My Fake Boyfriend Is a Billionaire

Lena's POV I'm Lena Carter, junior event coordinator by day, professional problem-solver by necessity. People think event work is glamorous. It’s not. It’s spreadsheets, last-minute guest lists, and explaining to brides why peonies in October are a mood, not a plan. “Lena!” Chloe slides into the booth across from me like she owns the place. She always does this—arrives with energy and a face that says she’s already judged the world and found it wanting. If you don’t know Chloe, picture someone who drinks espresso like it’s oxygen and gives zero diplomatic speeches. She’s my best friend from college, works in marketing (creative director now, which means she gets paid to have opinions and then make them look great), and she’s the person who will text me at 2 a.m. with a meme and then show up at my door with a bottle of wine when I need it. She’s loud, blunt, and somehow always right about the small stuff. She also has a habit of calling me out when I’m being dramatic about nothing, which is often exactly what I need. “You’re late,” I say, because it’s true and because it’s my favorite thing to complain about. “Traffic,” she says, which is code for she stopped for coffee and a rant. “Also, you look like you slept in a paper bag.” “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.” I stir my coffee like it’s a life decision. “My client wants peonies in October.” Chloe makes a face. “That’s illegal in some states.” “It’s illegal in my budget,” I say. “Also, Ryan texted me this morning.” She freezes like I said something scandalous. “What did he say? Don’t tell me he sent another ‘we should talk’ text.” “He sent a meme,” I say. “Then a passive-aggressive ‘hope you’re not too busy for old friends’ line. And then a photo of his new haircut. He thinks the haircut will win me back.” Chloe snorts. “The usual Ryan.” Ryan is my ex. We dated for three years, lived together for two, and broke up six months ago. He’s not a villain—just loud, stubborn, and convinced that persistence equals romance. He texts like we’re still a thing and shows up like he’s entitled to my time. He’s the reason I have a folder of screenshots labeled Do Not Respond. He’s also the reason I sometimes rehearse what to say when someone knocks on my door and calls my name like we’re still roommates. “You should get a new boyfriend,” Chloe says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. I laugh because it’s ridiculous. I laugh because it’s not ridiculous. “Yeah, what if I’ll just rent one. Where do you even find fake boyfriends? Craigslist? A very specific app?” “Someone will do it for money,” she says, deadpan. “Or you could, you know, date someone real.” “Date someone real,” I repeat, like it’s a foreign language. “When do I have time? Also, real people come with baggage and opinions about my spreadsheet color choices.” She leans in. “Okay, but imagine this: Ryan sees you with someone who’s not him. He melts. You get peace. You get paid. Win-win.” “Or I get kidnapped by a scam artist,” I say. “There’s always a downside.” We talk about other stuff too—her new guy who’s actually nice (yes, she’s surprised), my landlord who’s “fixing” the sink by promising to fix it, and the office plant that’s dying because no one will admit they forgot to water it. Back at the office, the day is doing its usual thing: calls, a caterer who thinks “vegan” is a personality trait, and a bride who wants fairy lights and a fireworks show on a budget that says “I like candles.” Priya from accounts, pops her head over the cubicle. “You okay?” she asks. “You look like you wrestled a raccoon and lost.” “Raccoon won,” I say. Priya is the calm in our office storm—numbers person, coffee person, the one who will remind you to eat and then hand you a granola bar like it’s a peace offering. “You need to eat. And stop checking your bank app like it’s a dating profile.” I laugh, but then my phone buzzes and it’s Ryan again. I don’t open it. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a read receipt. Instead I text Chloe: Lena: He’s at it again. She replies with a string of angry emojis and: Chloe: Bring receipts. I’ll help you burn them. By Thursday, the sink was worse. The landlord says he’ll send someone next week. Next week is a concept I don’t have time for. Rent is due in two weeks and my bank app is not supportive. I make a list of things to cut: takeout, impulse sweaters, the artisanal coffee I pretend I need. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real. That night Chloe drags me out because she’s relentless and because I need to stop thinking about my dwindling balance. We end up at a bar that’s loud and warm, the kind of place where strangers’ conversations become background music. Chloe knows the bartender, which is how we get a table and two free olives. A guy at the next table tries to talk to Chloe. He’s charming in the practiced way of someone who’s read a list of pickup lines. Chloe humors him for a minute, then gives me a look that says, "Rescue me. I wave her over and she mouths, "He’s boring." On the walk home, Chloe nudges me. “Promise me you’ll tell me if Ryan shows up.” “I will,” I say. “Promise.” The next morning, the office is chaos. We’re prepping for a corporate event and the client wants a last-minute change to the seating chart. I’m on the phone with a vendor who insists the centerpiece is “modern rustic” and I’m trying not to scream. Suddenly someone walks in. He’s in a black suit that looks like it was tailored by someone who uses the word "bespoke" unironically. He moves like he’s used to people clearing a path without asking. He doesn’t smile much. He doesn’t need to. He has that look—calm, contained, the kind that says he’s used to things going his way and expects them to. I’m carrying a tray of sample centerpieces because someone thought it was a good idea for me to show the client in person. I’m balancing, negotiating, and thinking about how to explain to a bride that peonies are seasonal when my foot hits something uneven and the tray tilts. Coffee arcs through the air like a slow-motion disaster and lands on the man in the black suit. “Oh my God, I am so—” I start, mortified. He looks down at his jacket, then at me, and for a second I expect anger. Instead, he lifts one eyebrow, like he’s mildly annoyed at the inconvenience rather than offended. “Really,” he says, voice low and precise. “How careless.” I blinked. “I’m so sorry. I can pay for that.” He straightens his jacket, inspects the stain like it’s an affront to his standards, and says, “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll have it handled.” There’s no warmth in it. No charm. Just a flat, efficient statement that makes me feel like I’ve been scolded by a teacher I didn’t know I had. “I—” I start, then stop because I don’t know what to say to someone who sounds like he’s reading from a manual on how to be unbothered. “Are you with the event team?” he asks, finally. “Yes,” I say. “Junior coordinator. I’m Lena.” “Sebastian Sterling,” he says. He says it like it’s a fact, not an introduction. The name lands heavy. Sterling Meridian. Big company. Big money. But he doesn’t say it like he wants me to know he’s important. He says it like he expects me to already know. “Be careful with the trays,” he says as he turns to leave. “Noted,” I say. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and walks away. No smile. No offer to help. Just a measured step and a presence that makes the room feel smaller. I stand there with a coffee stain on my shoe and a weird little flutter in my chest that I immediately tell myself is nothing. He’s a stranger. He’s probably rich and bored and used to people apologizing for the inconvenience. He’s not the kind of man who would ever be casual about anything. But the city is small in ways that surprise you. People you think are strangers show up in places you least expect. And sometimes, when you’re juggling a million small things, one spilled cup of coffee is the start of something that makes all the small things feel a little less heavy—or a lot more complicated. That night, I sat on my couch with a heating pad on my foot and a bowl of instant noodles because I am, in fact, an adult who makes questionable dinner choices. I text Chloe. Lena: Met a man in a black suit. He didn’t yell about the coffee. He was…annoyed. She replies. Chloe: Annoyed is sexy? Lena: Nope. He was snobby. I type back. Chloe: Keep him anyway or at least keep the dry cleaner’s number. ;) I laugh and then I think about the week ahead: the wedding, the sink, the rent, the emails. I think about how my life is mostly small, steady things that need doing. I think about how sometimes the smallest interruptions—an unexpected scowl, a spilled coffee—are the ones that make you notice you’re alive. I don’t know if Sebastian will show up again. I don’t know if my life is about to get complicated in a way I can’t imagine. For now, though, it’s just me, my noodles, and the small, stubborn hope that things will work out.