Billionaire Fake Fiancé : An Opposites Attract, Bad Boy Romance (Purely Contractual)

"Okay, buddy," I say quickly, taking pity on both of them. "Why don't you go watch your show? Lucas and I need to talk in the kitchen." Leo's face falls. "Is he staying for dinner?" "No. He has to go." Relief flashes in Lucas's eyes before he locks it down. Leo's shoulders slump. "Adults always leave." He says it like reporting the weather. Just shrugs. Doesn't even look at Lucas when the words come out. Then he turns and drops onto the couch, turning the TV volume up. The words punch through my ribs and twist. He said it so casually. Like it's just a fact he's learned. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Adults leave.

"I don't know how to waltz." "Then follow me." I stand, offering my hand. She stares at it like it might burn her. Then takes it. I lead her onto the floor where other couples move in elegant patterns. Her hand is small in mine, unsteady. "I'm going to step on your feet," she warns. "I have very expensive shoes. They'll survive."

Leo slaps his palm against the doorframe as we head out. "Bye, house," he announces. "Thanks for not falling down." I choke on a laugh that turns sharp at the edges.

"Does he eat kids?" Leo says, voice small. "Is he friendly? Does he know I'm not food? Can I pet him?"

"What are you thinking?" he asks. I trace patterns on his chest. "That we're ridiculous, you know. You're a billionaire who drinks artisan coffee and I still think Folgers is fancy." "You make me want to drink gas station coffee just to see you smile," he counters. "And you make me believe I deserve artisan." I tilt my head up. "We balance each other." "Perfectly mismatched," he agrees.

I let out a brittle laugh. “Of course the elevator stalls too.” His gaze flicks to me. “Do you always meet pressure with sarcasm?” “Only when panic would be less productive.”

He turns, leaning back against the desk, arms folding loosely across his chest. Casual posture. Absolute authority. “Let’s be clear,” he says. “I don’t tolerate carelessness. I don’t tolerate excuses. And I don’t tolerate disrespect.” I draw a breath, forcing my spine straight. “Then you’re going to hate me,” I say quietly. “Because I don’t tolerate being talked down to.”