My Fake Boyfriend Is A Billionaire CEO

Zoey’s POV 

I had always believed humiliation came in neat, manageable sizes: a bad date, a whispered rumor, or maybe an awkward family dinner where someone asked why I was still single at twenty-eight like it was a medical condition. I was wrong. Humiliation, I learned, could wear ivory lace and walk down an aisle filled with people who had paid thousands to watch you say ‘I do,’ only for the groom to never show up.

If you were wondering, yes, that kind of humiliation echoed. It echoed in ballrooms, in tabloids, in my grandfather’s silent stare, and worst of all, it echoed in my own head at three in the morning when sleep refused to touch me. Even nature had decided to haunt me. So when I stood in front of the mirror six months later holding my phone like it was a loaded weapon, I told myself I was past shame. I was not.

“Just do it,” my best friend Lina said over speaker. “You’re pacing like you’re about to rob a bank.” Lina can motivate you to go to hell and make you think it's heaven.

“I feel like I am robbing my own dignity,” I muttered.

“You lost that at the altar, babe. This is a recovery mission.”

I stopped pacing and stared at my reflection. My hair was pulled into a messy knot, and my eyes looked tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Zoey Aguilar: former golden girl, former heiress, former bride-to-be. And now? A current joke.

“I can’t believe I’m about to hire an escort,” I said.

“High-end escort,” Lina corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. One wears suits that cost more than your car and knows which fork to use.”

“That doesn’t make this any better.”

“It makes it effective.”

I exhaled hard and looked down at the website again. Against a black background with minimal text and discreet promises, there were men with blurred faces and bios that read like résumés: internationally educated, fluent in five languages, and experienced in corporate and social events. I scrolled. This was happening because of one man: Julian Moretti, my ex-fiancé. He was the man who smiled for cameras and kissed my cheek for society pages, then vanished the morning of our wedding with a text that read: ‘I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’

Sorry. Of course he was. I laughed out loud, sharp and humourless.

“You still there?” Lina asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just… remembering why I hate him.”

“Well, good. Channel that energy because his gala is in three days, and he’s expecting you to stay hidden like a wounded animal.”

“You must have forgotten the son of a bitch disinvited me,” I reminded her.

“And you’re going anyway.”

“With a fake billionaire fiancé,” I added.

“Exactly.”

The gala was Julian’s triumph and his rebrand; it was a charity event wrapped in luxury hosted at the Bellmore Grand. Everyone who mattered would be there, including investors, socialites, and my grandfather. Especially my grandfather, which was why I couldn’t just show up alone or, worse, like a broken record.

I tapped one profile. There was no photo, but he had a name: C. Bell. That was it. No life story and no charming paragraph. I found it strange.

“What kind of escort doesn’t even try?” I asked.

“Maybe the mysterious type,” Lina said. “Click it.”

“That wasn't funny,” I said.

“I didn't say it was,” she replied. “Click it,” she said again.

I did. The message window opened and my fingers hovered. This was insane. I typed anyway: ‘I need someone to attend a public gala as my fiancé. He must be discreet and convincing. It's short-term.’

The reply came less than a minute later: ‘Understood. Date and location?’

I frowned. “That was fast,” I said to Lina.

“See? Efficient.”

‘Location,’ another message appeared on my screen.

‘Friday. Bellmore Grand. High-profile guests.’

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. ‘My rate is high.’

I snorted. “Of course it is.”

‘Name your price,’ I typed.

There was a pause this time, long enough for doubt to creep in. ‘I’ll be there,’ he replied. That was it- no negotiation and no invoice.

“Did you just agree to something with a stranger who didn’t even ask for money?” Lina asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re either brave or deeply unserious.”

“I’m desperate,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

“Just don't fall in love,” she said.

“Love is for the weak,” I said.

Friday came too fast. By the time I stood in my apartment dressed in a black gown that hugged me like it knew my secrets, my nerves were screaming. The dress was revenge in fabric form: elegant, sharp, and impossible to ignore. I kept telling myself this was just a performance. Show up, smile, and let Julian choke on his regret. Simple.

The knock came exactly at seven. I froze.

“Zoey?” Lina whispered through the phone. “Answer the door.”

“I know.” I didn’t move.

Another knock came. This time, it was calm and unrushed. I opened the door. For a moment, I forgot how breathing worked. The man standing there did not look like an escort; he looked like a headline. He was tall with broad shoulders, wearing a dark suit that fit like it was tailored to his sins. His hair was black and neatly styled and his face was sharp in a way that made my chest feel tight. His eyes- holy smokes- his eyes were dark and steady, like they had seen too much and survived it.

He looked past me into my apartment, then back at my face. “Zoey Aguilar,” he said, his voice low, calm, and certain.

“Yes,” I said faintly. “And you are…?”

“Christian.”

That was all. No last name.

“Just Christian?” I asked, my curiosity heightening.

“For tonight,” he said.

I stared at him. “You’re late,” I said automatically.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m early.”

I checked my phone. He was right, and that annoyed me.

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside. He did, taking in the space with quick, assessing glances as if he were memorizing exits. Escort behavior, I told myself; very professional.

“You understand what this is, right?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“You’ll pretend to be my fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll hold my hand, smile, and look rich.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “I can manage that.”

“You shall refer to me as ‘My Lady.’”

“Not a problem,“ he replied.

“You won’t speak unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“I prefer not to.”

That earned him a look. “You’re very confident,” I said.

“So are you,” he replied. “You hired me.”

We rode to the gala in silence, broken only when I blurted, “My ex will be there.”

“I assumed,” he said.

“He left me at the altar.”

“I read about it.”

I stiffened. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know this is personal.”

He turned to look at me then- really look. “I don’t take jobs that aren’t,” he said.

“I see,” I said, letting the rest of the ride go on in silence.

The Bellmore Grand glittered like a challenge and cameras flashed the second we stepped out. Christian’s hand found my lower back, firm and warm.

“Smile, My Lady,” he whispered.

Inside, whispers followed us: “Who is that?” “Is that Zoey Aguilar?” “I thought she disappeared.” Julian saw us from across the room and the color drained from his face. That alone was worth everything. My plan was working; he must regret leaving me.

Christian leaned down, his lips close to my ear. “He’s staring.”

“Good,” I said. “Let him.”

“Now, let's make him want you,” he said. Before I could ask what he meant, he brought me closer in a manner that made hearts melt in ecstasy and kissed me in a manner that made me want more.

Julian approached, fake smile in place. “Zoey,” he said. “I didn’t expect …”

“Christian,” my escort interrupted smoothly. “Her fiancé.”

Julian blinked. “Fiancé?”

Christian’s hand tightened slightly on mine.

“Yes,” I said. “Surprise.”

“That's refreshing to know,” he said, smiling wryly. “At least you moved on quicker than I expected.”

“That's what happens when you fall in love with the RIGHT person,” I said, gently holding Christian's hand.

“I see,” he said, then turned to Christian. “I hope you survived the storm.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, taken by surprise.

“Not every question has got an answer. I'll see you later,” he said and walked away.

“I hate him!” I let out.

The night spiraled with photos, laughter, and Christian playing the role too well. He knew names, companies, and wines. Wines. Someone mentioned Bellucci Winery. Christian smiled politely and my stomach dropped.

After the gala, my phone exploded with headlines and messages: Is Zoey Aguilar engaged to reclusive billionaire Christian Bellucci?

I stared at the screen, then at the man beside me. “You’re not an escort,” I said.

“No,” he agreed.

“You’re Christian Bellucci.”

“Yes.”

“You lied.”

“I omitted.”

I laughed, breathless. “Do you know how insane this is?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “That’s why I agreed.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Because you need me, and I need you…”