Billionaire Night Routine Mga Nobela at Kwento

he muttered before taking up a small briefcase that was lying on his bed. Aiden was a billionaire who, even though he had a family fortune, worked his way up until he was now one of the richest developer/real estate consultants in the entire state. He liked having fun, but he liked being in charge more. Being a boss gave him a sense of rush and excitement that no other feeling in the entire world could match. He was the type of man to turn heads wherever he went, and he wasn't ashamed of it. He basked in the glory of being that powerful. Women would flock to his feet and he would pick, choose and refuse whomever he wanted at that moment.

"Fuck, this was good." I say nothing. "Drained already. Are you this good?" "Am I?" "You're exceptional. I've never been fucked this way before. Where the hell have you been?" "Still want another round?" "This one round takes care of multiple orgasms. I'll sleep now. But you can wake me up at night if you feel like you can't help it." "I will," I say.

Boss sighed. Billionaires? What the fuck? My heart hammered against my chest, as I came to the realization how filthy rich these people actually were. If I played my cards right tonight… Then maybe I would be able to walk away with thousands and thousands of pounds in tips. Nobody so wealthy had come by the Golden Ace before. The most I would get tipped was a few hundred pounds, by people on six figures a year. But billionaires? I suddenly found my body thumping with energy, with the thoughts of me being tired and exhausted…

He liked to rewatch his own parties, like some people rewatch war documentaries. No one knew how much the night cost—rumors ranged from three to eight million. But money wasn’t the point. Power was. Image was. And in that moment, bathed in neon and synth, Maximus Wallace was the wealthiest bachelor in New york that never cared how it ended, only how brightly it burned.

The headlines flashed dangerously before me: “Billionaire Big-shot busted in bathroom bonanza with another dude;” “Toilet tryst torches tycoon’s rep: caught pants-down with a guy;” “Filthy rich and filthy habits: billionaire’s bathroom boy-toy bust;” The morbid names kept coming, each worse than the order that held me bound to where I was as I watched him leave the bathroom. As soon as his presence left I felt some sort of motion in my bones. I moved slowly, pushing the door.

he said, his tone being the only tolerable thing in this fucking environment. "Thank you," I muttered, stepping into the master bedroom. The same room I had been in the other night with that jerk. Now that the lights were brighter, I could take a proper look around. Fuck. He is stupidly rich. No wonder he could pay off a fucking $10 billion debt in one go, and it seemed like his account didn’t even shake. Like serving a cup of water out of the sea.

I always get what I want and know I know exactly what else is on those lists of things I want to my myself. It's 8pm Paris time and I'm resting in my study waiting for Nathaniel to get me information on this mysterious girl that's managed to catch my eye. I admit this is way out of character I don't really have to chase girls, I guess that's the advantages of being 30 year old hot billionaire every girl wants your attention. And mysterious girl is probably no different I just have to be in same room as her long enough to recognize me and she'll be falling at my feet like they always do.

“Three outlets already. By nine it will be everywhere.” “Send it,” he said. He was already reaching for his personal phone. The email arrived before he finished the sentence. He opened it and read the headline first. “Billionaire Hiding Pregnant Mistress: Inside The Christopher Estate’s Best Kept Secret.” He looked at the photograph. He looked at it for a long time.

Just a name and ten digits. Alexander Knight. She’d googled him at 2 a.m. when sleep refused to show up. Mistake. The search results were a dizzying parade of headlines: Knight Enterprises CEO Closes $4B Deal The Ice King of Manhattan: Billionaire Bachelor Alexander Knight 30 Under 30: The Man Who Turned Real Estate Into an Empire Page Six photos of him in flawless suits, stepping out of private cars, always alone, always unsmiling. He owned half the skyline she stared at every night. The kind of money that didn’t just open doors; it built new buildings around them.

A man. He was turned slightly away, one arm bent under his head, the other resting over the pillow where I’d been. His hair was dark, a little messy from sleep, and the morning light caught on the sharp line of his jaw. He looked unreal, like someone who didn’t belong in the same world as me. And then I saw his face clearly. I stopped breathing. Zachary Moreau. Even people like me, who lived on scholarships and instant noodles, knew that name. The heir to Moreau International. Every business headline, every glossy magazine, every charity gala. The kind of man you read about but never meet.