Faking Love

Chapter 2: The Conspiracy

Maya's idea of wine night involves a dive bar that's seen better days and margaritas that could strip paint.

"So let me get this straight," she says, pouring us both another round. "Diane wants you to write a billionaire romance, something you've spent your entire career actively mocking and avoiding, and she's threatening your contract if you don't?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah."

"And you said yes."

"The advance has a lot of zeros, Maya."

She studies me over the rim of her glass. Maya Chen has been my best friend since college, when we bonded over a shared hatred of our pretentious Creative Writing professor and a love of Korean fried chicken. She's a graphic designer with pink-streaked hair and enough optimism to balance out my cynicism. We shouldn't work as friends, but we do.

"You've never even been in love," she points out. "How are you supposed to write a convincing love story?"

"That's what research is for."

"Research. You mean like reading billionaire romances?"

I take a long drink. "I was thinking more... immersive research."

Her eyes narrow. "Define immersive."

"I need to understand how billionaires actually think, move, operate. The books make them seem like cartoon characters, all hot looks and mysterious pasts and endless money. I need the real thing."

"So you're going to... what? Interview billionaires? Good luck getting past their assistants."

"Not interview." I lean forward, warming to the idea that's been brewing since I left Diane's office. "Infiltrate."

Maya sets down her glass slowly. "I'm sorry, did you just say infiltrate? Like we’re planning a military operation or something."

"Think about it. I get close to a real billionaire, observe him in his natural habitat, take notes on how he actually behaves versus how these books portray them. Three months of deep research, then I write the book. It'll be authentic because it's based on reality."

"That's insane."

"That's brilliant."

"That's illegal. Probably. I don't know, but it feels illegal."

I wave this away. "It's journalism. Immersion journalism. Writers do it all the time."

"Writers don't usually seduce their subjects."

"Who said anything about seduction? I'll be professional. Distant. A fly on the wall." Even as I say it, I know it sounds ridiculous. But I'm committed now, riding the high of the idea. "I just need to find the right billionaire. Someone boring enough to not notice me, successful enough to be the real deal."

Maya signals the bartender for another round. We're going to need it.

"Okay, I'll bite. How exactly do you plan to get close to a billionaire? They're not exactly hanging out at dive bars in Silver Lake."

"I could apply to be an assistant. Or a housekeeper. Something that gets me access without raising suspicion."

"You can't even keep your own apartment clean, and you want to be someone's housekeeper?"

She has a point. My apartment looks like a bookstore exploded in it, with coffee cups serving as decorations and takeout containers achieving a forever status in the fridge.

"Assistant then. I'm organized when I need to be."

"You missed your own birthday party last year."

"I was in the middle of a chapter!"

Maya laughs, and it's the sound of someone watching a disaster unfold in real-time but being too entertained to look away. "You're really going to do this."

"I'm really going to do this."

"And when he finds out you're using him for a book?"

"He won't. I'll be in and out before he knows what hit him. Three months, that's it. Get the research, write the book, and collect my advance."

"What could possibly go wrong?" Maya's tone is so dry it could probably start fires.

I raise my glass. "To bad ideas and good advances."

She clinks hers against mine. "To my best friend, who's about to catfish a billionaire. I'm already planning what to wear to your funeral."

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking. When this blows up in your face, and it will, I want you to remember that I warned you."

"Noted. Now help me make a list of potential targets."

She pulls out her phone with a sigh. "I can't believe I'm enabling this."

"You love enabling me."

"I really do," she admits. "Okay, LA billionaires. Let's see... tech bros?"

"Too young. They'd probably try to disrupt my research with an app."

"Old money?"

"Too boring. I'd fall asleep during my observations."

"Entertainment industry?"

"Too public. I need someone private, successful, but not constantly in the spotlight."

Maya scrolls for a minute, then stops. "What about real estate? There's this guy, Dante Castillo. Self-made, built his company from the ground up. Mid-thirties, private, no social media presence."

She shows me her phone. The image is from a business magazine, a man in an impeccable suit, dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that look like they can see through bullshit from a mile away.

"He's hot," Maya observes.

"He's research," I correct, but I'm zooming in on the photo. There's something in his expression, a kind of intensity that makes him look more interesting than the usual billionaire guys. "What else does it say?"

"CEO of Castillo Development Group. Focuses on luxury properties across California. Started flipping houses after his dad's construction company went bankrupt. Now he's worth... holy s**t, nine figures."

"Perfect."

"Perfect? Raven, this guy looks like he eats assistants for breakfast."

"Even better. High difficulty, high reward." I screenshot the photo. "Does his company have any job openings?"

Maya searches. "Personal assistant position. Posted three days ago."

I grin. "There's my in."

"You're really doing this."

"I'm really doing this."

She studies me for a long moment, and I see the concern behind the humor. "Just... be careful, okay? I know you think you're invincible because you're 'just researching,' but people have feelings. Real feelings. Including you."

"I'll be fine. I'm a professional."

"You're a disaster in human form."

"A professional disaster."

We spend the next hour crafting a fake résumé that's impressive enough to get an interview but not so impressive it raises questions. Maya helps me fabricate work experience, references, the whole nine yards. By the time we're done, I'm Raven Moreau, experienced executive assistant with a background in high-pressure environments and a talent for discretion.

None of it's true except my name, but it sounds good.

"You know what the best part is?" I ask as we're leaving the bar, pleasantly buzzed and possibly making terrible life decisions.

"What's that?"

"When I'm done, I'll have written the most authentic billionaire romance ever. Because it won't be romance at all. It'll be history."

Maya links her arm through mine. "Or it'll be a cautionary tale about what happens when writers get too immersed in their research."

"Either way, it'll make a hell of a book."

Above us, the LA sky is that particular shade of orange that happens when the sun sets through smog. It's not beautiful, exactly, but it's real. That's what I'm after, the real thing. Not a fantasy, and definitely not a fairy tale.

Just the truth about what it's like to be close to that much money, that much power.

How hard can it be?