THE BILLIONAIRE'S FAKE BRIDE

Elena I used to think rock bottom had a floor. Something solid. Predictable. A place where the freefall would stop. Turns out, rock bottom is a damn illusion. A trick of the mind to give you hope. Because just when you think you can’t go any lower, life yanks the rug out and says, Bet. The lights go out in the middle of January. Not metaphorically—I mean literally. I'm huddled in my coat, hunched over a half-melted candle on my kitchen counter when the heater coughs its last breath and the apartment drops ten degrees in ten minutes. Perfect. Just perfect. I stumble to the window, breath fogging the glass. Outside, Chicago looks like a snow globe someone shook out of spite. The kind of cold that chews through layers and bites skin. I blow into my hands, trying to warm them, but they’re already turning pink with frost. Electric's gone. Heat’s tied to it. I have fifty-three cents in my bank account and a handful of coins in a Mason jar labeled Do Not Touch Unless Homeless. I shake the jar anyway. Quarters, dimes, a couple nickels. Not enough for rent. Barely enough for a bus ride and a gas station hot dog. I run the math like it’s a spell that might magically add up this time. It doesn’t. I haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a discount freezer in two days. My stomach stopped growling yesterday. It’s just a hollow ache now. A white noise hum behind the louder buzz of panic. I grab my phone to check my payment history. It’s not like I don’t pay the damn bill. I do. Every month. Just never in full. Ever since Mom died and her mountain of medical debt got dumped in my lap like a parting gift, it’s been a tightrope. No net. No breaks. And I’m out of extensions, out of mercy. Final Notice. Final Warning. Account Closed. My whole life’s become one long series of final warnings. A knock slams into the door. I freeze. Landlord? No. He doesn’t knock anymore. He lets himself in and leaves eviction threats on the counter like it’s junk mail. I inch toward the peephole. Some guy in a bright orange parka holding a clipboard. ComEd logo on his badge. Great. Not only are the lights off, but now I get to sign paperwork confirming the humiliation. I open the door an inch. “Elena Torres?” “Yeah?” “Just confirming power’s been shut off. You got the warning last week.” I nod stiffly. “I got it.” He hesitates. “It’s cold as hell out. You got somewhere to go?” I wish. “I’m fine.” He gives me a long look. One that says he’s seen a dozen girls just like me—scraping by, one step from collapse—and he’s learned not to get involved. “Stay warm, miss,” he says, and turns back toward his truck. Door clicks shut behind him. I sink to the floor. Concrete cold seeps through my jeans. I should cry, but I’m too tired. Too numb. Grief does that—it dulls everything. Since Mom passed, my emotions feel like someone else’s playlist. Some days it’s rage. Some days it’s nothing at all. She was a fighter. A woman who raised me on scraps and stubbornness. And all it took to take her down was a rare cancer with a name I can’t pronounce and a treatment plan insurance wouldn't touch. I promised her I’d stay in school. I promised I’d make something of myself. But promises are easy when the person you’re making them to is dying. I dropped out of grad school six months ago. Couldn’t pay tuition. Couldn't focus. Every day since, I’ve been clawing at survival with dull nails and no leverage. And tonight, I lost heat. I grab my coat, scarf, and the leftover candle. Wrap myself up like a human burrito and sit on the floor of the kitchen, back against the cabinet. It’s warmer here, kind of. Maybe psychological. Doesn’t matter. I light the candle and hold my hands above it like some Dickensian orphan. That’s when my phone buzzes. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—spam calls and debt collectors make up 90% of my incoming traffic—but something makes me swipe. “Elena Torres?” a smooth voice asks. “Yes?” “This is Charles Sutton. I’m calling on behalf of Sutton Enterprises.” My stomach clenches. “Okay…” “We received your application for the executive assistant position.” I rack my brain. Did I apply to them? I’ve been shotgunning my résumé to every listing in a twenty-mile radius. Corporate, retail, dog walker, nanny, assistant—I’ll take anything that pays above minimum wage and doesn’t involve stripping. Yet. “I—yes. Yes, I did. Is this about an interview?” “Not quite. Our CEO, Mr. Sutton, would like to meet with you. In person. This evening, if possible.” This evening? It’s already pitch-black. I look down at myself—greasy ponytail, yesterday’s jeans, coat with a coffee stain on the sleeve. “I—tonight’s kind of… sudden.” “Mr. Sutton insists.” I bite my lip. This smells like a scam. Or a trap. No one schedules interviews at night unless they’re shady or desperate. But so am I. “What time?” I ask. “Seven p.m. We’ll send a car. Dress business formal.” The line clicks. No address. No callback number. Just a meeting with a billionaire in less than two hours and no clean clothes, no power, and no clue what the hell is happening. I shoot up. Candle nearly tips. I dig through my closet for anything salvageable and settle on the least-wrinkled blouse I own and a black pencil skirt that’s tight in the hips. No tights. I’ll freeze, but who cares? Makeup’s a lost cause. I throw on lip balm, a spritz of perfume, and twist my hair into a bun that hides how unwashed it is. Then I wait. At exactly 6:48, a black town car pulls up. I step outside, snow crunching under my flats, and slide into the backseat. The driver doesn’t speak. We glide through the city like a ghost. Past storefronts I can’t afford and restaurants I’ll never eat in. Until we stop in front of a skyscraper so sleek it looks like a spaceship. Sutton Tower. Twenty floors higher than anything else on the block. Polished glass, gold accents, and the kind of presence that says you don’t belong here. I step inside. A woman with flawless makeup and diamond earrings is waiting at the front desk. “Elena Torres?” she asks. I nod. “Follow me.” She leads me to a private elevator. No buttons inside. It just whooshes upward like magic. When the doors open, it’s into a penthouse suite. Marble floors. Glass walls. Art I can’t name but looks expensive. And him. Standing by the window, staring out over the city like he owns it. Which he probably does. Roman Sutton. CEO. Billionaire. Recluse. Tabloid ghost. I’ve seen his face in articles—gritted jaw, eyes like a wolf, cheekbones that could cut glass. But in person, it’s worse. Better. Whatever. He turns. And my world short-circuits. “Elena Torres,” he says, like he already knows me. My throat dries up. “Mr. Sutton.” “I need a wife,” he says. I blink. “Sorry?” He walks toward me, slow and deliberate, like a lion stalking prey. “You’re broke. You’re desperate. You have no power, no money, no family left to disappoint. You’re perfect.” “Perfect for…?” He stops inches from me. “My fake wife.”