Married To My Billionaire Boss's Son

Amara Rivera had twenty dollars in her bank account, a broken heel, and an eviction notice fluttering on her apartment door like a cruel joke. She stood frozen on the sidewalk, her tote bag slipping off her shoulder, rain beginning to spit from the sky like the universe itself was in on it. Perfect. Just perfect. Today was supposed to be her lucky day. She’d landed an internship at Kingston Global Enterprises, one of the top investment firms in the country. It was a miracle—a foot in the door, a possible career, a way out of her spiraling life. She should be celebrating. Instead, her phone buzzed with a text that knocked the air out of her lungs. MOM: Hospital called. Insurance rejected again. Need to talk. Her breath hitched. She blinked hard, swallowing the panic rising in her throat. She couldn’t break down. Not now. Not when her mother’s chemo bill was due, rent was unpaid, and her hope was hanging by a thread thinner than her frayed paycheck. “Move it, lady!” someone snapped behind her. She stumbled forward, head bowed, rain soaking into her jacket as she pushed through the crowd and into the revolving doors of Kingston Global. The lobby was all glass and marble, the kind of place that reeked of money and power. People bustled past in designer suits with confidence she couldn’t afford. Her heels clacked across the floor—or at least one did. The other was dragging like a stubborn child. She wobbled slightly, cursed under her breath, and finally stepped into the elevator. “You're late.” The voice stopped her cold. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous. Amara looked up—and straight into the stormy gray eyes of Roman Kingston, the CEO’s son, tabloid bad boy, and corporate devil. He lounged against the elevator wall like he owned the building—which, technically, he kind of did. Jet-black hair tousled to careless perfection. Designer suit tailored like sin. An unreadable expression on a face that looked like it had never known hardship. Of course it would be him. The very man whose name was on her ID badge. The man who ran meetings with a smirk and fired interns for breathing wrong. “I—uh—I’m sorry,” Amara stammered. “There was—traffic and—my shoe—” “Save it.” His eyes raked over her, from her drenched coat to her shaking fingers. “You’re the new intern?” She nodded, cheeks flaming. He pressed the elevator button without looking at her. “Don’t be late again. This isn’t charity.” She stepped in after him, wishing the ground would swallow her whole. --- Six hours later, Amara was convinced Roman Kingston was the devil in Armani. He made her rewrite reports four times. Faked a coffee allergy just to throw her off. And called her “Intern #6” all day. By the time her shift ended, her fingers were cramping and her pride was on life support. She was packing her things when a firm hand caught her wrist. Roman. Standing behind her with a look she couldn’t read. “Follow me.” “I—I was just about to leave—” “I wasn’t asking.” --- The office he led her to was darker. Quieter. Penthouse floor. She stood awkwardly, watching him pour whiskey into a glass like a scene from a movie. “You need money.” Her stomach dropped. “Excuse me?” He sipped, watching her over the rim. “Your mother. Chemo. Insurance rejected. You’re behind on rent. Maxed credit card. Student loans.” She stepped back. “Are you spying on me?” He laughed. “I don’t need to. You’re forgettable, but your situation isn’t. I like desperate people. They don’t say no.” Amara’s fists clenched. “What do you want?” He put down the glass. “Marry me.” Silence. She blinked. Laughed. Waited for the cameras. “Is this a joke?” Roman stepped forward, eyes hard as steel. “It’s a contract. Three months. Pretend wife. Public events. Family dinners. No strings. In return, your mother’s bills get paid. Your debts vanish. You walk away rich.” Amara stared at him like he’d grown horns. “You’re insane.” He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m your only option.” Her mouth opened. Closed. Her heart screamed no. But her mother’s face—pale, tired, clinging to hope—flashed in her mind. And slowly, Amara whispered, “When do we start?” --- Two Weeks Later The wedding was private. No friends. No flowers. Just papers, signatures, and a kiss for the cameras. Amara wore a borrowed white dress. Roman wore a tux with a silver tie and that same smug expression. “You can smile, you know,” he murmured into her ear as the camera clicked. “Fake marriage. Fake smile,” she hissed back. He smirked. “You’ll warm up to me.” “Don’t count on it.” --- The penthouse he moved her into was bigger than her entire apartment building. Chrome, marble, velvet. She had her own wing. The contract stated she’d live there. Attend family dinners. Smile at press events. Share a bed only when necessary. No intimacy required. But nothing prepared her for the night of their first gala. Roman handed her a red dress. Silk. Backless. Stunning. “This is too much,” she said. “It’s not enough. You’re the wife of a Kingston now. Play the part.” The gala was a whirlwind of champagne, whispers, and flashing cameras. Roman had his arm around her waist the entire night, leaning in like they were lovers. She played the doting wife, smiling when told, laughing when expected. Then came the question: “So, how did you two meet?” Amara blinked. Roman didn’t miss a beat. “She was a barista,” he lied smoothly. “I spilled coffee on her. I bought every cup after that.” The guests swooned. Amara blinked. Roman leaned closer. “Say something sweet,” he whispered. “You’re supposed to love me.” She leaned in and smiled at the woman. “He’s allergic to dairy. I made his cappuccinos with almond milk. He never noticed.” Roman’s smirk froze. She sipped her champagne. Fake wife? Fine. But she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.