Faking it with the Billionaire

*POV: Arielle Montgomery* ### Scene 1: The Restaurant Trap If the devil wore Prada and scheduled blind dates, he would look exactly like Arielle’s mother. “I don’t see why you’re being so dramatic,” her mother had said, her voice sweet like poison-laced honey. “It’s just dinner. You might even enjoy it.” Dinner, yes. But at **Belladonna**, the kind of restaurant that charged by the syllable and served food that looked more like a modern art experiment than a meal. The kind of place where a glass of water had a wine pairing. The kind of place where people *like her* didn’t belong. Arielle sat stiffly in the corner booth, the buttery leather seat too soft for her nerves. She tugged at the neckline of her thrifted blue dress, which had seemed classy at home and now looked like it belonged to a woman attending the wrong party. Everything in the room glowed gold—walls, chandeliers, even the damn napkin rings—and the soft violin music in the background made her feel like she was trapped in a romantic movie she hadn’t auditioned for. Her date was late. Of course he was. She glanced down at her phone for the sixth time in four minutes. Nothing. No texts. No “Sorry, I’m on my way!” or “Tragic accident, can’t make it!” She would’ve accepted either. Preferably the latter. And just when she considered bolting, the air changed. She didn’t *see* him at first, but she *felt* him—the way people feel storms before thunder cracks. A magnetic shift in atmosphere that pulled every set of eyes toward the entrance. She turned slowly, half dreading, half curious. And there he was. Tall. Crisp. Dangerous. A human thunderstorm in a charcoal suit. He walked like he owned the restaurant. Hell, like he might actually *own* it. His jaw was chiseled like it was sculpted in an expensive Italian workshop, and his hair was an intentional mess, dark strands falling over sharp brows. He paused by the host stand, eyes scanning the room with surgical precision. Arielle's stomach dropped. No. No freaking way. Because that wasn't just her blind date. That was **Dominic Cross**. Her ex’s boss. Her *freakishly attractive, intimidating-as-hell, billionaire boss*. And now he was walking straight toward her table. --- *POV: Dominic Cross* He hated blind dates. He especially hated blind dates set up by *his* mother, a woman who had once referred to his last girlfriend as “that yoga witch.” But she’d called in a favor, and he owed her more than a few. He expected the usual. Someone polished, plastic, and painfully boring. He did *not* expect the woman sitting alone at the table in the corner. He slowed his pace, eyeing her like a puzzle he hadn’t realized needed solving. She looked like a splash of real color in a world of fake gold. Her hair was wild in that “I definitely didn’t spend three hours on it” way, and her expression? She looked like she was moments away from either fleeing or stabbing someone with a salad fork. And... he knew her. “Arielle?” he asked, already amused. Her eyes widened with horror. “You’ve *got* to be kidding me.” Nope. This was going to be fun. --- ### Scene 2: Awkward Introductions They stared at each other across the table like it was a hostage negotiation. “You’re my blind date?” she asked, still blinking like she might wake up any second. He slid into the booth with a graceful indifference. “Apparently. Unless you’re expecting someone *else* with this face.” “That face,” she muttered, “is the reason half the women in your office can’t concentrate.” Dominic smirked. “So you’ve noticed.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re my ex’s *boss*.” “And you’re my former intern’s *ex*. Small world.” Arielle groaned and dropped her face into her hands. “This is not happening.” He flagged the waiter like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Two glasses of the house red. And tell the chef—make her something that’ll make her change her mind about tonight.” The waiter vanished, clearly used to Dominic’s commands. Arielle peeked at him from behind her fingers. “You’re seriously staying?” He tilted his head, dark eyes playful. “You’re interesting when you’re mortified.” “I’m not interesting. I’m a victim of parental matchmaking terrorism.” Dominic leaned in, voice a low hum. “Then maybe we should fight back. You know... make them *really* uncomfortable.” She blinked. “Excuse me?” “Fake relationship,” he said, just like that. Like it was a perfectly normal suggestion. “We pretend to date. You get your mom off your back. I get some public PR cleanup. Win-win.” Arielle stared at him. Then laughed. Loudly. Uncontrollably. “You’re insane.” “And you’re intrigued.” “Hard no.” He shrugged, unbothered. “You’ll change your mind.” She sipped the wine that had magically appeared in front of her. Damn it. She *might*. --- *POV: Dominic Cross* ### Scene 3: The Real Reason Dominic wasn’t one to let the past catch up to him. But tonight, it was breathing down his neck like an old enemy with a grudge. He watched Arielle through the rim of his wine glass. She was beautiful—too beautiful for someone who clearly had no clue how striking she was. That sharp wit, the way her sarcasm danced on the edge of frustration... it was refreshing. Especially after a week of PR disasters, a daughter who wouldn't talk to him after school, and board meetings filled with vultures in suits. She wasn’t just a pretty face. She was a lifeline in disguise. His assistant had warned him: “The tabloids are sniffing again. You need to look stable. Settled.” His mother had said it with fewer words but more force: “You look like a man about to self-destruct. People don’t invest in chaos, Dominic.” A fake relationship was convenient. Controlled. Clean. No emotions, no risk. And Arielle? She was unexpected. Unpolished. Unbought. The kind of woman who might just slap him for looking at her wrong—and that made her perfect. Still, he had to play it cool. "So," he said, swirling the wine. "You said ‘hard no,’ but you’re still here." "I’m here for the food. And maybe the wine. You, not so much." "Fair." He paused. "But think about it, Arielle. You get breathing room from your family. I get to look like a man who’s capable of something resembling human emotion. We help each other. No strings." Her eyes flicked to his. “You don’t strike me as the 'no strings' type.” He smiled. “I’m whatever the situation needs me to be.” A beat of silence passed between them. Dangerous silence. And she didn’t bolt. That was promising. --- *POV: Arielle Montgomery* ### Scene 4: The Pitch She Should’ve Refused Arielle told herself she’d never agree. She *knew* better. Her last relationship had been a disaster—she’d fallen for a guy with a five-year plan that didn’t include her beyond the second date. Dominic Cross was worse. He was ten steps ahead, always calculating, always charming in the way snakes probably smiled before they bit. But as she walked out of Belladonna with him, heels clicking on marble, the air cool against her flushed skin, she felt like she’d just stepped into a story she hadn’t written. He held the door open for her like a gentleman—old-fashioned, smooth. She hated how much she liked it. “So?” he asked, leaning against the side of his sleek black Aston Martin like a freaking cologne ad. “No,” she said flatly. He arched a brow. “No... for now,” she added under her breath. His smirk was all predator. “I’ll take it.” And somehow, she knew—this was only the beginning. ---