FAKING IT WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

Are You Ready to Fake Falling in Love?

Izzy Hart stared at the bill in her hands like it might change if she blinked hard enough.

$28,746.13.

That was the updated total of the hospital fees and medication. Tests her mother needed weeks ago but had delayed, hoping the last fundraiser would cover more.

Her hands trembled as she folded the paper in half and shoved it beneath the takeout menus on the counter.

A sharp cough came from the bedroom. It was her mother. Lately, get sickness had gotten worse and if care wasn't taken, it could get far worse.

Izzy pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She needed to find a way to sort this out. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out and stared at the screen.

Sophie:

There's an emergency. A wedding planner quit on Davis Stark. It's a huge job with a high pay. You want in or not?

Her eyes bulged out of her socket. This was exactly what she had been praying for, a miracle. He couldn’t afford to be picky.

Izzy:

Where and when?

Sophie:

It's in the Starks estate tonight. Be there by 6. Wear something that says competent, not desperate.

Izzy threw on the best thing she owned that didn’t have coffee stains, clipped her hair back, and ordered a rideshare with the last of her credit limit.

She didn’t even have cab fare home. But she’d deal with that later.

The Starks estate looked like it belonged on the cover of a bridal magazine. White stone, winding drive, valets in uniform, champagne fountains, and guests wearing more money than Izzy had seen in months.

She stepped out of the car, pulled her shoulders back, and walked in like she belonged.

A gasp escaped her lips as she took in the sight before her. The flower arch had collapsed. A violinist had vanished. The lighting technician looked like he might cry.

Izzy didn’t wait for permission. She snapped on her headset, gave instructions like she’d been on this job for weeks, and hunted down the missing musician in a linen closet having a panic attack.

She rerouted the arch with floral tape and brute force. Reprogrammed the lighting board, swapped out a ruined cake tier before anyone noticed.

By the time the first guest was seated, everything looked perfect.

“I said no carnations. If I wanted filler, I’d shop at a grocery store.”

The voice was deep, cold and authoritative.

Izzy turned and her gaze fell on a man. He was tall dressed in a black suit and was standing over a young assistant who looked two seconds from tears.

“Try asking nicely,” Izzy said, walking over before she could stop herself.

He turned slowly, looking her over like he wasn’t sure if she was real.

“Do you work here?”

“Do you always talk to people like they’re beneath you?”

The assistant quietly disappeared.

He stepped closer. “I asked you a question.”

“And I gave you an answer,” she said. “Isabella Hart. Emergency planner. You?”

His gaze sharpened. “You really don’t know who I am.”

“Should I?”

Before he could respond, a man in a headset ran up, out of breath. “Mr. Blackwood, they’re ready for your toast.”

Izzy blinked rapidly. Blackwood?

Her stomach sank.

She’d just called out Alexander Blackwood. CEO of Blackwood Enterprises. Billionaire. Reclusive tech god. One of the wealthiest, most untouchable men in the country.

He didn’t look angry. He looked amused.

“For the record,” he said, stepping closer, “it’s Alex.”

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Izzy just stood there, heart pounding.

Well, she thought. If I’m getting blacklisted, at least I looked good doing it.

She stayed behind after the reception, triple-checking inventory, making sure the crew got paid, and ignoring the ache in her feet.

She was halfway out the side entrance when a voice stopped her.

“We meet again, Miss Hart.”

She turned to stare at the familiar voice. It was Alex. He stood near the balconyz his shirt sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets, hair slightly out of place now. Less like a billionaire, more like a man.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” she said, not trusting her voice.

“I was waiting.”

“For me?”

“You’re not like most people,” he said. “And I don’t like most people.”

She crossed her arms. “You planning to insult me again or just ruin someone else’s night?”

He didn’t smile. He just stared at her like a meal he was ready to devour.

“I have a proposition.”

“I don’t plan weddings for clients twice,” she said. “Especially not ones who insult the florals.”

“Not a wedding,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “A role.”

He handed her a simple white card.

Alexander Blackwood

Direct Line.

“No assistant?”

“This isn’t an assistant-level offer.”

She looked up. “Okay… what’s the offer?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A fake engagement for three months you and me. Public appearances, paparazzi shots and zero real emotion. You help my image, I help your bank account.”

She laughed. “ You're joking. That’s not a job.”

“It’s a contract,” he said calmly. “With legal protections. Boundaries. A generous payout.”

“And why me?”

“Because you’re not afraid of me,” he said. “And I need someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Izzy stared at him. She could still hear her mom’s cough from this morning. Still see the number at the bottom of the hospital bill. Twenty-eight thousand, seven hundred forty-six.

She turned the card in her hand.

“This is crazy,” she muttered.

He stepped back toward the door but paused.

“I’ll give you one night to decide.”

He reached for the door, then looked over his shoulder.

“One last thing, Isabella.”

She met his eyes.

“If you say yes… are you ready to fake falling in love with me?”