My Hot Billionaire Bestie.

Chapter 2

Victoria.

As we walked past the field, my traitorous eyes wandered over to the one thing that could turn my already chaotic life into a full-blown soap opera—Robin. He jogged across the field, all sweaty perfection, his brown hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it look like it had been kissed by a thousand i********: filters. His six-pack? A cruel reminder from the universe that some people are born with abs, while others are born with an undying love for carbs.

He was tall—six-foot-something—and had the kind of confidence that made people laugh at his bad jokes and swoon when he walked by. To top it off, he was the captain of the football team and the school president. It was like the guy had a cheat code for life.

Too bad a guy like him wouldn’t even look in my direction unless it was to ask me to pass the ketchup.

I bit my lip, feeling the familiar sting of hopeless longing. My mind wandered to the ridiculous fantasies I’d scribbled in my diary—the ones where Robin wasn’t Robin, but Drake, my dream version of him. In that universe, he saw me. Wanted me. Worshipped me. In real life, however, I was just Victoria: resident invisible girl with braces and a bad relationship with math.

"Ahem."

Christian’s cough jolted me back to reality, and I realized I’d been staring way too long. My cheeks burned.

"Who’s that?" he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of amusement.

"That’s Robin," I said, doing my best to sound casual, though my voice wavered just enough to betray me. "He’s, uh, the captain of the Falcons football team. And the school president."

Christian glanced at Robin again, his expression unreadable. "Oh. That’s cool."

Cool? That’s it? No sarcastic comment? No follow-up questions? Just cool? I felt a weird mix of gratitude and irritation.

Shaking off the embarrassment, I quickened my pace. "Let’s go. We don’t want to be late." I focused on the road ahead, doing my best to ignore the lingering flutter in my chest and the fact that my brain was already rewriting Robin’s latest jog into yet another chapter of my diary.

*********

I spread my books across the table, feeling that familiar cocktail of anxiety and hope swirling in my stomach. Maybe with Christian's help, I could actually pull off a miracle and pass this math test.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked, trying to sound like a decent host, despite the awkwardness curling up inside me like a nervous cat.

"A glass of water would be fine," he said, his voice soft but clear.

I rushed to the kitchen, almost spilling the water as I tried to fill the glass quickly enough to mask my nerves. When I returned, I found him glancing around my room, his eyes darting between the cluttered bookshelf and the posters on my walls. He seemed... interested in my mess. Weird.

"Thanks," he said, accepting the water and taking a slow sip.

"When did you move here? Which school were you at before Madison Ville High?" I asked, desperate to fill the silence with something, anything, that didn’t involve me freaking out about the test—or my life.

"Today. I was at Franklin High... in Canada," he replied, his voice smooth and steady.

Canada? Well, that explained the accent. And probably the whole “chill” vibe he had going on. But there was something else about Christian that tugged at my curiosity. He was quiet, almost too quiet, but there was a kindness that radiated beneath the silence. Mysterious, private, but somehow... familiar. It was like he had this hidden depth that made me want to know more.

He flipped open the math textbook, scanning the pages. "Which topics are you struggling with?" he asked, his tone calm and collected.

"Algebra, geometry, calculus... vectors, and graphs," I admitted, feeling like I just confessed I had no idea how to add two plus two. Math had always been my nemesis, and now Christian was probably wondering how I made it this far without a tutor.

He glanced at me for a split second, but instead of judgment, his gaze softened.

"Will you sit upright?" he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle but firm.

I blinked, confused. "Huh?"

"I noticed you sit funny... like you’re trying to push your chest inward," he explained. "Don’t do that, Victoria. It’s absurd."

I felt my face explode into flames. How could he notice that? Was I that obvious?

"Confidence will help you survive body shaming. Love your body," he added, his voice softening as if it were the simplest thing in the world to love the body I’d been trying to hide for years.

I sat up straighter, trying not to squirm under his gaze. Christian had this way of cutting through my awkwardness without making me feel more self-conscious—if anything, he made me feel like, I wasn’t as invisible as I thought.

I hesitated, unsure of what to say. "It’s not attractive," I muttered. "I wish I looked like Lucy. She’s... perfect. Long legs, red hair, that smile that could launch a thousand ships... and probably sink them, too." My voice trailed off, the envy tightening in my chest like a bad pair of jeans.

Christian let out a grunt, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off a bad dance move. "Comparison is the thief of joy. You’re beautiful, Victoria."

The words hung in the air like they were trying to get my attention, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. Was he really talking to me? No one had ever said that to me before—not unless they were trying to sell me something. Those words lingered, wrapping around my mind like a warm blanket that you find in a hotel... that you’re probably not supposed to take.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to start accepting that my body was changing—like when you realize your childhood jeans don’t fit anymore. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Maybe... I could learn to love myself. Or at least not stage a protest every time I look in the mirror.

"Thanks," I said, feeling flustered like a tomato in a blender, but strangely comforted by his presence.

Christian smirked, and I awkwardly returned the smile, my nerves slowly settling like a snow globe in a broken-down car. I pulled out my geometry set, pencil, rubber, and pen—like a stationery magician setting up for a trick.

His eyes followed my movements, and there was a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... different. Like when you accidentally make eye contact with someone in the elevator and neither of you knows what to do.

"It's not that cold, Victoria. You don’t need all those layers," he said, more of an order than a suggestion. There was something commanding about him—like a very polite drill sergeant. I hesitated, but then slowly removed three of the jackets I had layered on, revealing a simple pink shirt underneath.

At first, I felt exposed, my fingers nervously fidgeting as my cheeks flushed like a tomato that might just be done. Christian’s eyes wandered over me, lingering a bit too long on my chest. I felt vulnerable, like I was an exhibit in a museum and he was trying to figure out what century I belonged to.

"Victoria, confidence..." he muttered, his voice low but certain, like he was telling me to remember where I left my keys.

I straightened my back, trying to appear as self-assured as he wanted me to be. I needed to be confident—if not for him, then for myself. Maybe if I faked it enough, I’d start to believe it. Or at least stop needing to Google "how to be confident" every five minutes.

"For today, we’ll start with algebra. Don’t hesitate to ask questions," he said, his tone shifting back to the calm, slightly intimidating tutor mode.

"Yes," I replied, nodding, though my mind was still half-focused on his earlier words. Confidence. Perhaps it was time I started listening to him. And maybe... I’d find out what happens if I stop questioning everything.

********

Christian.

Out of all the schools I’ve been to, I’ve never met anyone as welcoming and genuine as Victoria. On my first day, when I was alone and getting the usual judgmental stares (you know, the ones that scream, "Who invited this guy?"), her radiant smile was like a beam of sunshine cutting through the storm clouds. There was something special about her—maybe it was her ability to make me feel like I wasn’t a walking disaster in a sea of social sharks.

"And that’s how you solve for Y. Do you have any questions?" I asked, glancing at her as she stared at the paper like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics.

"That was really easy," she said, her smile widening like she’d just discovered the secret to the universe. "Can I have more exercises?"

Her excitement was practically infectious—like if math were a contagious disease, she’d be Patient Zero, and I was getting a dose. "Do exercises 12 and 13," I said, pointing at the page with my pen like I was some sort of math wizard. She dove right in, calculating with the focus of a caffeine-deprived college student the night before finals. I couldn’t help but watch her a moment longer.

She’s convinced she’s not pretty, and I wanted to burst out laughing, but I kept it together. This girl was a walking definition of gorgeous—like a rare, unpolished gem that wasn’t even trying to shine. Her auburn hair framed her skin like a fine piece of porcelain, and while she obsessively picked at her pimples, I was pretty sure even they had an odd sort of charm. It was like watching someone fuss over a tiny scratch on a luxury car.

She took off her glasses briefly to clean them, and I caught a glimpse of her eyes—bright, captivating ocean blue. I nearly drowned in them, but it was a good kind of drowning, if that makes sense.

But then, the quiet was shattered—literally.

"Oh yeah, and whose fault is it?" a man’s voice thundered from somewhere down the hall, like he was auditioning for a role in a bad soap opera.

"You’re an i***t, Nate! I hate you!" a woman’s voice followed, sharp enough to cut through steel.

"I hate you too! My mother was right about me marrying you. This was a mistake. You are the biggest mistake, Cassie!" he yelled back, his voice shaking the walls like a wannabe rockstar testing out his microphone.

"As if you’re any better. A fool, at that! I could’ve married Ryan and been happy in Beverly Hills, but I’m stuck with you!" she spat, their argument escalating like a dramatic telenovela that no one asked for.

The sound of glass shattering from the other room sent a jolt through both of us, and I swear I could feel the tension in the air thicken. Victoria’s hand shot out and clutched my shirt like it was her life raft in a sea of chaos. She was staring at the book, frozen, her whole body as stiff as a board. The yelling and glass breaking seemed to be making her shrink into herself, like she was trying to vanish.

"Victoria..." I whispered, unsure of what to do, because let's be honest, I wasn’t exactly trained for this kind of situation. She twitched but didn’t respond, her knuckles white as her grip on my shirt turned into something that might’ve been classified as a death grip.

She was scared. I could see it in the way her body stiffened. It was clear she didn’t know how to talk about what was happening at home, and honestly, I had no idea how to help.

As the argument outside continued, I gently placed my hand over hers. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could think of. She kept writing, her other hand trembling as it clutched her pencil like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

Despite everything, when she finished, she proudly showed me her work. I was honestly shocked. How could she focus enough to solve these equations with all this chaos happening around us? Was she secretly a math superhero?

And then, just to make things even more dramatic, the door flung open with all the grace of a reality TV show entrance.

In walked a woman with a short bob haircut, dressed in a purple romper that was way too cute for the situation at hand.

Behind her was a man in a checked shirt and jeans, looking like he’d just rolled out of an "I’m trying to look casual, but really I’m kind of a mess" catalog. The woman looked like an older version of Victoria—same sharp features, but Victoria definitely inherited her dad’s eyes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out these were her parents. Both of them had battle scars on their faces, probably from their previous round of "Whose Argument is Louder?"

“Vicky, you didn’t tell me you had company. Who’s the fat kid?” her mom asked, not even trying to sugarcoat it.

I tried not to flinch. The words hit harder than I expected, but I forced a smile. "My name is Christian, pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Greene. I’m Victoria’s friend."

“Call me Miss Woods,” she snapped, waving her hand dismissively toward Victoria’s dad. “I don’t go by this fool’s name. Victoria doesn’t have any friends anyway, so don’t get too attached. She’s just shy.”

Her dad, without missing a beat, muttered, “You are one stupid b****, do you know that?” before strolling off like he was too cool for this mess.

Miss Woods, clearly not done with the drama, followed him like a lovebird heading straight into a hurricane, continuing their argument. Their voices echoed through the house, making it feel like the walls were shaking.

Victoria stood up, looking like someone had just stolen her last cookie. Her face was as pale as a ghost, her expression unreadable. Without saying a word, she left the room, shutting the door behind her like she was trying to escape some sort of reality show she didn’t sign up for.

What kind of life was this for her? Should I be sending her a cape? Because this girl was clearly living in a world that needed one.