The billionaire experiment

Chapter 2

By the time I got home that night, I had an actual headache. The real, pounding kind that only a billionaire playboy could inspire.

I dropped my bag on the couch and flopped down beside it, staring at the ceiling. Of all the clients in the world… why him?

Riley had tried to cheer me up on the way out of the office. Well, his version of cheering up, which was basically reminding me that billionaires pay in actual gold bars compared to my usual fees and how i can get richer clients if i suceed. That, and the fact that the tabloids had nicknamed him “Heartbreak heir.”

Charming. Just the kind of man mothers dreamed of for their daughters.

I rolled over, grabbed my notebook, and scribbled three words at the top of a fresh page:

Step One: Strategy.

I wasn’t going into this blind. If I was going to tame the country’s most infamous bachelor, I needed rules. Boundaries. A foolproof plan.

Rule number one: Do not, under any circumstances, fall for the client.

Rule number two: Remember rule number one always .

Rule number three: Make him believe this is possible even if it kills me.

I stared at the page and sighed. This was going to kill me, wasn’t it?

The next afternoon, I walked into my office to find Riley grinning like Christmas came early.

“What now?” I asked warily, setting down my coffee.

“Your client called.”

I nearly choked. “He what?”

Riley’s grin widened. “Apparently, the Heartbreak Heir wants to schedule his first ‘lesson.’ His words, not mine.”

Lesson. I hated that word already.

“When?” I asked.

“Tonight. He’s sending a car at seven.”

I blinked. “He’s sending… a car?”

Riley nodded. “Fancy one, too. The kind with champagne in the back.”

Perfect. Not only was my new client a playboy, he was also a show-off. This was going to be a very, very long night.

At exactly 6:59 p.m., a sleek black town car pulled up outside my apartment. The kind of car that whispered money and screamed arrogance.

I climbed inside, notebook tucked under my arm, only to find the man himself lounging in the back seat like he owned not just the car, but the city, the sky, maybe even gravity.

“Right on time,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking over me. “I like a woman who’s punctual.”

“I like a client who takes this seriously,” I shot back.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’ll both be disappointed tonight.”

The restaurant he chose wasn’t just nice it was obnoxiously nice. Crystal chandeliers, velvet seats, waiters who probably made more in tips than I did in a week. When we sat down, he didn’t even look at the menu before ordering a bottle of champagne.

“This isn’t a celebration,” I reminded him. “It’s practice.”

“Everything’s practice until it’s the real thing.” He raised a brow. “Isn’t that your philosophy?”

I hated that he was right.

I opened my notebook, flipping to the page I’d labeled Mock Date – Session One. “Fine. Lesson one: actually listen to your date.”

He leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. “I’m listening.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I can smirk and listen at the same time.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Ask me something meaningful. Not about work. Not about money. Something you’d ask if you were genuinely interested in a woman.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not bossing people around?”

I blinked. “That’s… actually not bad.”

His smirk deepened. “Told you I could listen.”

“Don’t get cocky,” I muttered, jotting down a note. “Lesson two: don’t make everything into a joke.”

“But what if the joke is the only thing keeping me entertaning?”

I looked up at him then, really lookedand for just a flicker of a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes. Not arrogance. Not amusement. Something quieter, almost… tired.

But then it was gone, hidden behind the smirk.

“Trust me,” I said, closing my notebook. “The right woman won’t need the jokes. She’ll want the real you.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “And what if I don’t even know who that is?”

The question caught me off guard, settling heavier than it should have. For the first time all night, I didn’t have an immediate answer.

And judging by the way his smirk faded, I wasn’t the only one surprised by that. I finally set my pen down and pushed the notebook aside. “Okay, new rule. No smirking during lessons.”

His mouth curved anyway. “But what if that’s my natural resting face?”

“Then consider facial reconstruction.”

He laughed an easy, rich sound that turned a few heads at nearby tables. Of course it did. The world was his stage, and he always knew where the spotlight was.

“Relax,” he said, pouring champagne into both our glasses without asking. “You don’t have to look like you’re suffering. We’re just two people having dinner.”

I crossed my arms. “This isn’t a date.”

He clinked his glass against mine. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I stared at him, determined not to blush, not to react. This was a job. A professional arrangement. Nothing more and my brain needs to remember that.

But the truth was, the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just another face in his endless parade of flings made something inside me uncomfortably aware of just how long it had been since anyone looked at me that way.

I cleared my throat and straightened my notes. “Lesson three: stop flirting with me.”

“Who says I’m flirting?”

“You, five seconds ago.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And if I was?”

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t think of a single clever comeback. My carefully constructed walls wavered, and I hated it.

“Then,” I finally said, forcing composure into my voice, “you’d be wasting your time.”

His smirk softened into something else something unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy the challenge.”

That was it. That was the moment I knew I was in trouble.

Not because he was impossible to work with. Not because he made my job harder than it had to be.

But because a part of me tiny, reckless, and very, very stupid was starting to wonder if the Heartbreak Heir might actually be capable of breaking me.