The billionaire fake girlfriend
“This is the fifth one. They’re all either way too short or scream, ‘Take me to the club.’ I need something… classy. Not like I’m trying to sell my soul.”
Amelia smirked from inside her closet. “I like my dresses short, sue me.”
Of course she did. Amy had the body, the confidence, the social circle—everything neatly arranged like her color-coded shoe rack. Meanwhile, I was 21, single after a three-month disaster of a relationship, recently unemployed, and pretending to be someone else’s girlfriend for money.
She popped her head out, holding another hanger. “Okay, what about—”
My phone buzzed on the bed.
Bab Populer