The Billionaire’s Price To Pay

Chapter one Zara James had forty-seven dollars to her name and a growing sense that the universe was out to get her. Rent was overdue. Her phone had been cut off. Her best friend’s couch was starting to feel like a coffin. And now, thanks to a subway delay and a broken umbrella, she was soaked to the knees and thirty minutes late to a job she didn’t even want. All she needed to do was pass out press folders at some tech event, smile, and stay invisible. No talking. No trouble. A hundred bucks cash. It was either that or sell her last pair of boots. Zara pushed through the revolving doors of the VossTech Tower, took two steps on the sleek marble floor— —and her heel snapped clean off. Her bag flew. Her ankle twisted. Her knees hit the ground with a smack loud enough to echo. And just as she opened her mouth to swear, her face slammed into a solid wall of muscle and expensive fabric. Not a wall. A man. Groans rippled through the lobby. She blinked through strands of wet hair—and froze. Because staring down at her like she’d just spit on his Italian shoes was Damian Voss. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Ice king of Manhattan. The man was all sharp angles—raven-black hair, five o’clock shadow, tailored navy suit that looked stitched by sin itself. And eyes like blue steel. Cold. Cutting. Amused. Zara scrambled to her feet, swiping her folders off the floor. Her knees were throbbing, her pride was already dead. “I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t see—” “You weren’t supposed to,” he said coolly. He didn’t bend down to help. He didn’t even blink. Just adjusted his cufflinks and continued walking, flanked by two assistants like he was royalty. Zara stood there stunned, folders half-spilled, lipstick smudged, heart racing. That was Damian Voss? He didn’t look like a man who built empires. He looked like a man who devoured them. She made it to the backstage hall ten minutes later, red-faced and limping, where a clipboard-wielding woman barked, “You’re late. Hands out the folders at the West Wing door. Smile. Speak only if spoken to.” Zara nodded and took the stack, trying not to wince. She was hungry, wet, humiliated, and trying not to cry. By the time she reached her post, she’d fixed her hair, forced a smile, and pushed the disaster of her entrance into a mental box labeled: Things To Scream Into a Pillow About Later. One by one, guests passed by in designer gowns and thousand-dollar shoes, snatching glossy portfolios that featured Damian Voss’s face on the cover. But one woman paused. “You the one who tripped on Voss earlier?” she whispered with a smirk. Zara’s stomach knotted. “Nope. Not me.” “Could’ve fooled me,” the woman said, then strutted away with a laugh. Zara’s hands curled around the folders. She was just about to exhale when a deep, unmistakable voice echoed from the corridor. “Miss James?” She turned. And her heart almost stopped. Damian Voss was standing in front of her. Alone this time. And watching her like he was studying an equation that didn’t solve right. “I—uh—yes?” she croaked. “Come with me.” She blinked. “Why?” “I don’t repeat myself.” He turned and started walking. Zara looked around—was this a prank? A firing? A lawsuit? She shoved the folders into a coworker’s hands and hurried after him down the hall, limping slightly. He led her through a side door and into a private lounge overlooking Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A roaring fireplace. Crystal decanter on the bar cart. It smelled like money and smoke and quiet power. Zara stood stiffly in the middle of the room, pulse thundering. Damian finally turned. “Zara James,” he said. “Twenty-six. Former med student. Applied for work through GreyLine Staffing three weeks ago. Background check flagged debt, but no criminal record.” She flinched. “Excuse me?” “I don’t like surprises. I run checks on anyone within arm’s reach of my name.” Her cheeks flamed. “I was hired to hand out folders, not touch your bank account.” “You fell into my chest. Now you’re a trending clip on Twitter titled ‘Billionaire Gets Tackled By Struggling Assistant.’” Zara’s blood ran cold. “You’re joking.” “I never joke.” He walked to the bar cart, poured something dark into a tumbler, then faced her again. “I have a proposition.” Zara blinked. “I’m… sorry?” He set the drink down. “I need someone to play the part of an ex-girlfriend. Someone new to my world. No strings. No media history. You’d attend a few events, walk beside me, smile when necessary. A few weeks at most.” She just stared. “You want me to fake-date you?” “Fake break-up,” he corrected. “The tabloids are still chasing ghosts from my last relationship. This will send a different signal.” Zara laughed once—dry and disbelieving. “This is insane. I tripped into you and now you want to hire me to… perform heartbreak?” “You’ll be paid generously.” “How generously?” “Twenty thousand. Plus bonus if things go smoothly.” Zara’s brain short-circuited. Her throat tightened. That was more than enough to pay rent. Pay her student loans. Buy back her phone. Maybe even start over. “But why me?” she asked, softer now. “Why not hire a model? Or an actress?” He stepped closer. “Because you’re not a model. Or an actress. You’re real. And you’ve already made an impression.” His gaze was ice. But under it, something flickered. Regret? Exhaustion? She couldn’t tell. “Of course,” he added, “if you’d rather go back to passing out folders, be my guest.” Zara swallowed hard. Her pride screamed no. But her bank account? It wept yes. She nodded once. “Alright. I’ll do it.” Damian didn’t smile. Just extended a sleek leather folder. “Read the contract. Sign tonight. Your first public appearance is tomorrow.” She took the folder, fingers trembling. “You can go,” he said. Then added, almost like an afterthought, “Don’t be late again.” That night, Zara lay on her friend’s air mattress in a borrowed T-shirt, staring at the ceiling, the contract clutched in her hands. The terms were clear. No touching. No lies to press. Five public appearances, one exclusive interview, a final statement of amicable separation. No big deal. Just business. And yet—something tugged at her. Something felt off. She reached for her old phone, reconnected to Wi-Fi through her friend’s hotspot, and scrolled. The clip of her fall was trending. Hundreds of thousands of views. Comments ranged from “Clumsiest assistant ever” to “Is she his new girl??” But buried among the chatter was something else. A direct message. No username. No profile picture. Just a single line: He’s not who you think he is. Walk away while you still can. Zara’s breath caught. She sat up, pulse racing. Then her phone buzzed again. Another message. You look like her. That’s why he chose you. Her skin went cold.