and I still was not used to it.

Sixty hour weeks. Double shifts. A nametag that said Emma with a smiley face someone else had drawn. I wiped down the same stretch of counter for the third time, my reflection staring back at me from the scratched surface. Pale. Tired. Twenty five going on fifty. Dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could fix. Chapped lips. Hair falling out of its ponytail.

My phone buzzed in my apron.

I already knew what it was. The same message every morning for the past three months. But I looked anyway, because some stupid part of me still hoped for a miracle.

St. Mary's Hospital. Balance overdue. Forty seven thousand, eight hundred and thirty two dollars. Final notice.

I shoved the phone back down and grabbed the coffee pot. My hands were shaking. They had been shaking a lot lately. My mother had been sick for two years. Cancer, the doctors said. The treatable kind, they said at first. Then it became the complicated kind. Then it became the kind where you needed experimental treatments that insurance would not cover.

My father left before the diagnosis. Walked out one Tuesday night with a suitcase and a woman from his office. I had not heard from him since. There was no one else. Just me and a debt that grew faster than I could pour coffee.

The dinner rush had ended an hour ago. The lunch crowd would not start for another two. The only customers left were a homeless man asleep in the corner booth and a businessman typing on his laptop by the window. Normal night. Quiet night. The kind of night where nothing happened and no one came.

I poured myself a cup of cold coffee and leaned against the counter. My feet ached. My back ached. My soul ached. Frank, the owner, had been muttering about cutting my hours again. Business was slow, he said. He could not afford me, he said. He said a lot of things that made me want to cry in the walk in freezer.

The bell above the door rang.

I did not look up at first. Another customer. Another two dollar tip if I was lucky. Another hour added to the thousand I would need to work before my mother's debt disappeared.

Then I felt it.

The air changed. The way the air changes before a storm. Heavy. Electric. Charged with something I could not name.

I looked up.

He walked in like he owned the place. And knowing Manhattan real estate, he probably owned half of it.

Dark charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year. Crisp white shirt with no tie, the top two buttons undone, revealing a sliver of collarbone and a hint of chest. Hair black as ink, swept back from a face that belonged on magazine covers. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of a stormy sea.

I had seen him before. Everyone in New York had seen him before. On billboards in Times Square. On the cover of Forbes. On my roommate Sophie's phone screen when she screamed that he was single again last month.

Damian Black.

He scanned the diner like he was searching for something specific. Someone specific. His gaze passed over the homeless man without stopping. Passed over the businessman without pausing. Landed on me.

And held.

I forgot how to breathe. My lungs stopped working. My heart slammed against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. The coffee pot slipped in my hand. I caught it before it fell, but barely.

He walked toward me. Not fast. Not slow. The way a predator moves when it already knows the kill is certain. His expensive shoes made no sound on the sticky tile floor, but I felt every step in my chest. Every step. Every heartbeat. Every shallow breath.

Emma Brooks. His voice was low. Smooth. The kind of voice that probably convinced people to sign terrible contracts and enjoy doing it.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I tried again.

Yes.

That was all I managed. One word. Small and pathetic and nothing like the woman I used to be before life broke me down.

His lips curved. Not a smile. Something colder. Something hungrier. Something that made my stomach tighten and my skin prickle with awareness.

He said he had an offer for me.

Ten minutes later, I sat across from Damian Black in the back of a town car so expensive the leather seats still smelled new. The windows were tinted so dark I could not see the street outside. A privacy screen separated us from the driver. The city lights of Manhattan blurred past in golden smears, but I could not look away from him.

Damian had removed his jacket. It lay folded on the seat beside him. The thin fabric of his white shirt stretched across his chest with every breath he took. I noticed. I hated that I noticed. I was a waitress with chapped lips and a dying mother. He was a billionaire who probably had women throwing themselves at him every hour of every day.

He had no business looking at me like that. Like he was hungry. Like I was the only thing on the menu.

He said he had done his research. My mother. The debt. The eviction notice taped to my apartment door. The sixty hours a week I worked just to fall further behind. He knew about my father leaving. He knew about the scholarship I lost when I dropped out to care for my mother. He knew everything.

My face burned with shame. I wanted to be offended. I wanted to tell him to stop, that my life was not his to dissect. But I was too tired to afford dignity. Too desperate to pretend I had any pride left.

Victoria Sterling left me three weeks before the wedding. His voice was flat. Emotionless. But I saw something flicker in his storm colored eyes. Something raw. Something wounded. For Marcus Thorne. Older. Richer. She said I was not enough.

I said nothing. What could I say to a billionaire who had just admitted his fiancée dumped him for a wealthier man? What comfort could I possibly offer?

This weekend, he continued. The Thorne-Sterling engagement gala is at the Plaza. Victoria will be there. Marcus will be there. Half of New York's elite will be there. His eyes locked onto mine. And I will be there with a new fiancée on my arm.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Surely I misheard. Surely the exhaustion had finally broken my brain.

One weekend, he said. Three days. You will wear designer clothes. Sleep in my penthouse. Smile at my side while Victoria chokes on her champagne. In exchange, I will pay you one million dollars.

The world tilted. The leather seat shifted beneath me. Or maybe I shifted. I could not tell. Everything felt distant and too close at the same time.

I whispered that I thought he was joking.

Damian unfolded a piece of paper from his jacket. A contract. Crisp white paper, dense black text. My name was already typed into several blank spaces. He placed it on the seat between us.

Fifty thousand upfront, he said. The rest upon successful completion of the weekend. All expenses paid. Wardrobe. Hair. Makeup. Anything you need.

My hand trembled as I reached for the contract. The paper was smooth. Expensive. The kind of paper that probably cost more than a ream of the cheap stuff I used for my mother's medical forms.

One million dollars. My mother's hospital bills. The eviction notice. Sophie's student loans that I had been secretly helping with. All of it. Gone. Erased. Like none of it ever happened.

I looked up at him. His face was unreadable. Cold. Controlled. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something I could not name. Something that made my stomach flip.

Damian said there was one more thing. Victoria is a snake. She will try to destroy you. She will dig into your past. She will try to make you break. You cannot break. No matter what she says. No matter what she does. You smile. You hold my hand. And you do not break.

I lifted my chin. I had been broken before. My father leaving. My mother getting sick. The debt. The loneliness. The nights I cried myself to sleep because I could not see a way out.

I was still standing.

I told him I understood.

Damian pulled a silver pen from his pocket. A Montblanc. I knew because my mother used to work in an office supply store and she always pointed out the expensive ones. He held it out to me.

Then sign.

I took the pen. Our fingers brushed. His skin was warm. Too warm. A shock ran up my arm, straight to my chest, straight to somewhere lower that I did not want to name.

I looked down at the contract. At my name. At the number that would change everything.

I signed.

When I finished, Damian took the contract back. His eyes scanned my signature. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. Like he was seeing me for the first time.

He leaned closer. His hand came up. His fingers touched my chin. Lifted my face toward his. His thumb brushed my lower lip. Once. Twice. Slow.

He said he had one more rule.

I could barely breathe. I asked what.

His eyes dropped to my lips. Stayed there.

He said when we are in public, I will have to touch you. Hold your hand. Put my arm around you. Maybe kiss you. He paused. His thumb traced my lip again. Will that be a problem?

I shook my head. No words. No air.

Good, he said. Then his mouth was on mine.

It was not a gentle kiss. Not a testing kiss. It was a claiming kiss. His hand slid into my hair. His tongue swept against my lower lip. I gasped, and he took advantage, sliding inside, tasting me. His other hand gripped my waist, pulled me closer. I could feel the heat of his body through his shirt. Could feel something else too. Something hard pressing against my thigh.

He pulled back just enough to speak. His voice was rough.

He said he wanted to make sure I could handle it.

I could not think. Could not speak. My lips were swollen. My body was on fire. My thighs pressed together instinctively.

He smiled. A real smile this time. Dark. Dangerous.

He said welcome to my world, Emma Brooks.

Then he tapped on the privacy screen and told the driver to take us to the penthouse.

My heart was still racing. My lips were still burning. And somewhere deep in my chest, I knew I had just made a deal with a man who would consume me entirely.

The car pulled into traffic.

I did not look back.