THE BILLIONAIRE HOUSEMATE

Chalter III

Phoebe’s POV

I wasn’t ready for this. Like, at all.

If I counted right, this would be the fifth time I paced to and fro the length of the living room, fluffing pillows that didn’t need fluffing and wiping surfaces that were already spotless.

What the hell was I doing?

Was I really about to let some random stranger move not only into my house, but also my life because his email had decent grammar and sounded polite? What if he turned out to be an axe murderer or a con artist who could rob me blind? Or worse, what if he wasn’t any of those ridiculous imaginations?

What if he was just... normal?

I hated how disturbing the idea was in my head. Being normal meant unpredictable, and unpredictable meant dangerous in a whole other kind of way I couldn't explain. My stomach churned at the thought, but the truth was, I needed this arrangement as much as he apparently did.

Desperate times, if you could relate.

Bills didn't pay themselves, and unless I wanted to spend my evenings taste-testing canned soup flavors, I needed a roommate. Despite all my efforts—my best efforts to keep my finances above water, the bills had started to pile up like bad Tinder dates. I had spent way too many months trying to make ends meet, telling myself things would get better, that I just needed to hold out a little longer. Spoiler alert—they hadn’t.

So here I was, taking a risk on a man whose entire personality I had pieced together from six emails and a profile picture that could have been dubbed from LinkedIn.

Greg Sawyer.

His name rolled easily on my tongue. It sounded fake, too polished and almost too perfect, but I ignored the bad feeling in my stomach and hit send anyway.

Hi Greg,

Thanks for reaching out. You’re welcome to come by and inspect the place today. I’m available anytime after 5 PM. Let me know what works for you.



Phoebe.

I stared at the message for a few seconds a little longer than necessary, then tossed my phone onto the coffee table before I could overthink it.

But it was too late; I was regretting it.

For the next hour, I was still leaning against my chair in the same spot I had been sitting on. My fingers were already aching from being chewed as I reread his reply for the tenth—no, twelfth—time. It was polite. Straightforward. Almost... too straightforward. The guy even used words like “respect boundaries” and “dependable,” which felt suspiciously rehearsed. Was that normal? Did normal people say things like that? Or was this Greg Sawyer guy just really good at pretending?

I let out a satisfying groan, burying my face in my hands. I lost record of the numbers of time I had cycled through every possible worst-case scenario, from him showing up with a chainsaw to him being insanely attractive and me developing a humiliating crush. Both options seemed equally terrifying. I even considered canceling the whole thing and faking an emergency trip to the Bahamas, but my bank account quickly shut that idea down.

I couldn't exactly afford to be picky now. And judging by the other responses I also got—one guy who asked if he could set up a “spiritual crystal corner” in the living room and another who casually mentioned his “pet tarantula”—Greg was my safest bet. Probably.

All I had to do now was—what? Pretend to be totally calm and collected when a complete stranger showed up at my door? Yeah, right

By 4:50 PM, I was dressed in my best casual but responsible outfit. I just meant jeans, a gray sweater, and a pair of sneakers that said, “I’m cool, but I also know how to use a fire extinguisher.” My hair was in its usual messy bun, and I had applied just enough mascara to look awake without trying too hard.

At exactly 5:10, the doorbell rang.

I could swear I felt my heart in my throat, and for half a second, I considered not answering. I know right? The doubting thoughts came afresh. Thoughts like—Maybe he would leave if he waited long enough. Maybe I could pretend I wasn’t home. But then he knocked again, and my feet were moving before my brain could catch up.

I opened the door—and the sight before that greeted me made me freeze on a spot.

This wasn’t any way close to what I had expected.

The man standing on my porch looked like he belonged in a movie scene where the main character catches their cheating fiancé’s way-too-hot best friend staring at them across a crowded room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and way too put-together for someone supposedly desperate for a place to crash.

His dark hair was just messy enough to look perfect, and his sharp jawline could’ve cut diamonds. But it was his eyes that left me dumbfounded. He had warm brown eyes that straight at me, and I felt a knot in my tongue.

“Hi,” His tenoric voice was impeccable. “You must be Phoebe.”

I blinked twice before I finally found my voice. “Uh—yeah. Hi.”

He held out a hand, and I shook it before my brain had time to process how warm his skin felt against mine. “I’m Greg. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Sure.” I stepped aside, suddenly hyper-aware of the laundry basket I had shoved behind the couch and the fading paint on the walls. “Come in.”

He walked past me, and I immediately regretted not baking cookies or lighting a candle or doing something to make the place feel less... sad.

“This is nice,” he said, glancing around. “Very cozy.” He said, still glancing around.

“Thanks.” I gestured roughly toward the rest of the house as I tried to steady my nerves. “I can show you around if you want.”

He nodded, and I led him into the most awkward house tour of my life. I pointed out the kitchen, the laundry closet, and the downstairs bathroom like I was a real estate agent on an off day. He asked questions—normal ones about utilities and contract terms—and each time I answered, I felt my shoulders relax just a little more.

When we reached the guest bedroom, he stepped inside and ran a hand along the window space, nodding thoughtfully.

“It’s basic,” I said, folding my arms. “But it’s clean.”

“It’s perfect,” he cut in, and the suddenness and sternness of his voice threw me off guard.

“Oh.”

There was a period of suffocating silence where I suddenly felt like I was being scanned. He wasn’t just looking at the room—he was looking at me.

“I like it,” he said again, hands in pocket and giving me a straight stare. “It's cool, and I'd like to move in as soon as possible.”

I was surprised by his urgency. “Oh—uh, seriously?”

He nodded. “I could pay six months upfront, and we could sign whatever agreement you need, if that's okay.”

Six months upfront. That would clear part of my debts, buy me time—breathing room I hadn’t had in months. But something about him felt...off. Not dangerous, exactly. Could I really trust this handsome but straight faced man before me?

“Can I ask why you’re in such a hurry?”

His expression changed, like he had been expecting me to pop the question. “I don't think that's any of your concern. You need a housemate, don't you?

I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m not a criminal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, and for the first time, his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “I just need to secure an accomodation as soon as possible.” He was giving me the straight stare again, and I found myself going cold.

I wanted to press him further, interrogate him more, but something in his tone stopped me. I don't think that's any of your concern. Those words echoed in my ears again, and I felt disgusted. Why did he have to be so rude? Anyways, it really wasn't any of my business, he was right about that. My only concern now was clearing off my debt log.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Let’s do it.”

I literally saw relief wash over his face, and I noticed for the first time, how tired he looked. Not the kind of tired that came from lack of sleep—the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.

He gave a short smile, and brought his phone out of his pocket. “Your account details, please?”

He handed the phone to me, and I typed in the details, then handed it back. He made a few taps on his screen, and then put it back into his pocket.

“I've forwarded your details,” he said, hands in pocket. “And you should be getting an alert anytime from—”

My phone vibrated with a ding. I looked at my screen to see a pop up notification from my bank, showing a credit alert.

“I guess that's it, right?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, that's it.”

I watched him walk out the door after we reached an agreement. It was too late to back out now, wasn't it?

But it was a pity, I didn’t know then that Greg Sawyer wasn’t who he said he was.

And I definitely didn’t know that letting him into my home would change everything I thought I knew about safety, trust, and second chances.