The Billionaire's Contractual Wife Is A Baddie

             ✦ ❦ ✦ Selena Pov ✦ ❦ ✦

I leaned against the headboard of my tiny apartment bed, phone pressed to my ear, already knowing this conversation was about to change my whole month. 

I just needed the money so bad. 

My girls — the rich, high-class I*******m babes I linked with a couple months ago — were planning this insane round trip in exactly one month. Private villas, yacht days, club-hopping in different cities, the whole main character experience. I refused to be the one showing up with last-season bags and borrowed energy. I wanted the latest drops, the custom outfits, the "I belong here" aura. My part-time gigs weren't cutting it. Time to get creative.

I hit FaceTime on Isabelle. She answered on the third ring, hair wrapped, eating noodles in her kitchen. 

"Wassgood, washing bad bitch?" I said, grinning as I flipped the camera to show my messy curls and the pile of fashion magazines on my bed. 

Isabelle paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing. "Yo, girl… I'm scared. You only hit me with that energy when you're about to drag me into some wild plan. What's the danger this time?" 

I laughed, but my voice got serious fast. "Alright, real talk. That girls' trip I told you about? It's locked in for next month and I need money. Not little money — real money. I gotta show up looking like money too, you feel me? Latest bags, shoes that make the girls scream in the group chat, outfits that say 'I run this.' My savings from these dead-ass part-time shifts ain't touching it." 

"What kind of money are we talking?" Isabelle asked, setting her noodles down. She knew that tone. That was my "I have a plan" tone. 

"Like... fifty, maybe seventy-five if I'm lucky by then? But these girls are showing up with millions, babe. Millions. And I'm not about to be the broke bitch in a group of rich bitches. That's not the vibe." 

She sucked her teeth. "Don't even start asking me for cash, bitch. I'm still paying off my own shit." 

"Nah, chill," I said, waving my hand. "I'm not putting that on you. But you got all those bougie connections through your sister and them. I don't mind getting in the trenches a little if it means securing the bag. You know what I mean?" I wiggled my eyebrows, half-joking, half-dead serious. 

Isabelle nearly choked on her noodles. "Ewww, Selena! So you really out here considering sleeping with some rich old dude just to fund a trip? That's wild even for you." 

"Hold up, hold up," I said, sitting up and flipping my hair. "I didn't say all that. I'm not about to sell the pussy like that. But like... there gotta be something in between, you know? Some rich dude who wants arm candy, or needs a date to events, or some sugar daddy type situation. Anything legitimate that pays and doesn't require me to actually fall for the bullshit." 

I shrugged, flopping back on the pillows. "These girls do it all the time. Quietly. And it's not like I'm tryna catch feelings or something. Just… find me somebody who pays good. I'm a big girl, I can handle any of them dudes." 

"Any dude?" Isabelle's voice shot up. "Who the hell are you tryna find that'll pay you for that?" 

She was quiet for a second, then sighed like she always does when she's about to enable me. "Okay, crazy ass. My sister was telling me about this situation her boss is dealing with. Some big-shot CEO needs a wife for exactly one year. Contract shit. Paper marriage only. Pay is supposedly stupid huge. Like life-changing huge. She might be able to put your name in if they haven't picked anyone yet. Are you really down for that?" 

I sat up so fast I nearly dropped the phone. "Wait, wait, wait. Rewind. A wife? Like actually married?" 

"On paper, yeah. But it's a contract, so no real wifey duties, no sharing a bed, none of that. Just legally married for a year so he can inherit some family empire thing. And then you bounce with a check." 

My mind was already running the numbers. A year. That was nothing. I could do a year standing on my head. 

"Hell yeah," I said, sitting up fast. "Just contract wife on paper. No real wifey duties, no sharing a bed, none of that. As long as the money clears for my trip and then some, I'm in. Text your sister right now, please. And ask about the exact pay first — that's the most important part, girl." 

"You're insane," Isabelle said, but she was already typing. "But I love it. Let me hit her up. Don't do anything crazy until I call you back." 

"I won't," I promised, but I was already planning. 

We stayed on the phone for almost an hour after that, talking real shit. She roasted me about the guy I danced with at the club last weekend (he had no rhythm and worse conversation), I teased her about her situationship that was going nowhere, and we vented about how expensive it is to live alone in California while still trying to look expensive. By the time we hung up I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt. I passed out with my phone still on the bed, curls everywhere, dreaming about airport pics in designer shades.

                ༺✿༻ ༺✿༻ 

The next morning — well, afternoon — my ringtone woke me up like a damn alarm. Isabelle had called seven times. I rubbed my eyes, saw it was past noon, and groaned. "Shit." I called her back immediately. 

"Bestie, I'm sorry, I slept like I was in a coma. Club night really did me dirty." 

"Girl, focus," she said, voice excited. "My sister came through. The pay is one hundred thousand dollars. For the whole year." 

My mouth dropped open. I stared at the ceiling, letting the number sink in. Ten million dollars. That could change everything — the trip, my wardrobe, maybe even help me go back to school later if I wanted. "Shut up. For real?" 

"For real. My sister said her boss is serious about this. He needs someone who won't get attached, who understands it's business, and who can play the role in public. It's literally perfect for you because you don't do feelings." 

I laughed because she was right. "When does he want to meet?" 

"She's getting the details now. But girl, this is real. Ten million dollars, you could literally change your entire life trajectory with that money." 

After we hung up I couldn't go back to sleep. I paced my tiny apartment, phone in hand, refreshing my messages every thirty seconds like the details would just appear. 

I pulled up my banking app and looked at my current savings. $4,300. Pathetic. I looked at my credit card debt. Even more pathetic. But this one year? This could erase all of it and then some. 

I opened my notes app and started typing out a plan: 

*Trip fund - $30K (bags, clothes, experiences)*

*Emergency fund - $20K (just in case)*

*Debt payoff - $15K*

*Invest - $2million (need to actually build wealth, not just spend it)*

*Keep - $15K (because I deserve to enjoy this)* 

I walked to my mirror and looked at myself. The warm brown skin that always had people asking what I was mixed with (I was just Black, but apparently that was hard for people to accept). The curves I'd worked hard for at the gym when I could afford it. The long curly hair that took forever to maintain but always turned heads. The confidence that came from knowing exactly what I was worth. 

"You a whole prize, Selena Jesus. High standards, high taste. This Kingland dude better come correct with the money, 'cause I'm not here to impress him. I'm here to collect." 

I spent the rest of the afternoon researching. I pulled up Matthew Kingland on G****e and scrolled through articles and photos. Tall, blonde, grey eyes that looked cold even through a screen. Billionaire real estate mogul. Self-made. Ruthless, according to one article about a business deal that went sideways.

He looked like the type who was used to getting what he wanted. Which meant I had to be the type who didn't care what he wanted. If I walked into this thinking I needed to impress him, I'd lose my edge. And my edge was everything. 

I found his I*******m. Not many personal photos, mostly business updates and photos at events. One image caught my attention — him at some gala with a woman who looked like she was waiting for him to love her. She looked soft. Needy. The kind of woman who probably thought a billionaire boyfriend would fix her life.

That wasn't going to be me. 

I screenshotted a few photos, sent them to Isabelle, and texted: *This who I'm marrying for a year?* 

She responded immediately: *Girl, he fine but also give cold vibes. Like emotionally unavailable, which is perfect because you want zero feelings anyway lol* 

She was right. This was actually perfect. A cold billionaire who probably didn't do feelings, meant I didn't have to worry about him catching some weird attachment. We could be cordial, professional, and then I'd walk away ten million dollars richer.

                    ༺✿༻ ༺✿༻

Monday came faster than I expected. I called off my part-time shift — first time ever — and spent the whole morning getting ready. This wasn't just an interview. This was me selling myself, and I needed to look like I was worth every penny. 

I opened my closet and pulled out my best options. The fitted black pants that hugged my hips just right. A crisp white top with a little strategic cleavage — not too much, but enough to remind him I was a woman and not just a business partner. And heels. Red-bottomed knockoffs that looked expensive enough, made me feel powerful, made me taller. 

I did my makeup careful. Natural but sharp — glossy lips that looked like I had just been kissed, lashes popping, eyebrows on point. I curled my hair so my natural texture was enhanced but controlled. I wanted to look like I took myself seriously, like I wasn't desperate, like I was doing him a favor by even showing up. 

I looked in the mirror one last time before leaving. 

"Ten million dollars," I whispered. "Play it cool. Play it smart. Don't let him see you sweat." 

The Uber ride downtown took fifteen minutes. I spent it checking my appearance in the phone camera, texting Isabelle updates, mentally rehearsing what I would say. Keep it light. Don't act like you need this even though you absolutely do. Make it seem like you're considering this because you're bored or curious, not because you're one emergency away from being broke. 

The Kingland Tower was insane. 

I'd seen pictures online but nothing prepared me for walking into that lobby. Glass everywhere — floor to ceiling windows, glass doors, glass staircases. The kind of expensive minimalist design that screamed "if you have to ask what this costs, you can't afford it." Security stricter than the club on a Friday night, people in tailored suits moving with purpose, everyone looking like they belonged there. Everyone except me. 

The elevator ride up felt long, that I used the time to check my reflection in the polished steel walls. Okay. Good. I looked expensive. I looked confident. I looked like I wasn't about to have a panic attack about potentially marrying a stranger for money. 

I was about to meet Matthew Kingland. And I was about to get paid.