Elena and the billionaire

CHAPTER FOUR

I was behind the counter of the café, my hair tied back, apron smudged with flour. I had escaped here to find normalcy—little sanctuary from my family’s empire, from the world that expected me to be perfect. Here, i was just a girl pouring lattes.

So when the door chimed and i looked up to see Michael Drake himself, my jaw dropped.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said, slamming the milk frother down a little too hard. Foam hissed angrily.

Michael slipped his hands into his pockets, completely unfazed. “Hello to you too.”

“What are you doing here? Why are you following me ?” I hissed, glancing around as if paparazzi would burst in at any second.

“Damage control,” he said smoothly. He pulled out his phone and placed it on the counter between us. A photo filled the screen—our dance at the gala. His hand on my waist, my lips parted mid-smile. The camera had caught them at the exact moment where annoyance blurred into something else. Something that looked dangerously like chemistry.

“This is everywhere,” Michael said. “And it won’t go away on its own.”

I snorted. “So what, you came here to scold me? To boast? Don’t waste your time. I’ve already seen the memes.”

“I came,” he said evenly, “to offer a solution.”

I crossed my arms. “Oh, this should be good.”

“We pretend,” he said. “For the cameras, for the press—for everyone. We pretend to date and fake an engagement. Publicly.”

For a moment, I just stared at him. Then I laughed so hard I had to grip the counter to stay upright. “You—you actually think I would agree to that? Me? Date you? worse, Marry you? I’d rather—”

The sudden flash of cameras cut me off.

I froze. Outside the café’s wide windows, paparazzi had swarmed like vultures. Dozens of them pressed against the glass, shouting questions, bulbs popping like fireworks.

“Elena! Michael! Are the rumors true?”

“When’s the engagement?”

“Is this love or business?”

The café erupted into chaos. Customers ducked, covering their faces as the flashes blinded them. A barista dropped a tray of mugs with a crash. My heart pounded.

And then Michael was in front of me, stepping close, his tall frame shielding me from the onslaught of light. His cologne—clean, sharp, expensive—wrapped around me. He leaned in, his voice low enough that only i could hear.

“See?” he murmured. “You don’t have a choice anymore. Either we let them devour us, or we play the game together.”

My breath caught. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted to scream. But the world outside was already spinning out of control, and here he was—steady, infuriating, impossible.

My pulse thudded in my ears. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but they burned into mine with something that felt dangerously close to sincerity.

“Think about it,” he whispered. “Think about what we could do… together.”

I swallowed hard, my entire body buzzing with the kind of electricity I didn’t dare name.

“I don’t want to be in a relationship for the sake of paparazzi and all of that, sounds crazy to me if you ask” i said

“We could build up from there” Michael smiled

I was too stunned to speak and kept thinking if he is actually starting to like me or he was just trying to get away from all the online drama

I’m so confused.

I agreed to date him tho, “fake relationship”

Might become real –who knows?

I had sworn to myself—sworn—that i would never give Michael Drake the satisfaction of agreeing with him. But after the paparazzi stormed my café like locusts and my phone buzzed nonstop with my father’s increasingly furious texts, I found myself sitting in the back of Michael’s sleek black town car, arms crossed, glaring at him like he was the root of all my problems.

“Remind me again,” I said icily, “why I’m here instead of hiding in a bunker somewhere?”

Michael, completely unbothered, scrolled through his phone. “Because, Castellano, hiding is what they expect. The press feeds on fear. You disappear, they invent stories. You stand beside me, we control the narrative.”

“Control,” I muttered. “That’s your favorite word, isn’t it? What’s next, drafting a contract that dictates how I breathe in public?”

He glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If you’d like.”

I groaned, throwing my head back against the leather seat. “Unbelievable.”

The car glided to a stop outside his office building—a tower of glass and steel that screamed power and wealth. I hesitated before stepping out, aware of the flashes already waiting. Paparazzi had tracked them here, too, and their voices rose like a wave the moment I emerged.

“Michael! Elena! Over here!”

“Give us a smile!”

“Are you officially together?”

Michael didn’t flinch. He simply placed a hand at my back, guiding me forward. His touch was light, almost polite, but it sent an unwanted shiver up my spine.

Inside, silence fell like a curtain. We stepped into his penthouse office—sleek, minimalist, every surface gleaming. I resisted the urge to touch anything. I’d bet my entire inheritance that even the air here was filtered to smell expensive.

“Alright,” Michael said, sliding off his jacket and draping it neatly over his chair. “Let’s establish rules.”

“Rules?” I echoed, perching on the edge of a chair like I was ready to bolt.

“Yes. Boundaries, expectations. If we’re going to fake date, we need clarity.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You’ve done this before?”

He ignored the jab and opened a notepad. “Rule one: no kissing in private. Only when necessary for the cameras.”

My face heated at the casual mention of kissing, and I hated myself for it. “You say that like it’s something you’re dying to avoid.”

“On the contrary,” Michael replied smoothly, his pen scratching across the paper. “I think it’s safer that way. Don’t want you catching feelings.”

My jaw dropped. “You—you arrogant—”

“Rule two,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “public appearances at least twice a week. Dinners, charity events, galas.”

“Oh good,” I snapped. “Because being paraded around like arm candy is exactly what I dreamed of when I was a little girl.”

His lips twitched again, like he was fighting a smile. “Rule three: we coordinate statements. No surprises to the press.”

I leaned forward, snatching the pen from his hand. “Fine. My turn. Rule four: no calling me after ten p.m. I actually value sleep, unlike some soulless corporate vampire.”

Michael raised a brow. “Soulless corporate vampire?”

“You heard me.” I scribbled the words on the notepad in dramatic loops.

He took the pen back, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact was quick, accidental, but my breath caught anyway. He noticed i could see it in the flicker of his gaze but he didn’t comment.

“Rule five,” he said quietly, “we trust each other. Whatever happens, we protect this arrangement.”

Something about his tone is serious, steady—made me pause. Beneath the smug exterior, there was a weight there. A promise. I looked away before it unsettled me further.