Married for Money; The Billionaire's Fake Bride

The scent of burnt espresso clung to the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Angel Carson wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the flickering light above the counter. Third time today. The bulb was as stubborn as her landlord, and neither showed signs of changing soon. Mrs. Emily’s Café had always been a second home. The chairs were mismatched, the wallpaper peeled like sunburned skin, and the old jazz tunes playing from the radio crackled every few seconds, but Angel loved it. Mostly because it was the only place where she wasn’t invisible. "Angel," a voice rasped from behind the counter. She turned. Mrs. Emily stood in the doorway to the backroom, leaning against the frame, paler than she’d looked yesterday. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin was almost paper thin. Sixty-three, diabetic, and stubborn as hell. She refused to stay home despite her worsening health. Angel rushed over. "You should be in bed." "I will, once I make sure the register matches the receipts. Don’t give me that look, child. This place keeps me alive." Angel forced a smile. She understood. This café had been Mrs. Emily’s life for thirty years. After Angel’s parents died in a car crash when she was seven, it had been Mrs. Emily who took her in when the system spat her back out. Not legally. Not officially. But with love. "Just sit down, please. I’ll finish the register," Angel said gently, guiding her to a chair. Mrs. Emily swatted at her hand but complied. Angel moved behind the counter and started adding up receipts, her mind spinning. Bills were overdue, the roof still leaks when it rained, and Mrs. Emily's medication costs were rising every week. The bell over the door chimed. Angel turned to greet the customer, but it was Mia. Mia Roberts strolled in like the café was a runway. Designer heels clicked against the cracked floor tiles, and her oversized sunglasses practically screamed "rich girl hiding from paparazzi." She peeled them off with a flourish and pouted. "Angel, darling, we need to talk." Angel blinked. "You do realize this isn’t a Chanel boutique, right?" Mia grinned and took a stool at the counter. "Still as charming as ever. Seriously, you need to quit this place and come be my personal stylist or something. But right now, I need a favor. A huge one." Angel raised an eyebrow. "Last time you said that, I ended up babysitting your Great Dane while he had explosive diarrhea." Mia waved a hand. "This is different. It's life or death, mine, at least." Angel leaned on the counter, arms folded. "I'm listening." Mia leaned in dramatically. "Okay, so you remember the Larrians?" Angel stiffened slightly. Everyone knew the Larrians. Mark Larrian was the business tycoon who practically owned half the city. His only son, George, was supposedly the heir to the throne, charming, cold, rich beyond imagination. Tabloid gold. "He’s the guy your dad wants you to marry, right?" "Exactly!" Mia groaned. "Apparently, our parents are obsessed with this power couple idea. Old money meets new. Blah blah legacy. And guess what? Daddy scheduled a date for us." Angel smirked. "Poor you. Must be hard having billionaires fight over your hand." Mia reached into her bag and pulled out a crisp envelope. "Which is why I need you to go instead." Angel froze. "What?" "I need you to pretend to be me. Just for one night. Go on the date, act weird, maybe chew with your mouth open, burp if you have to make sure he doesn’t like me." Angel stared. "You want me to impersonate you on a date with the Larrian heir... and sabotage it?" Mia nodded. "Exactly. You’re a genius!" "No," Angel said flatly. "That’s insane. He could sue. Or worse. Find out." Mia slid the envelope toward her. Angel hesitated, then opened it. Her heart stopped. A check. $100,000. She swallowed. "This is real?" "As real as your rent being overdue and Mrs. Emily needing surgery she can’t afford," Mia said quietly. "I know things are hard. I want to help, and you won’t take money unless you earn it. So… earn it." Angel’s chest tightened. The hospital bills. The medication. The way Mrs. Emily winced every time she stood too long. The crushing weight of trying to save someone with empty pockets. Mia touched her hand. "You’ll wear a dress, say some dumb things, and George will think I’m awful. Easy." Angel looked at the check again. A hundred thousand dollars could buy Mrs. Emily another ten years. Maybe more. She heard Mrs. Emily coughing in the backroom. Rough, painful, labored. Angel closed her eyes. When she opened them, her voice was steady. "Fine. One date. One night. And I get to wear my own shoes." Mia squealed. "Done!" As the rich girl pranced out of the café, Angel remained still, staring at the check like it was poison and salvation wrapped in one. She knew the risks. This wasn’t just a lie, it was a performance on a stage far bigger than any she’d known. And George Larrian was no fool. Later that night, after closing, Angel sat with Mrs. Emily sipping tea. The old woman’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. "You’re quiet tonight," she said. Angel looked at her. "Would you think less of me if I told a lie to help you?" Mrs. Emily studied her, then shook her head. "Not if the lie told the truth about your heart." Angel felt a lump rise in her throat. She smiled faintly, and the silence between them spoke volumes. As she tucked Mrs. Emily in for the night, Angel glanced at the check on the counter one last time. Tomorrow, she will become someone else. And if she wasn’t careful, she might lose herself in the process.