The Billionaires Protege

They say there’s a kind of girl who doesn’t belong in certain places; girls like me, with scholarship passes and thrifted shoes, walking among silk-lined halls and last names that open doors. But when Gerard looked at me for the first time, none of that mattered. Not my faded jeans, not the cafeteria tray I was balancing, not the fact that I wasn’t even supposed to be on that part of campus. All that existed in that moment were his eyes, warm golden brown, like honey caught in sunlight. He smiled like he knew secrets I would beg to hear. And I did. Eventually. We met on a Thursday, the kind of afternoon when the sun lingers a little longer and everything smells like coffee and possibility. He was leaning against the wall near the Humanities Building, phone in hand, dressed in an effortless mix of linen and designer denim. I hadn’t noticed him until I dropped my notebook. He was the one who picked it up. "Russian literature? ""That’s intense," he said, flipping through the first page before handing it back. I blinked at him. He was tall. Breathtakingly handsome. His honey-brown eyes sparkled under the sun, and he had this kind of lean, athletic grace, like he knew everyone was watching and didn’t mind. Gerard Halden was the type of boy who wore confidence like cologne. "I like intense," I said, trying to match his calm. He smiled, teeth gleaming, just shy of mocking. "Good. I do too." That was how it began. The next few weeks felt like a dream. He started small: an invitation to a study group that didn’t exist, then a coffee date, then a midnight walk after one of his football practices. Every interaction felt like stepping into a life I’d only seen in magazines. He smelled like wood and citrus and money. The kind of scent that clung to silk sheets and leather car seats. He never wore the same watch twice. He drove an obsidian black sports car with seats so soft I once joked they felt like sin. He laughed, leaned closer, and said, "So get used to it." I tried to. We weren’t public right away. That made it hotter. Secret kisses behind the literature building. Notes tucked into my book when I wasn’t looking. I started living for his messages, the late-night texts that curled into my skin. He brought me into his world slowly. Like a performance. Rooftop restaurants with panoramic views of the city. Shopping trips where he asked attendants to bring me clothes “in every color that’ll make her dangerous.” I wore dresses with tags I couldn’t pronounce and heels I could barely walk in. "You clean up nice," he’d say, eyes scanning every curve. He introduced me to champagne and oysters and three-course meals. I introduced him to laughter that came from the stomach and kisses that tasted like hope. For a while, I believed we were equals in our own way. He had the lifestyle; I had the fire. One night, he took me to his penthouse. It was a study in shadows and sharp lines, floor-to-ceiling windows and art that made me feel small. I walked slowly, unsure if I should touch anything. He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed the nape of my neck. "Nervous?" "This place is... something." "So are you. You belong here more than you think." I wanted to believe him. We had s*x that night for the first time. It started with the intense and hot kisses. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. When he looked down at me, every inch of me bare and open, he said, "You’re mine now, Lucille." He placed me on the bed,a king-sized bed that felt as soft as the clouds. He undressed me and felt every inch of my body trailing down kisses and I let out a soft moan. I submitted my body to him. I was in love with him. At that moment, his beautiful face made my heart race. I belonged to him. No one else. When he slid into me, it felt like he belonged there. My body roared with pleasure. I moaned his name and he increased the pace of these thrusts. Each thrust faster and harder than the last. He looked up at me and whispered, "You're beautiful Lucille, and you're mine" And I believed that too. I believed everything he said. I was at his mercy. ****** He met my mom a month later. I was nervous he was late, of course, but when he arrived, everything about him screamed polished perfection. He brought her flowers. Wore a pressed navy blazer. Called her ma’am. She couldn’t stop smiling. "Men like this don’t just happen," she whispered to me later. Don’t be stupid. Don’t ruin this." I felt like the luckiest girl alive. We were everywhere together at campus events, football after parties, lazy Sundays in his condo watching movies on his massive projector screen. He showed me off like a secret he couldn’t keep, and I soaked it all in: the attention, the whispers, the envy. There were nights when we’d lie in bed tangled in sheets and satin, and he’d run his fingers along the small of my back while I listened to his heartbeat. He told me stories of his childhood in London, summers in Monaco, weekends in Dubai. I told him about growing up in a tiny apartment with paper-thin walls and a mother who worked double shifts to put food on the table. "You're strong," he once said. "That’s sexy as hell." I blushed so hard I had to bury my face in his chest. He loved my body and told me every chance he got. Said I had curves women paid money to build. That my skin looked like velvet and my lips were made to be kissed. And I loved how he looked at me. Like I was the only girl in the room, even when we were surrounded by women who looked like runway models and money. It was perfect. Or maybe I just wanted it to be.