THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET BARGAIN

If poverty had a scent, April was sure it smelled like turpentine and evaporated dreams. She shifted uncomfortably in the cracked plastic chair outside the VectaX Foundation art showcase, wiping paint-smeared fingers on her jeans. Around her, other contestants were perfectly styled—ring light-ready and dripping with nerves hidden perfectly under smiles. Meanwhile, she’d rushed here straight from class with a half-finished canvas in her tote bag and three missed calls from her landlord Five Hundred Dollars. That was the prize money. It could clear her father’s overdue debts and maybe, just maybe, buy her a few months of breathing room. It wasn't just money—it was survival. The waiting room was cold, too bright, and silent except for the occasional shuffle of nervous feet and the muffled sound of jazz drifting in from the lobby speakers. The contestants were mostly from money, with art degrees from Europe and parents who treated creativity like a precious inheritance, not an escape hatch. April didn’t belong here. Not really. But she needed to win. “Contestant Number 14, April Jameson?” She stood. Straightened. Breathed. Her legs felt like iron, but her spine refused to bend. Not today. The panel room was all glass, steel, and silence. And sitting at the center—brows drawn, phone in hand—was Warren Whitmore, the man who practically owned half of New York and all of its attention. The tech tycoon. The ‘golden boy’ of Art innovations. And the judge who apparently didn't know how to smile. He didn’t look up as she entered. "Ms. April," said one of the women on the panel, smiling coolly. "Tell us why your art matters in today’s world." April stepped forward, adjusting the edge of her scarf. Her voice was steady at first, growing stronger with every word. “My art speaks for the people who are never seen. The ones who clean the floors, sell bread in traffic, teach in broken classrooms. I don’t paint for galleries—I paint for the girl washing plates while dreaming of her own studio.” She uncovered her piece—a raw acrylic painting of a young girl in braids standing in front of a cracked mirror. Behind her was a crown, but her eyes were uncertain. The brushstrokes were aggressive. Chaotic. Full of intent. Eyes flicked between her and her work. There were slow nods. The woman who’d spoken earlier leaned in for a closer look. And then Warren spoke. “It’s...angry,” he said simply, gaze still on his phone. “Unpolished. Commercially unviable.” Her heart stuttered. "Excuse me?" she asked, blinking. He finally looked up. “Your strokes are too loud. The message is clear, but it's screaming. It’s trying too hard to matter.” A pause stretched. April forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “You know, not everyone has the luxury of painting for taste. Some of us paint to survive.” Warren raised an eyebrow. “Art doesn’t owe survival. It owes excellence.” She took a step forward, fire climbing up her throat. “Well, not all of us can afford to be muted, Mr. Billionaire.” Silence. Even the AC seemed to hush. “I beg your pardon?” Warren said calmly “I said, not all of us were born into penthouses and private islands. Some of us paint with noise because silence never fed us. But thanks for your...professional feedback.” The woman beside him choked on a laugh. Another panelist coughed into his sleeve. Warren’s jaw ticked. April gathered her things, nodded stiffly, and turned to walk out. That was it. Goodbye, prize money. Goodbye, her one shot. She could already hear her mother’s voice in her head: You and that mouth—always too sharp for your own good. She reached the building’s glass doors just as her phone buzzed. It was her landlord again. She silenced it. “Ms. Jameson.” She turned—and there he was. Warren Whitmore. Taller than he looked seated. Cold eyes. Annoyingly handsome in a tailored black coat and designer shoes that probably cost more than her rent. She braced herself. “I need a fiancée,” he said. April blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” “You need money. I need a believable relationship. Six months. No press leaks. No real feelings.” She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’re serious?” “Very.” She laughed once, hollow. “Let me guess. Your mother’s sick, your investors are nervous, and your board needs to see you as stable, so naturally, you want to fake a happy engagement.” Warren’s face didn’t change. “You’re observant. That’s another reason you’re perfect.” “Perfect?” she echoed, narrowing her eyes. “I just humiliated you in front of half of New York.” “Exactly. You’re the last person anyone would believe I paid off. And yet... you’ll convince them. Because you’re authentic. And broke.” She flinched. Honesty really did hurt sometimes. “Why not pick one of the influencers in that room? Or your exes? I’m sure someone would love the spotlight.” “Because I don’t want a spotlight. I want peace. And you... don’t like me. Which means you won’t get emotionally involved.” April crossed her arms. “You’re awfully confident for someone asking for a favor.” He didn’t blink. “It’s not a favor. It’s a contract. I clear your debts. I fund your art. You pretend to love me in public. We end it quietly after six months. You walk away richer, and I walk away freer.” Her brain couldn’t process it fast enough. Her heart, though? It was screaming run. And yet… she couldn’t ignore the memory of her landlord’s voice, the way her mom’s blood pressure pills were almost out, the rejection letter from her dream art residency in Paris, all because she couldn’t afford the visa fee. She looked at Warren Whitmore—made of money, mystery, and madness—and saw a door she never expected. Dangerous, unpredictable, but open. “Why me?” she asked again, softer now. He studied her like he could see under her skin. “Because you don’t want to be saved. You want to stand. T hat makes you believable.” And then he walked away.