FAKE DATING WITH BENEFITS: MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS

CHAPTER 9

~ JAMIE

"So, Simon, tell me more about this luxury goods company you run," my Aunt Marta asked, eyes gleaming as she cut into her roast beef. "My friend has a Bellini bag that cost more than my car. Very fancy stuff."

Simon smiled—that smile I was starting to recognize as his "social mode." Charming enough to win anyone over, but measured enough that nothing slipped out that he didn't want to share. "Well, Aunt Marta, my job is basically convincing rich people to spend even more money on things they don't need but definitely want."

The aunts laughed, all of them. Even my mother, who usually distrusted any man who wasn't a doctor or a lawyer, was smiling.

"Humble, isn't he?" my great-aunt Margaret commented, poking Simon's arm with her knife. "A rich man who doesn't flaunt it. That's rare."

"I just try not to be boring, Aunt Margaret."

The rain started outside suddenly—thick, drumming against the dining room windows like someone was hurling buckets of water from the sky. A distant thunderclap echoed, followed by another, closer.

"My God, it's really coming down," my mother commented, looking at the dark window. "That storm came out of nowhere."

"At least we're all inside," my father added, grabbing more potatoes. "Better than being out on the road."

I tried to focus on the plate in front of me, but it was impossible to ignore the scene around me. Simon was at the center of everything, answering questions with that natural ease that made it seem like he'd always been part of this family.

Across the table, Oliver was too quiet.

I knew him well enough to recognize how much this was eating at him. Oliver had always been the successful son-in-law, the admired neurosurgeon. Except now Simon was stealing every ounce of attention.

"So, Simon, I was just thinking..." Oliver set down his fork, a polished smile on his face. "You're the same guy who shows up in those gossip magazines, right? With the models? The yachts?" He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "You're kind of famous, aren't you? For your... let's call them social activities."

Silence dropped over the table like a lead curtain.

My stomach twisted. I knew this was coming. Oliver always did this—waited until everyone was comfortable, then dropped a bomb right in the middle of the conversation. I'd seen him do it to coworkers, other doctors, even his own father once. It was his way of asserting dominance.

But Simon? Simon wasn't like other people.

He laughed. A low, genuine sound, like Oliver had just told a particularly funny joke. "Oh, you've been reading about your ex-fiancée's boss? That's cute. I didn't realize you followed my life so closely, Oliver."

Oliver blinked, clearly unprepared for that response. "I just... saw some things. You don't exactly seem like the type who wants anything serious."

"It's funny you say that." Simon continued, reaching for his wine glass and taking a slow sip, eyes fixed on Oliver. "Because it was right when I met Jamie that I realized the bachelor life had run its course. You know how it is? You spend years chasing everything that sparkles, then you find someone who outshines everything else and... that's it." He shrugged. "Game over."

My cheeks burned. I knew he was playing a role, but the way he said it—like it actually meant something—made my heart do an unnecessary flip.

"Seven months ago, I was in St. Tropez with a supermodel," Simon continued, casual as anything. "Now I'm in Westchester, at my girlfriend's grandmother's birthday dinner, talking about roast beef with a bunch of wonderful aunts." He raised his glass in a toast toward the aunts, who all laughed, delighted. "Wouldn't trade it for anything."

Oliver didn't laugh. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, but... marriage is different. It's not just... fun. You have to be ready for real commitment." He placed his hand over Vanessa's, who sat beside him. "I found a real woman. Built a family. That's what actually matters."

Vanessa smiled, but the look she shot me for half a second said everything. It was like she was rubbing it in:

Hear that? I'm the real woman.

I gripped my fork so hard it scraped against the plate.

"Speaking of family," Simon said, casually reaching for another piece of bread, "do you know Ian?"

Oliver frowned. "Ian?"

"Yeah, Ian." Simon chewed the bread slowly, thoughtful. "Works at Westbridge Medical Center."

My stomach tightened. Same hospital where Oliver worked.

"He's a neurosurgeon, I think. I play tennis with him on Thursdays." Simon paused, blue eyes locked on Oliver. "He told me an interesting story last week."

Oliver's jaw twitched.

"What story?"

"Oh, nothing major. Just about a surgeon he knows." Simon shrugged, but his eyes never left Oliver. "A guy who was married, pregnant wife at home, and he was having an affair with a nurse from the ER. Funny thing is, he got caught in the act." A pause. "Ian didn't tell me the name, but he said it was someone from your department."

The table was dead silent.

"You don't know that guy, do you?"

Simon's question came so casually it almost sounded innocent. Almost.

Oliver blinked. Once. Twice. His hand, resting over Vanessa's, twitched slightly.

"No," he finally said, but his voice sounded off. "I don't think so."

"Oh, too bad." Simon smiled, that same wide, confident grin. "He sounded like kind of an asshole. Ian said the guy even tried to make his ex-fiancée feel guilty about the relationship ending. Can you imagine?" He shook his head, like he was genuinely shocked by the story. "What kind of man does that?"

Suddenly, the rain outside seemed even louder, thunder echoing like the sky itself was agreeing with Simon.

"More wine, anyone?" my Aunt Marta asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was too high, too bright, like she was desperately trying to salvage the atmosphere.

"Absolutely," Simon said, extending his glass with a smile. "Thanks, Aunt Marta."

And just like that, the tension dissolved. Conversations restarted, people went back to eating, and Simon was the center of attention again—but in a different way now. The aunts looked at him with an admiration that went beyond just liking him. Even my mother seemed impressed.

Me, on the other hand? I couldn't tear my eyes off Simon, one question hammering in my head:

What do you know that I don't, Hart?